This run has become second nature. It's like brushing my teeth—something I don't think much about, but come back to daily to clear my head and start my day.
Today, a lazy Saturday, I hit the road later than normal. The wind was relentless and fierce, so my pace was noticeably slow. Over and again, I wiped tears from my eyes and snot from my nose with my shirt sleeve. I had to push hard just to move and turn up the volume on my audio book in order to hear. It took a while, but eventually, I settled in and found my stride—engaged in my book, lost in thought, and pushing hard into the wind.
Three-quarters of the way down the mile-plus stretch that connects the lagoon trail to my house, I noticed a slow-moving, elderly gentleman hunched over just ahead of me. Gruffly, he picked up a large rock from the road and threw it back into a rock bed that lined the Colony entrance.
As he turned and started coming toward me, I slowed down and lifted my hand to wave (as I do with everyone I pass when I run).
"You're not supposed to be here," he barked at me and advanced with a raised fist. "This is private property."
It is.
The stretch of road, I was running on is indeed owned by a Colony I don't live in. And yet, many people who live and work in our community run, walk, and bike along both halves of this long, flat street. But now, in the days of lockdown and social isolation, the neighborhood is eerily quiet. And for reasons I can only assume, this man—my neighbor—has singled me out. Not a word in five years, but for the second time this week, he's yelled at me.
My stomach dropped, my face grew hot, and my pace quickened as I realized his fury at the rock in the road was now directed at me. Paul's words from earlier in the week came to mind and soothed me in the heat of the moment and in the split-second decision to fight or flee. "Just ignore him."
I wish I could say more about my response—that I was a beacon of light and neighborly love—but alas, no.
"Go f*ck yourself," I muttered under my breath, silently seething at this man and his audacity. Yup. Though not loud enough for the hard-of-hearing to hear, that was my neighborly response.
With boiling blood and racing thoughts, I sprinted the stretch back home. Some of the more clever retorts that came to mind as I ran included:
- Get off your rocker and come stop me.
- Oh yeah? Well you'll be dead soon.
- I hope you get Coronavirus.
I simmered by the time I got home. And have had a few more hours to cool down and reflect since then. So here goes:
We're all stuck at home, trying to deal and protect ourselves. Many of us feel vulnerable, unsure, lonely, sad, afraid, bored... For some these are unwelcome and uncomfortable emotions that, like that rock in the road or that trespassing neighbor, we want to push out of the way. But pushing, hiding, hoarding, fighting, blaming—these aren’t solutions.
Dear neighbor, here's the thing—
Passersby aren’t an appropriate outlet for your feelings and frustration. You don’t get to be a jerk because of how I look or because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
If I stopped moving forward every time an old white dude told me I can't do something or that I don't belong, I would have shriveled into oblivion and died an unfortunate death long ago. But by the grace of God and for reasons that continue to unfold, I'm still here. For my peace, sanity, strength, presence, and joy, I run. And for my contribution to a story bigger than either of us, I will continue.
We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, and contrary to what you may believe, you don't know me. And you don't know where I live. Instead of coming to me with kindness or curiosity, you came at me in judgment and contempt. That sucks.
I apologize for my own anger and fighting words, even if you couldn’t hear them. I hope you stay safe. And I hope you find the peace you undoubtedly need.
But let's be clear: Your anger and fear are yours to keep to yourself.
Whether you like it or not, we're connected. Your house is situated along my path. But I'm OK with discomfort, and I will not be moved. There's too much life in these bones, hope in this heart, and love still to be unleashed for me to give you another thought.
So I will keep on running. And you will see me tomorrow.
