He’s an endurance runner. Not just measly 26-mile marathons, but 50K marathons. A “quick” run is 16 miles. It is way beyond my comprehension. He doesn’t just run long distances, but he enjoys the scenery as he runs, takes his time, feels each moment as he puts one foot in front of the other. He doesn’t worry too much about the time it takes to finish the race.
I am learning that this is also how he lives his life. Slow and steady. Enjoying the journey, taking the time to notice the little things, maybe even veering off in a new direction if the spirit moves him. As much as I try and say that I live this way too, I am too much the hare – always in a hurry to get to the end point, to see what’s around the next corner, to take the prescribed path, to dash ahead before I may be quite ready. I exhaust myself.
My mind speeds ahead wondering where all this may wind up. Will I be flat on my butt in the middle of the desert somewhere? Will I turn around only to discover that I am running along all by myself, slowing to a stop to wait.
“There’s no rush,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And so I slow to his pace, and I can breathe easier, and for the first time, I’m able to look around and marvel at all that I have missed by always racing ahead so fast.
And when I turn, he’s still there, running right along beside me.