By Lisa Zbar

Up until recently, my runs haven’t been mindful, although they have been full of my mind.

They’ve taken one of two forms. Either I have been filled with innumerable, maybe even hundreds, of thoughts and feelings, in a full-body experience, without any observation or even curiosity—one might call it a running commentary. Or, I’ve gone into a vortex of near obsession about a situation or person.

Pleasant, don’t you think?

Here’s a glimpse of the stream of thoughts and observations from the first form:

I feel like lead
I want to turn around
I feel so loose!
That driver is a jerk
The sun on my face is a blessing
I’m underdressed
Now I’m overdressed
I wish I could run like she does
Bike riders scare me
I feel alive

The other form has asserted itself when I’ve felt wronged or seriously misunderstood. In these situations I’m like a child’s top. The thoughts are the string, controlling how I spin, whether I have control, and how fast I turn.

A recent, dramatic event led to a clear view of these two workings of mind.

I was hit by a Suburban last summer and couldn’t run as various body parts needed to heal. I didn’t plan it this way, but I started to focus on my meditation practice. I’m grateful to be able to report that it has deepened and expanded, something I do every morning for 20 minutes, preceded by a few minutes of reading. I read Buddhist sources, commentaries on the psalms, basic texts on mindfulness and meditation practice, and Jewish texts in spirituality. (I struggle to avoid “skimming” the New York Times.)

Just in the past month or two I’ve started to run again and my relationship to my mind is different. I am more mindful, it seems.

A couple of weeks ago I was in the park and got to thinking about a person whose words and behavior had hurt my feelings. I was really going at it, developing a miserable, laser-like focus on this situation.
After a half mile of this, I asked myself, “What is going on here?” Just that moment of stepping back showed me that I was sad, and scared that the situation wouldn’t change. I entered the fear and sadness, started to cry, and found some compassion for both of us.

As for the version of mind that is a running commentary, I now feel less that I am that litany of I hate this-I’m too hot-I’m too cold. I have distance, even a little humor, and can say to myself, “Look at all these reactions.” Mindfulness practice provides space between my thoughts and me, so that I am not what I think, even the glorious thoughts and sensations, that I wish would go on and on.