Breathing

Lately, I have been absent from these pages.

I've been like Joel Fleishman in the last season of Northern Exposure, off in the wild, becoming one with his hand carved golf club, the game becoming the player and the player becoming the game. Invisible, except to those I choose. Struggling, learning, growing, breathing.

Breathing down by the river in the shade of an ancient oak, meditating on the nearly inaudible wash of the river-waves onto the shore far below on the banks.

Breathing the soupy August morning air on runs and rides before work, my chest hurting from the effort of separating oxygen from water.

Breathing as deeply as possible during recent paltry, tedious tests of patience.

Breathing through the extraction of a couple of teeth, breathing into the addition of a very large, probably overly-large, flat-screen TV that allowed us to watch the expressions scudding over the face of Britain's Mo Farah as he flashed past the finish of the men's 5,000. What a beautiful moment, though not as beautiful as the embrace after the 10,000 between Farah and American Galen Rupp, two extraordinary friends who allowed their affection for each other to rise above personal accomplishment or national pride. Rupp was genuinely happier for Farah's gold than he was disappointed about his silver.

Don't think I've seen that before.

I wish I could force every athlete around the world to watch their celebration together. It is exactly what the Olympics is supposed to be all about: Excellence and unity.

Photo from wegotthiscovered.com

The waves are all around, they wash out, they wash up, they run through my atoms; luck goes up, it goes down... If I slow down and take the chance to listen to the particular sounds of the birds, bugs, water, to feel the coolness of the breeze in the muggy heat... I'll be all right.