That relief was
no different today, even in the cold rain, even beneath the dirty sock of a November
sky in Michigan. Even with me lugging around this heavy heart of mine. Even
during this viral pandemic that won’t relent. Even while our country is still
in the grip of a leader who has no respect, humility or common decency—plus, terrible hair.
I’m spending
more time alone these days. I’m coming to terms with that lonely reality. I enjoy running with others. I’ve shared a great deal of laughs and stories and
anger and frustration and sadness with other runners. I’ve run alongside them amid downpours,
snowstorms, swamp-like humidity. I’ve jogged far outside of my introverted
comfort zone, forging new and unexpected friendships across the miles, and for
that, I’m grateful.
Yet I also find solace in running with nobody but me. Sometimes I mumble mantras
or silly words of encouragement to myself. Sometimes I look up for shreds of reassurance.
Sometimes I ruminate on whatever shit I’m struggling with in life. Sometimes I talk
to the deer or race the wild turkeys. Sometimes I hone in on the aches and throbs that
running has gifted me in my squishy middle age. Sometimes I just
listen to the sound of my own breathing.
And sometimes,
I'm struck by something seemingly insignificant. Like a
forgotten coat.
The coat is
nothing exceptional. It’s black, probably light in weight but relatively warm.
Would it hang to my waist? I don’t think it has a hood. It resembles a puffer
coat, although it’s been here so long it’s lost its puff, along with any pomp
and circumstance it ever imagined having. As I jog up to it, I notice it’s soaked through.
How long has it
taken up residence on that bench? I bet at least a month or more. Will anybody ever
claim it? Has anybody wrapped it around their shoulders? Who ditched it? Was it abandoned on purpose? Is there a winning lottery ticket in one of
the pockets? Used Kleenex? Gum? A poignant fortune inside a stale fortune cookie?
A syringe? Should I throw COVID-19 precaution to the wind by picking it up
and bringing it to a shelter or Goodwill? Why doesn’t somebody toss it? I don’t
have any answers.
Two things I do
know for certain: winter is coming and people need coats. Somebody will surely
need this black, soggy and mysterious one, too. Won’t they?
Perspective is
something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. I’m pretty lucky. Pretty damn
blessed. I have many coats, much warm clothing, plenty of food, a comfortable,
nice-sized shelter, work that I love doing, people I love and who love me. Depression doesn’t always care about haves though. There are days when the
darkness hangs on, no matter how bright the sun shines or how sweet the birds
sing.
There are days crowned
by a clear blue sky that does nothing to ease the pain.
Despite how I
sometimes feel, I keep rising. I keep leaving the past behind, shoving my
uncertain future into the horizon and doing whatever I can to remain focused on the present, where the ghosts aren’t quite so steadfast. Where
there are wet coats draped over vacant benches waiting for me to keep running
by.
