Running Into Presence
In the presence of eternity, the mountains are as transient as the clouds. Robert Green Ingersoll
Sunday mornings have taken on a new rhythm. A new challenge. I lace up my shoes, press play on my soca playlist, and head out into what we lovingly call “the bush.” Trees stretch tall like elders, rivers hum low like secrets, and the bike trails twist and turn like stories waiting to be told. It’s absolutely lovely. And it’s mine.
I stopped running just before Covid. A shoulder injury slowed me down, and then the world did too. But now, I’m back. And soca—sweet, pulsing, unapologetic soca—has become the soundtrack to my return. Without it, I feel lost. Slow. Like I’ve forgotten the beat of my own body.
But this morning was different.
As I ran deeper into the bush, off the road and into the quiet, I felt a tug. Not in my shoulder, but in my spirit. A gentle nudge to take the music off. To be present. . To run without distraction. To run with myself.
And so I did.
The run continued, but something shifted. I wasn’t chasing pace or distance. I was listening. To the land. To my body. To the questions that popped into my head:
How can I be present wherever I am?
How can I show up fully in the moment, even when it’s uncomfortable or unfamiliar?
How can I live in a state of continuous acceptance—continuous surrender—yet still move toward the goals I’ve set for myself?
These are my questions for September. Not to be answered in haste, but to be held. To be run with. To be danced with. Maybe even to be sung to, soca-style.
Because presence isn’t passive. It’s active. It’s a choice. And sometimes, it’s a run through the bush with no music, just breath and trees and the quiet knowing that this—this—is enough.
Peace and Blessings