It’s taken me years to condition my jogging practice as a focused mind-body meditation.
Surely everyone has their own reasons for why they run. For me it’s always been and always will be: sanity. I run for my mental health. Of course, there’s also some knock-on effects like feeling more embodied and stronger; better sleep, digestion and skin complexion. My mental results trump the physical, everytime.
The mental aspects of jogging are a simple combo of the act of running while engaging in a deep internal conversation. During a run, I have a practice of self-dialoguing as a way of checking in with myself. I work out many different kinds of challenges over the course of a run which map nicely onto other areas of life.
To-date, I haven’t found a more effective minfulness practice than going for a jog. Without the self-talk, I couldn’t get through the runs; through the self-talk I develop a depth of understand of who I am. It’s an elegant practice that started when I was just a kid, well before I understood how important this habit would become.
In my early teens I started running because both my mom and dad were runners. My mom paved the way, with a consistent routine and races in the 10k to half-marathon range; my dad was more erratic and punctuated, ramping up to a couple marathons at his peak form.
My running journey really started in high school, when I ran JV cross country for a couple of years. I was not very serious about it, probably because I wasn’t very good at it! I mean, I was *fine*, I just didn’t have any passion. For me cross country was a way to be involved in sports after school, let off some steam, keep balanced with my academic work, and socialize. Becoming an objectively better runner (read: faster) didn’t really motivate me.
What I learned early on is every run is different. Train all you want, there’s no guarantee on race day you’re going to have a great run. Myriad little things line up to influence your jogging experience: how hydrated you are; what kind of fuel you’re running on; how you slept the night before; the weather; your mental health.
There was a time at a cross country meet where I felt like I was running through molasses. I was slow and sludgey, and for that run, it wasn’t getting any better than that. I settled in at the tail end of the team with one of my teammates who was having the same kinda day, and we took the course slow.
Apparently so slow that as we rounded the corner to the finish line, our entire team was waiting and cheering us on. At first it was a bit embarrassing to have everyone waiting for the slow-pokes; and also, it felt good, we were supported even though we had an off day.
On the flip side, some days, I’d feel focused and in the groove. This doesn’t mean I didn’t have moments of challenge—running up hill, passing someone and sustaining a bit of extra speed for a while, competiting during a downpour. During these runs, I felt the magic, like I was born to run. My mind was in sync with my body. My breathing and foot steps a rhythmic beat.
Over twenty years later, in many ways my relationship with running hasn’t changed. There’s the good days and the bad ones; regardless, I keep on keeping on. Where I’ve noticed a change is in the ever deepening relational practice I’ve created with myself along the way.
Every time I go jogging—no matter if practice or a race—I enter into a deep dialogue with myself about the nature of being alive in this human body.
A negotiation among the different parts of self. Who is feeling what, and getting everyone focused: one foot in front of the other.
More often than not, the act of running is perplexing difficult. Parts of me begging to stop. Why exactly are we doing this anyway, they query. Hush hush, you know damn well why we do this, another part responds. And so goes this conversation I’ve become intimately familiar with over my life.
There’s a cramp in my side! My body screams. And my mind focuses on deep inhales with exhales as the left foot hit the pavement. In through the nose, out through the mouth. (Yes, this choreography actually works to get rid of a side cramp!)
I focus on the sensation of the stitch, maybe massage my side a bit, while trying to regulate my breathing and thus solve the root cause of my discomfort. Meanwhile, a familiar chorus enters the fray, can’t breathe enough air in! Legs feel weird! Arm is tingling! A cascade pile-on of sensory complaints from the rest of the body.
The whole time, it’s as if there’s an observer witnessing the cacophony of what it is to be alive. Like an omnipresent spirit, pointing out mental and physical patterns of the run. And then, there’s this part of me, a conductor who is endeavoring to orchestrate the parts into coordinated action—and luckily finding success most days.
Over the years, I’ve added in mantras during my runs—little conversations with myself, focusing my mind on the sensation of the act of jogging. Sometimes it’s silly, just keep swimming, just keep swimming. Other times it’s serious, the pain you feel now is just like other pains in life, it will pass. Or maybe something like, notice the feeling of pain. What is painful about it? How can you be with it?
Sometimes I get into feedback loops, this is hard. I don’t want to do this! To which another part of me responds, life is hard sometimes. Let’s find a way to move through the difficulty, it’s good practice. Eventually the loop becomes a silent mental chant, something like: life is hard sometimes, I move through it. I keep the beat with the sound of my feet hitting the ground.
I liken my jogging ups-and-downs to other seemingly unrelated experiences. The slow-run days, where my legs feel like they’re made of lead; suspiciciously similar to feelings of depression where it’s hard to keep moving. The runs where I feel light as a feather on my feet, waltzing through the world barely registering the physical activity; just like being a bit manic, the happy-go-lucky-extra-special-good-mood where everything feels just right.
The practice of running has helped me face inumerable challenges. It always come down to being in deep connection with myself. Listening to what is working and what isn’t, feeling both the good and the bad, and embracing workable solutions to keep moving.
For years, I didn’t run. Every time I did, I had lower back pain and it just wasn’t worth the trouble. After practicing yoga daily for nearly 5 years, apparently I’ve reset my body. And running is now back on the menu.
I’m fairly laid-back about my running routine currently, always giving myself the option to turn a walk into a jog and vice-versa. Short distances, 2-4 miles, is my jogging range; this feels like plenty. In many ways, my new approach reflects how I’m living these days: more relaxed.
Just recently, over the past month or so, I’ve found myself going through a difficult life transition. An amorphous blob of existential issues seeking expression and disentangling. If I could clearly articulate what I’m going through I would, for now it’s a bit obscure. And yet, my tried and true friend—the run—is by my side as a guide.
Yesterday morning I ran through a prairie full of long grasses and wild flowers. As I wound through the narrow dirt path, the plants hitting my ankles, I noticed I was surrounded by butterflies and dragonflies. Deep symbols of transformation and metamorphosis. I felt myself relax a bit; every living being goes through transitions, I am a living being.
Leaving the dirt path, back to sidewalk, I slowed to a walk for a little while. Reminding myself it’s always ok to slow down, to take a break. There’s no rush to get where you’re going in life.
Wonderfully written, enjoyable to read. Well done Krissy!