Repetitious clomping, panting and gasping along the unforgiving pavement, my feet quickly leap from the sidewalk as though falling from a long day into bed onto the dirt trail drizzled with tired pine needles. The trees greet me along the singletrack and welcome me into their world—wishing me farewell in a single wave as one would wave at train passengers.
My eyes scan my future—charting courses through the rocks, roots, trunks, limbs, drops, and berms. They send instructions to my legs faster than consciousness can grasp. Messages arrive just before the next foot falls. Just as the mind speaks to the feet, the feet respond with progress reports about every step. Lean in, dial back. This ankle is solid, but that ankle needs help. Stop, go, pivot, dig in, ease off, climb, drop, slow down, let'er rip. The conservation never ceases.
If depression involves suffering past trauma and anxiety is triggered by rumination of the future, there is no room for these in the mind while dashing through the forest. To dwell anywhere but in the moment would result in a dropped call between the mind and legs—spelling one spilled in the dirt and bramble.
Running through the less-manicured wilderness is as much a practice for the direction of the mind as much as it is the body. A practice of or practice for what? For present existance. Contentment with the current batch of air in one’s lungs without pondering the breath that came before it or the one that will come after it. The past breath belongs to the forest and the next breath is not promised.