Running Lessons

Yesterday's 22-miler wiped me out for much of the afternoon; laundry, reading this month's National Geographic, and listening to NPR's Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me! were the only activities that I could handle until my strength rebounded during and after supper. My mind felt no less sluggish than my legs, as if it too had muscled up and down rolling hills and forged through stretches of cold headwinds along a sprawling figure-eight course spanning several rural towns. The run– from both a physical and mental perspective– was a mixed bag; the strength and ease of my pacing oscillated in response to the terrain and weather, while my endurance and resolve were increasingly tested as the miles wore on.

From a spiritual standpoint, and in the context of Lent, those two and a half hours on my own– I didn't keep track, but I believe that fewer than twenty cars passed me, and I passed fewer than ten people on the roads or in their yards– reiterated some lessons on solitude, loneliness, and companionship that have been recurring for the past few weeks.

I've long experienced solitude as a blessing, though I've perhaps failed to fully appreciate its power or utilize its potential. Consequently, I run the risk of taking it for granted, or being insensitive to those for whom such a state is difficult, if not impossible, to attain. Not everyone is able to enjoy a balance of responsibilities or develop a level of fitness akin to the circumstances that allow me to relish the gentle glow of dawning sunshine reaching across meadows tangled with last season's withered grass. Nor is my pursuit of solitude through endurance athleticism, or simply closing my door, a perennially effective means, let alone the only one, leading to such a state of body, mind, and soul.  

I've increasingly experienced periods of loneliness as genuine hardships, and struggled with how to escape or counteract their deleterious effects on my frame of mind. Having grown in my ability to distinguish such loneliness from solitude, I'm learning not to take the former as lightly as I once did. Furthermore, praying through the texts encountered at Mass during Lent is reminding me that loneliness is imposed on some people by dint of age, social class, family situation, or other circumstance, whereas I (not without unease) have typically resigned myself to it as the cost of certain choices, like training alone for a marathon.

I continue to struggle with companionship; despite being a firm believer in the life-giving power and graces of genuine friendship, I've not always lived up to the very ideals that I desire for myself and encourage others to pursue. I strive diligently to be trustworthy and reliable, yet put less effort into relying upon the trustworthiness of my closest Jesuit brothers and long-time friends. I prefer– likely with some hidden or carefully overlooked pride– to imitate Jesus in my actions and ministry rather than to accompany him in the lives of those with whom I work and live. I easily make training plans to prepare my mind and body for athletic and adventurous pursuits of my own, yet experience far more difficulty in shaping my heart and soul for the far superior sustenance of keeping myself in good company in a truly deep and mutual way. Thankfully, God's abundant mercy and life's ever-changing circumstances offer countless opportunities to undertake courses of growth, both in the refreshing peace of genuine solitude, and in the vivifying exchanges of true companionship. God willing, I'll use them well, wherever (and with whomever) my training leads.