It is around 4:15 pm on Tuesday, too early to responsibly finish the work day, when the thick, visceral brain sludge that has been compounding by the hour becomes finally too heavy to wade through. I grow weary of trying to contain and combat the antagonistic self reflections of the day, the week, the season. Left and right I dodge sharp, menacing arrows that fly straight towards my heart, directed fervently and intently by she who is My Reflection. Arrows that are aflame with messages of, “You have no self control,” “You are worthless,” and “Your efforts are in vain and won’t change anything.” I have tried to negotiate with her - to make a deal even - explaining we are on the same side and there is no reason for battle. But she won’t listen. Her passion is strong, and her objective is destruction.
In ruts like this I know only to move, to leave the house and put one foot in front of the other and see what happens. It is not before long that my short walk turns into a run when the body decides it wants only to thrust itself forward with vigor, down the long city hill with no destination, simply desperate to escape. The descent continues noticeably. I know I will have to ride those wild hills back home when it will be darker, colder, and more strenuous, and the longer it takes to turn around the worse it will get. But I care little because in the moment all I want is to enter a vacuum-like tunnel devoid of feeling and thought.
Forward, constant, steady, motion gets me there. The noise of the world and the brain sludge are eventually drowned out by the rhythmic beats of the music in my ears - not matching the pace of my feet but providing a smooth, safe, almost psychedelic river of sound to float in. Despite the continual motion and travel through space of the body, I have somehow stopped moving. I exist in a state of consciousness that knows no battle, no arrows, only forward. Forward down the hill, forward across the town and away from home, and then up.
Slowly, steadily up the body pushes once it is time to turn around and head back. This neighborhood is even quieter, and I find comfort in the work. The work of jogging uphill is achievable because of recent training that, at the time, acted as an offense against the arrows - “My legs are stronger and my lungs are mightier than your blows to my willpower and esteem. The active body will prevail.” Those battles were not clearly by won by one side or the other. Now, though, the running is not done in combat. It is simply a task that keeps the mind in the tunnel of narrow focus and escape.
Strangely enough the body does not grow tired, though the distance is quite farther than our norm, and the elevation is a challenge. Strangely, too, the dark clouds that loomed overhead an hour ago with the threat of rain have already moved on. Bummer, I think, because part of me yearned to be forcefully cleansed by the elements, pure in nature and fierce with their lessons.
Before dark I return home, and it feels like no time has passed at all. The archer of the arrows has retreated for now - maybe she needs to rest occasionally, too. She’ll be back tomorrow, I’m sure, and I still don’t know how best to defeat her. But walking up to my driveway I reflect gratefully that I at least had quiet in the mind - the objective was achieved. I had quiet in the mind, and now calm creativity stirring - and with a body presently free for its next task, I sit down, paper and pen in hand, and begin to write ...
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