It’s been sweltering. The kind of hot that makes my outdoorsiness wish for higher altitudes and cooler temperatures. When the words “heat index” enter the conversation, I tend to shut down, authorizing my mind to stray to a happier place, maybe a mountain stream or shady spot accompanied by an umbrellaed beverage. I love the summer and try to refrain from talking about the atmospheric moisture content. I don’t even like to speak the words relative humidity, lest they overpower me, but July and August of 2023 have wrestled me into a choke hold, demanding that I notice them and all their scorchedness.
Other than writing, my other jam is running. Outside. This summer has been worse than I ever remember. Heat running has flat out worn me down. There has been little relief, and all that sweat has seeped into my psyche, cracking my confidence, making me hesitate and doubt myself as an amateur athlete. It’s been a struggle to keep going.
My internal rhetoric has volleyed these thoughts: Is it me? Is it my fitness level? Is it my age? Is it my eating? My drinking? My attitude? My injured and imperfect soul? Is it karma? Is it a curse? Have I been saged? Do my enemies have a voodoo doll that they are holding above a boiling pot of bone broth? Why is this so hard?
Perhaps a question might be, then why do it? While it doesn’t make sense, my complicated and uncomplicated answer: I love to run. And, even when the conditions are less than favorable, I do it because my motivation is internal.
My running inspiration comes from many sources, the beauty of a sunrise, the coastal plain land and waterscape, the early morning exchange of a family of owls, the commitment to show up with my running friends, the flaming fire in knowing that running is something that while hard and challenging, I don’t have to do, but I get to do.
On the pavement in my running sneaks is akin to fingers on my keyboard. Inspiration is everywhere and its nowhere. Many things help me get inspired and feel inspired and be inspired. And as many things beat me down: Is it me? Is it my writing ability? Is it my age? Is it my mental capacity? My diminishing brain cells? My injured and imperfect soul? Is it karma? Is it a curse? Have I been saged? Do my enemies have a voodoo doll that they are holding above an elusive muse agent? Why is this so hard?
The inspiration I find to run is the same that I find to write. It’s the discipline to do the thing, even when it’s hard. It’s the persistent pursuit during a hot and humid season that rejects your dogged attempts like a declined credit card.
Inspiration might be gifted by a field of unmown wildflowers, but you must see them in person, which means you must run by them, and maybe craft a verse about the experience, for that is where the inspiration takes arc and soars, lifting sneakers from ground.
In the words of Dory, “Just keep swimming.”
And running.
And writing.
Nice piece of writing, Emily. I’m proud to know you.
I used to run, but now I walk. However, the humidity has tempered my walking like your running. I liked your view of getting out, anyway. Even amid the sweating and biting insects, inspiration needs experience.
Running and writing are so similar—hard often but necessary always! Thanks for a great post!
P.S. I especially loved the voodoo doll!
I loved your barrage of questions and Dory’s quote at the end. More especially I love your reason for running.
What a wonderful piece! I love the subtle comparison of running and writing and it’s obstacles. I also enjoy that you give us permission to just do it for the love of it. That’s simply enough. Enjoyed it very much!