The Body Electric: Day Twenty-Nine


We run in the dark:

Just me and T, our feet slapping the wet pavement.

We run through quiet streets still aglow with holiday lights.  Bright orbs as big as pumpkins bob from the trees — a neighborhood tradition — and as they sway gently in the six-o’clock dark, their reflections shimmer in the puddles.

And my body hurts, but suddenly it occurs to me that I feel completely and totally alive.


It seems fitting, to be writing about running today.  When I first began this little series, some twenty-nine days ago, I was writing about running, then, too.  And now, the circle is beginning to close.

And I’m tired.

As I round the last bend toward the hill I call home, I’m tired.

I’m tired of December and its rush of parties and events and food and drink.

I’m tired of writing.

And running.

And a lot of other things too big to put into such a small post.

But this is the kind of exhaustion that feels good, somehow, if only because it proves, in its way, that I’m living.

And I don’t question the feeling.


I slow to a walk as I make my way up the hill to my house.  In the waterglimmer, the little bicycle-spoke lights I’ve laced into my running shoes glow in the dark:

Left foot blue.

Right foot red.





My footsteps are slow now.  My hair is a mess, my breaths ragged, but that’s okay.  I accept the messiness as something beautiful in and of itself.  

I accept the tiredness as something beautiful, in and of itself.

I accept my aging body as something beautiful, in and of itself.

I accept … myself.


I go home and I take a hot shower.

In my little writing room, I sit down and write a messy blog post, and I accept that messiness, too.

I unlace the bicycle-spoke lights from my sneakers and switch them on in my palm.

Their glow is so small, but still:  I’m switching on lights in the dark…

And for today, that’s enough. ❤



  1. Beautifully poetic! The way you describe the aching of your body and the fatigue that tells you that you’re living reminds me of how I feel on the third or fourth night spent out too late in a row. On that final night, when I drag myself home after an evening art class or after staying at a restaurant until closing while talking to friends, it takes so much effort to simply climb the stairs to my bedroom. Every button of my pajamas that I manage to fumble through its hole feels like a triumph. Yet, that exhaustion is so delicious, I could gulp it in and still hold my cup out for more!

    Liked by 1 person

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