The art is so much better at night
I run. I like to run, a lot.
I love to run. Love it, with big crazy heartsing heartpound loveness.
There are a lot of reasons I love to run so much. Or maybe that’s not accurate. Not so much a lot of reasons quantity-wise as a lot of reason depth-wise. I am reminded of one of them every time I run through the dark world.
It’s the trees.
Trees are always beautiful, of course they are. But trees at night make a kind of art that offers the possibility of connection to another world; in the dark, the strange mystery of them is fully feelable, goosebump-making, and the way they connect to the rock I run on and the sky over top me is some kind of deep and powerful magic.
And last night I ran under the wolf moon. It was so huge, that moon, and so nearby, and Mars glowed so brightly beside it, that I ran blind, not looking ahead to see where I was going, but with my head turned to look over my shoulder at the gift of that. It was very cold — -25°C with the windchill — and the sky was clear and the moon and Mars were right there — right there — and the possibility for illumination — not just literal illumination — was so enormous that it made me think of how it is when you see art or read a poem or hear a song that makes you stop dead in your tracks with shiver and quiver and epiphany, that makes you know something you never knew before.
I know people who hate to run outdoors in the cold. I know people who just hate to run outdoors, period. But for me, running outdoors is a celebration of art and a conjuring of mystery. If I run for another year or for the rest of my life, I will always need to do it outdoors because I will always need to hurl myself into a world so strange and beautiful and so overflowing with meaning I didn’t know I didn’t understand and secrets I didn’t know I didn’t know until the moment of seeing the trees move against the dark night sky. Always I will need that. Pure and simple.