In Praise of a Trail Jog

The routine — some see it
as drudgery and perhaps
sometimes it is but can it
be that all the time, can it?

Even in prison, where I have
never been, which disqualifies
me out of hand, but still per-
haps just a nanosecond of peace

in a moment of the drudgerous
day somewhere along the way
— an epiphany of sorts? I
hear that monks claim rhythm

in what others would see only
as drudgery — up at 2 a.m.
for a litany of prayer and
then work in the field and

food in silence they ate and
to bed by eight. I am dis-
qualified from commenting
on such things, but I know

the rhythm of life in the
midst of the hectic, hustle,
bustle and strife. I know a
time out for a jog in the

woods. I know breathing
deeply of the goodness of
nature while the sweat
drops into my eyes and

glides down to and past
my thighs; I know exhaustion
and exhilaration all at once
while shafts of light shower

me with warmth and goodness
and life. Some see that as
sheer drudgery while it is
all rhythm to me. I can act-

ually feel it right here,
right now, sitting in this —
my writing sanctuary. If you
will excuse me, to the trails

I now must flee to bathe further
in rhythms of eternity, but
first I have to do the dishes.
Oh, yes, there is still drudgery.


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