Running is my easy place. My I-don't-have-to-think-about-anything-except-not-getting-hit-by-a-car place. When I run, I leave everything on the trail. The worries, the guilty-mom moments; that's my easy hour. Just me, my running shoes, my music, and my sweat.
Lately, not even my runs have been easy. They've been the windy, bow-your-head-against-the-gusts type of runs, a little like life lately.
My 8-year old called me a wicked witch the other day, and it stuck with me and weighed me down like lead. It was in the middle of our two week bout with the stomach flu in which all six of us took turns puking. It was a lot of fun.
I was exhausted, sick of cleaning up puke, and in that moment, sick of telling the 8 year old to just brush your teeth already!
The worst of it was, I probably was acting like a wicked witch. At that moment, I couldn't dig deep to find Snow White and I was wishing for the poison apple so I could take a bite and fall into a deep, dark slumber. And while I was asleep, could the Seven Dwarves march their happy little heines over and whistle while they work to clean my house? Oh, and please don't wake me up unless you're Patrick Dempsey...and the laundry is all done and put away...and it's warm and sunny out.
Yeah, that's how I was feeling.
Fast forward a couple of weeks.
One easy run is all I needed. Storybook blue sky, gentle breeze, warm air in with every breath. The sweat dripped off me like tears, cleansing my mind, my soul, my spirit.
My legs carried me away; my lungs whispered, I remember this.
Easy, I am not a wicked witch.
Easy, I am a kind and patient mother, my new mantra followed quickly by, Dear Lord, please help me to be this way.
One easy run, leaving it all on the trail. One easy hour, one perfect run, one rejuvenated mama.