Lines

I started running again.

Jogging, really, about an 11-minute mile -- down the curve to the main road, up the steep slope to the high school, all the way to the field where the band practices and then back home. When I'm done, it's a couple of miles under my belt, about a light lunch worth of calories burned off and a really good endorphin high.

I try to stay in the moment as best I can -- no iPod, no phone -- just feeling my breath and watching my body move to a synchronized beat; my feet on the pavement, my arms chafing against the air, my legs moving one at a time.

Sometimes I'd catch a whiff of an earthy fragrance -- so sweet it's like that first mouthful of a dessert you've coveted, and you're savoring the sweet satisfaction of anticipation realized.

Yet, so brief that almost about the second I lock in my senses to identify the scent, ... it's gone, like the remnants of last night's dream at the moment your mind crosses over into a wakeful state.

But staying in the moment also means quietening my thoughts -- and that's hard to do.

Today was no different.

Today, my mind was meandering along lines. Lines that keep things in, lines that separate, lines that limit. Lines that define.

There's a path on my run that takes me across a parking lot streaked with yellow guidelines so the high school students can use to park their cars. Then, there are white lines marked over these for when the lot is used as a basket ball practice court. Literally on top of that, the black-on-black lines, caused by the repair work in the tar, leads to yet another layer of intersecting lines.

Today, that's how I feel, my existence -- governed by lines that steer, lines that direct, lines that cross one another.

And lines that constrict.