Running with the coyotes

A blog post from a new follower reminded me of a dark time years ago.
After my dad died I had paralyzingly anxiety. I would put my 4 year old son to bed and lay with him until he fell asleep. It took every ounce of strength I had to not bolt from his room and run. I wanted to run and run and run. Every fibre of my being told me to run and not stop. I guess I was trying to run away from a world without my dad, watching him wither, mortality, time marching on, how inconsequential we all really are…all of these things and more.
Some nights the anxiety got the better of me and propelled me downstairs where I would clutch desperately at my husband and tell him I NEEDED to run. Then I would take my hyper active, crazy legged gazelle of a standard poodle into the pitch blackness of Moses mountain and I would run by the light of the moon or a jiggling flashlight. I ran with the coyotes who sang from 15 feet across the river when we had bonfires. I ran with the black bears who ambled up our road in the mornings. I ran to a salvation I couldn’t see. I ran away from death and things I couldn’t wrap my head and heart around. I ran the anxiety and crushing sadness out of me. Or I at least beat it down with each footstep and heart beat to a size I could manage.
In time I became a jogger. For one year I was dedicated and it brought me back. Off of meds, present again. I ran from death all the ways back to life.
I don’t run much these days. But I know it’s there if I need to again.