Running the Mile

I had a ritual when I was a child. Every time there was a thunderstorm, I would dart out of the house and run through the sheets of water, until I could hardly breathe, and I could only stop and turn my face up to the stormy clouds. I was free to be myself there- because I knew that no one else would be on the streets with me- on account of the dangerous weather. The heavy rain was baptism- this beautiful putting on of God, and washing away of all other things. Thunder pulled up all of the heavy burdens I carried, like the roots of deep grown weeds. I was invincible here, and loved- as the lightning always chose to hit a different place than where I stood. She never had any intention of sinking my ship. We were like sisters, the rain and I.

For years, in the hot summers when things often seemed their worst in our house, this was my only saving grace. This is the act that kept me safe, that kept me balanced and ordinary- that gave me the most enveloping peace. I was nothing and everything, somewhere and nowhere, all at once and not at all... I felt like a creature in the woods, always taken care of and given a land of plenty.

My grandfather often left me alone to go to his favorite bar while my mother was hours away at work, sometimes for days at a time. He knew I was used to being alone- and that I was self sufficient in most things, even at nine and a half. I was tough, and if I wasn't tough enough, he was determined to get me there. This afternoon in mid July was no different really. I had been alone all day and up until the last hour, had managed to keep myself busy. Now, both my dog and I were bored- so we had resorted to a backyard game of fetch, throwing smoldering, cloudy dirt up on to each other during our ridiculous zig-zag play fights. I threw the ball hard, and awkwardly, in to the fence- and as it bounced back we could race each other to see who was first to the catch. He preferred my company, and I preferred his, above anyone else's. He never bit me, and I never bit him. We did not have that with anyone else.

On likely the 300th throw, I lobbed my arm back and hurled it down the length of the fence, aiming for the corner. It always made for an interesting bounce-back, as you were never quite sure where physics would send it. Well, today, physics sent that ball back over the fence so fast I could hardly understand where it went- and neither could my dog. Over the fence he went, only looking back for a moment to see if I was going to follow. Panic struck in- there was no way I was going to get him back, and I couldn't blame him if he ran away. He wouldn't have blamed me if I had, but then again, I would have taken him with me. Really, I wasn't upset that he was over the fence, but that I wasn't over the fence with him.

"Jake!" I yelled hoarsely over and over, reaching the fence and climbing over just in time to hear his paws taking him away. "Jake!" I yelled again- this time a long drawn out scream in to the front yard, where there was no dog to be seen. My heart sank. Maybe I would never see him again.

Jake came hauling around the corner toward me, and he stopped short on his front paws. He stood up tall on his haunches and whined for me to drop myself over. Thunder clapped out- and he gave me that playful puppy face which suggested some strange understanding between he and I. He knew my ritual, and he wanted to be part of it. He barked and I smiled fully.

Over the fence I went, and we ran, and ran, and ran- well through the neighborhood, through the woods, down the creek. He jumped this way and that, sometimes doubling back for a moment with a great expulsion of energy and mud. No doors opened. No one asked questions. We both grew tired and flopped down in to a great puddle in the street, wrestling this way and that, his wet curly fur smearing across my arms and legs. In our abandonment we had the most enjoyment. In our desire for freedom we won it.

I am almost certain that is the closest to heaven that he or I have ever been.








What I need in my life is more of this. Don't we all?