Waving Not Drowning

It's in the rhythm of her footfalls, a steady, cyclical, soft flapping of rubber on asphalt, step by step, breath by breath. The first twenty minutes she struggles to settle down, settle in, relax and find her groove. The ongoing argument with herself plays out in her head: turn back now, this is too hard, you should be doing something else, ten minutes is good enough, how about later, just a little break, come on, comeoncomeoncomeon. Over and over she comes back to the sound of her feet, syncing her breath to her stride, alternating inhalations with exhalations on opposite strides. Stay loose, think tall, drop her shoulders, eyes up, belly on, hands loose, keep breathing. All these cues and mantras underscore the sound of her heart thumping, thumping, thumping until finally, magically, they fall away and she simply runs. This is the best part. The freedom of flight, lightness of being. Getting lost in her own movement, feeling omnipotent, like she could run away all the anxiety an...

It's a long drive, up north. Past a myriad of small communities, tiny one horse towns with similar sounding names, ending in brook or hurst or steed. The occasional signs of big box stores and chain  groceries glow in the dark off an exit ramp in the distance. Last chance for food, shelter, gas and family size jars of dijon mustard and 46 rolls of toilet paper for 34 miles. Hawks circle above, banking, soaring, catching updrafts and hovering effortlessly above the treeline. There's rain in the air, a faint shift in barometric pressure. Should've packed a tarp. Should've packed her life, jammed her belongings into boxes and bags and thrown everything she's ever been into the rental car.  Never come back. No real sense of where she's heading or why she's leaving except it's something she can do. Volitional, for now, at least. No set schedule, no dependents, no rhyme nor reason to anything anymore. Despondency, ambivalence. These are foreign words now tatto...

If Robbie was a dog he'd most definitley be a Bassett hound. A very large, lumbering one with floppy ears and fin-like turned out paws and a nose as keen as they come. Cheryl loved Robbie, she did, but she misses the young, fit and feisty Rob- the one more akin to a Coon hound or German short haired Pointer. Active and alert, curious and on point. The man who would wake her up with great morning sex and then hustle her out to the gym or for a run where they would laugh and whinge and moan and end up at their favourite local indie roaster for smart coffees and splurge on a decadent pastry every now and then. Now that occasional indulgence is three times a day for him, the sex has all about disappeared and Cheryl can't remember the last time Robbie laced up his trainers let alone logged some miles. Recovery is hard, she gets that. It took nearly 12 weeks of solid rehab and physio to repair her achilles but she bounced back, she had to. Robbie on the other hand, took her down time...