Mushrooms thrive in the dark. They don't need filtered light or special attention, and they flourish on decomposing matter. It's an unlikely phenomenon that takes place in the damp, black space where fungi become spongy, earthy, delectable treats (well, maybe not all mushrooms are good eats). At 4:30am last Tuesday, I opened my front door to a balmy, humid air, and groggily tiptoed through the damp grass, avoiding the white mushroom heads that dotted the lawn. Just 7 hours earlier, as I collected baseballs, tricycles, stray tennis shoes, and cheese stick wrappers littering the front yard, there was not a hint of fruiting fungus. I thought to myself...like my marathon training, the mushroom's real growth happens in the dark. Stretching my legs on the bumper of my husband's Suburban, skin on my thighs still pocked from the knit blanket that wrapped me in sleep, I hoped that like a mushroom, my running and writing will progress with out any limelight or fan support, and will find fertility in a decomposing mind (its uncanny how a few years with a couple toddlers will decompose quick-firing gray matter into can't-remember-my-name-slow matter).
I learned to run in the dark. It was the safe hour before anyone was watching, where I could try out my awkward stride and hold my chest upright just like Runner's World said to do. I met my first running friend, Betsy, in the dark, and we used to joke that even after months of running together we wouldn't recognize each other at the grocery store. I've developed relationships in the dark, relationships that have nothing to do with appearances and relationships that free me and others from judgmental scrutiny. There's something about the dark sky that neutralizes the acidy discomfort of revealing secrets. I've fallen in love with running in the dark, not because I can get away with awkward improvisations of tempo runs or with looking like a reject from the thrift store, but because running has become a more palpable experience. Without a crystal clear view of the road, I become intensely tuned to the sound of my breathing and the rhythm of exhales to steps. The fragrance of jasmine becomes sweeter in the dark, so rich and haunting that ten years after reading One Thousand and One Arabian Nights, I've finally come to understand the intoxication of the perfume. The most exciting thing about running in the black of the early morning though, is that my imagination also runs...it runs colorful like watercolors in rain, where words and thoughts bleed into each other forming stories that pump life into my heart and soul.
The old adage about being “kept in the dark” makes me wonder if I'm not putting myself out there enough. When my dad didn't want to be accountable for something in our house, he would joke that, “Mom runs the show; I'm like a mushroom...kept in the dark and fed manure!” From experience I've learned complacency breeds wildly (mushrooms) in a state of comfort, and there's no room for complacency or comfort in my running and writing if it means a hault in progress. It's been good for me to participate in later morning runs with talented, new friends... runs where the pace picks up with a burgeoning sun, and runs where I can see what fresh legs really look like in daylight. Afterall, the Boston marathon doesn't even start until midmorning.
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