running is a prayer

Almost every morning, before going to work, I watch my husband prepare his black knapsack for his running gear.  He takes time, though hurriedly, to choose his singlet paired with his shorts, paired with the pre-selected shoe (which apparently depends on the distance he's planning to run).  That while I, sluggish and uninspired, get dressed and dread the turmoil facing me at the office.

Minding moments like those, that stark difference, there is a tinge of envy.  On the brink of a life crisis, I was wondering if running like him would give me some long-term motivation to overhaul my reality (more than the perk my daily tall latte gives).  But of course I can't really run like him, unless the overhauling objective was to kill myself.

One day he says to me, that running (to him) is like his prayer.  Alone and paced, it almost forces you to think and reflect.  It's also the reason why he doesn't like playing music while running.  It's like the rest of the world zones out, and it's just you and your running.  And those hours of reflecting, he likes to dedicate to something - really, like a personal cause.  That though alone, you're praying that the universe would listen.  There are some runs he says are for me.  I don't know about you guys, but that's just like the biggest hug and warmest "I love you".  That's probably it, translated in runnerspeak.

Which got me thinking, what is my prayer?  And how do I pray?  It seems so mundane if my perfect alone time is just staring at the little sippy hole of my tall hot beverage.  I stare blankly into space, with a background blur of the security guard opening the door and greeting each customer a jolly good morning.  And by some tiny jolt of caffeine, I realize that I haven't blogged or written poetry in a while.  Haven't had that moment to just think with my soul.

So I guess this, this is my prayer.  What's yours?