I like to imagine I’m running a relay race. Three years ago,
I took the baton and have been running hard ever since. Granted, there have
been a few rest stations along the way, a few opportunities to ditch the baton
and enjoy the freedom of a break from the race. In the end, though, the baton
always returns, and as the race has continued, the baton seems to have
magically transformed into ankle weights, then a weighted harness, then a
backpack full of rocks. It’s gotten significantly heavier, which means I feel
significantly more proud of accomplishing each lap, but also much, much more
weary at the end of each turn.
I knew that my relay was almost over—I had been anticipating
its end for over a year. Still, curves kept arising, rather like driving a
mountainous road: fun, but while I knew the end was near, I couldn’t quite see
it.
Suddenly, just the other day, I caught a glimpse of the end.
I saw my relay replacement, eager, ready to start, excited about running the
race. I dipped below a hill, but the knowledge that my replacement is there,
waiting, preparing to run alongside me for the last few miles, was refreshing.
Remotivating.
I think I have strength to finish now.
