As each foot, clad in the absurdly neon shoes, rolls into another stride, I shuffle my thoughts and feelings into order, cleaning house and clearing space. With deep sighs and measured movements I pick up the problems and stressors, dust them off, and carefully put them on the shelf. The iPod serves less as a soundtrack and more as a metronome; a beating white noise pacing my feet and my mind. As the distance grows behind me I feel the spaces clearing, and each breath of the sharp November air pierces into the place beyond my lungs. My muscles move on autopilot as I settle in to rest.

I can see the colors of the fallen leaves: a radiant carpet to support the grey, bare-limbed trees. I hear the shivers of the branches as the wind brushes through them. In the murmuring quiet of this afternoon, it is well with my soul.


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