Today we took a walk. We paused to rest along the way and I excused this by drawing excessive attention to the rows of dancing daffodils, quoting Wordsworth. Why wouldn’t you?
This momentous outing was to the end of the lane. And yet it felt as much of a victory as the 13.1 miles of less than 2 years ago. A retrospective glance at an old diary 2 days ago informed me that it was the anniversary of my first ever ten mile run. Yet today those yards felt even more significant. Not a first ever, but a first since… a return to the everyday, mundane, commonplace normality of putting one foot in front of another and moving forward.
And I discovered, rediscovered, the beauty of the ordinary. The joy of a footstep to nowhere. How rarely we stop to appreciate the marvel of this, our ability to move, effortlessly, independently, in any direction we choose, and at any pace.
This relapse has forced a change of pace. Slow is the new modus operandi, but it actually feels good. I saw the daffodils today, and we recited Wordsworth, and I’m almost ashamed that it took a relapse to remind me to do so.