I catch myself at times as I gaze at my reflection. I catch myself wondering as I scrutinize the fine lines that used to retreat after a good night’s sleep. As I take in the grey hair that once was sporadic but gradually over the last few years has tenaciously taken greater and greater hold.
My youth is gone. I blinked and suddenly I’m a middle-aged man. And I wonder how it all happened.
At 43 I find myself transitioning. Statistically speaking I have now reached the point when in all likelihood I have more years in the rear view mirror than I do around the bend.
And yet I can still hear the child I once was playing within my heart. I can feel his glee as I run. His happy impatience crying “Faster! Faster!” And I in turn oblige. As if I have now become a doting father to the little boy I once was.
My running is my playtime. When little boy and middle-aged man can come together. When for patches of time at least, there are no more worries. A time when the world is a great big playground to explore and a lifetime of infinite possibility still eagerly awaits its chance to manifest.
One day I’ll blink again. The fine lines more rigid. The hair now a stark white. And I’ll wonder again how time could disappear so quickly. How life can be so teasingly ephemeral.
And when that day comes, I’ll don my running shoes, head out the door and join the 43 year old and little boy versions of me at play. Running as swiftly as I can. Smiling at how wonderful a gift life truly is.