I started running again this summer after injuring my back in September of last year.
My husband and I were just married and driving across the country to move from New Jersey to Colorado. At a stop in Wall Drug, South Dakota, after a few full days of driving, I bent over to replace a nail game I had been playing with in one of the souvenir shops to its place on the floor. I made it about halfway back up to standing before my back gave out on me and I collapsed on the floor. It was like nothing I had ever felt before.
I was able to heal my back over the course of 4-6 weeks through a gentle, and extremely aware, yoga practice. But I didn’t go back to running right away. Rather, I continued to immerse myself in yoga--slowly building my practice back up--and started to connect with the yoga community in Colorado, and to teach yoga classes.
My husband, and his subscription to Runner’s World, eventually inspired me to start running again. I read an article in the May 2010 issue called “Transcendental Steps (Or How I learned to Love Running Without an iPod)” about the author’s personal experience of learning to apply meditation techniques to running, while at The Shambhala Mountain Center in Colorado, on a program called, “Running with the Mind of Meditation and Yoga.” (If only we weren’t already leaving Colorado to move back east to Vermont, I would surely have signed up for this program myself the next time it was offered).
The article reminded me of my morning runs at Liberty State Park in New Jersey, just across the Hudson from lower Manhattan. As the sun rose behind the skyscrapers and through the clouds, I would find peace and joy in the knowledge that the sun was always there, even when I couldn’t see it through the clouds.
In my yoga teacher training, we discussed a metaphor for meditation along these lines. If meditation is about tapping into universal consciousness, we can visualize that consciousness, that spaciousness, that expansiveness, as the vast blue sky that is ever present above the clouds. The weather represents our daily experience on the ground. Some days, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and we find it easy to open to and connect with our source. Other days, dark clouds fill the sky, rain falls, wind blows. And, while we might not be able to change the weather, we can change how we react to it, and find deep peace and joy in knowing that the blue sky is always there, above the weather of our everyday lives.
I ventured out on my first run since injuring my back when we were in Maine in May for my husband’s graduation from medical school. I gave myself full permission to walk as needed, and to take in the sights and smells of the ocean, the lilacs, and the wild roses. I returned feeling energized and inspired.
Then my husband and I were off on a belated honeymoon to Argentina, which didn’t offer much time for running, aside from a couple days in Buenos Aires, running through the ecological reserve, past brightly colored exotic birds, and pausing to contemplate the vastness of the mouth of the Rio de la Plata.
I really started to get into the routine of running again after we had settled in Burlington. And I made a conscious choice to take a meditative approach--to make it a meditation in motion.
I choose not to listen to music, and I use a variety of techniques to focus my awareness on the body and breath, and to observe my mind.
I bring my attention to my feet and how they connect with the earth.
I breathe evenly in and out through the nose (sometimes out through the mouth), adjusting the breath to support the needs of my activity in the moment.
I silently repeat the mantra, “My breath, my fuel; my legs, my tool.”
When my legs feel tired and heavy, I imagine breathing white light down into the muscle fiber, creating space and lightness in the legs.
When my mind wanders, I bring it back to the breath.
I focus on the inhale expanding my belly, and the exhale drawing my belly toward the spine.
On the inhale, I imagine my heart expanding and drawing me forward—a green lotus flower blossoming from my heart center. I tune into my abs contracting on the exhale, helping me maintain my posture and propelling me farther forward.
I observe my thoughts, as if I were outside myself looking in on my mind, watching the thoughts rise and fall without following them or attaching to them.
I find a soft gaze--which in Sanskrit is called drishti--a comfortable distance ahead of me.
I am reminded of something one of my high school teachers used to say, to the effect of, “Looking out at the horizon, I trip on the curb.” (I remember him attributing this quote to Che Guevara, but haven’t been able to verify it. Perhaps he was just saying he was similar to Che in this way). This quote reminds me to keep an open focus--aware of what is around me (expanded peripheral vision) and the next step (so I don’t trip over the curb or step in something undesirable), while gazing softly into the distance.