Outrun the sun

I woke up to darkness in Colorado.
I slipped into my hoodie, pulled on some black gloves, and strapped an ipod to my arm.
Then I ran.

I raced against the sun, fighting to beat it to the top of the highest hill in town, fighting to taste some of its hope for the day.

That's what I do when I run. I solve the problems of the world, only to forget the solutions once I've got my breath back.

I have seen some of the darkest places of the world.
The dusty villages in Mexico and South America made of old tires, cardboard, and rusting metal.
The sleeping bags and cardboard lining Skid Row and the sidewalk outside my gated apartment.
The inner walls of an inpatient psychiatric facility.
The red clay and bricks of Auschwitz, as if the blood literally seeped down the walls and into the earth.

I have also seen some of the most beautiful places in the world.
The same dusty villages with the toothy grins of children, the warm tortillas and hugs of mothers, and the firm handshakes of hardworking fathers.
The landlord who gave one of those sidewalk tenants a job maintaining the grounds.
The residents who finally got to go home.
The vineyards etched into the cliffs above crashing waves in Cinque Terre.
The amber gravity defiance of Moab.
The moss and fog blanketing the sea of trees in the Pacific Northwest.

Both places give me hope.
We have to create space for the darkness as much as we allow the light in. We have to allow the evil in, not to condone its presence but to say, "I see you. I know what you are doing."

We cannot say, "You are not welcome here," until we say, "I know you are there."
We cannot say, "I will fight for you," until we say, "I see what hurts you."
We cannot hope until we know what we are hoping for, but maybe also what we're hoping from.

The darkness comes again and again - but the light does too. The sun always rises, even in the darkest of nights.

 

Maybe if I could run fast enough I could leap right out of my own tattered skin that holds me captive. Maybe I could reach my hands out far and wide, touch the sun, and soak in its goodness. Maybe I could reach the light and let hope pour in as my selfishness, anger, and grief sweats out.

Maybe I could run fast enough to pass right through it like my own crucible, coming out on the other side to allow the sun to warm my back and light my path. Maybe the darkness could be all behind me.

Even if I can't run that fast, the sun still rises.