The Boulders Rush By

The cotton-ball clouds lazily drift over my head; brilliant blue sky peeks out from between the cumulus. The sun, when he shows his face, is blinding and warm - a wonderful complement to the gusty wind. The earth passes by under my feet. Gravel, boulders, shrubs, these are my ground. Cliffs rise around me, indifferent (or perhaps intentionally aloof? I can never tell) to my presence.

The rhythm of my running shoes on the coarse sand mingles with the scrub oaks' breezy rustling. Moments like these make me jealous of the boy in August Rush - not jealous of his hands, but jealous of his ears - could I hear symphony in the wind if I listened hard enough? I am out here on the bluffs for just that - I hope that the subtle sounds of nature may calm the spinning cacophony in my own head.

Hills, roads, paths, and dry creekbeds conspire to take me far from my car, and I don't much complain. Getting lost is one of the risks (some might say one of the thrilling benefits) of exploration, and I embrace my new unexpected location. On the second half of my run, my companions are cars and apartment buildings rather than shrubs and rock; I'll take it. Could be worse.

The ground never seems to tire of rushing under my feet! I, on the other hand, have not yet conquered my limits, so my time in the sun and wind eventually comes to an end. Like so many other times of seeking, I can't say with great clarity that I've found anything in particular. But at least the noisy chaos in my head has slowed; and for that I give thanks.