From Absolutism to Zest

I haven’t run in almost 10 days. Last week, we were sick, and now I’m fine but just haven’t felt like running. Am I still a runner? Of course. I was thinking, as I stood looking at the fog — stood in the fog, more accurately— while Chupie looked for the perfect peeing spot in the grass, about how absolutism is a stealer of joy and ease and self-compassion and presence.

I had a sweet chat with my spouse yesterday about the running thing; he’s a psychology student and we were talking about not only the feelings around it but the brain/body science of longevity and contentment. And one of the biggest indicators of these is zest for life and meaningful relationships. Come to think of it, I was standing in the driveway during that conversation, too, looking at these same trees pictured here. The October day was the kind you want to bottle up but can’t — soft, almost viscous light, air still warm enough to linger.

When I get rigid in my thinking, about anything really, I lose touch with that zest. It goes into hiding. I can practically hear its sad, little groan: “She’s at it again.” I’ll run again when I feel like lacing up my sneakers and cranking some tunes.

If you’ve gone a long stretch (or even a short one that feels long) without writing a word, I hope these words fine you to say: It’s ok. You are still a writer. Life has many seasons. Hell, sometimes a single day had many seasons. Be gentle with yourself and say hello to your zest, even if it doesn’t answer. It will know you’re there.