Outside the window of my little apartment, the sun has just started to rise. This dawn does not bring with it golden streaks creeping over the buildings or flickers of fledgling light flirting through the trees. The sky is dark and hangs heavy over the mountains. A meagre scattering of birds can be heard announcing the sombre day, and in the distance, church bells echo. Despite the cold outside, something in me smiles. Summers in Stellenbosch are an endless procession of perfectly blue, sweltering hot days. It is undoubtedly gorgeous, but after some time, I long for the comfort of melancholic weather, the kind that makes you want to read tattered paperbacks and light candles. I miss the rain and the cold. I miss icy winter morning runs when you can sleep in and still be out on the road before dawn. Still, I am well aware these wishes stem from warm bones. It has been summer for so long that the heat has seeped into my body and become part of it, erasing all memory of the cold. On some June morning, not long from now, I will be walking to class through sleets of icy rain and remembering these yearnings with scorn. But today is not that day. Today I revel in the grey sky, the soft pattering of rain and the sense of intimacy it layers over the hours.
Week seven of my training block stands out from the previous ones in that the central theme wasn’t running. I started classes for my postgraduate English Honours degree on Monday, so my reading has shifted focus from running memoirs to academic essays and Victorian novels. Campus is abuzz with students speed walking down Victoria Street, loitering in the Neelsie and splaying out on the lawns outside the library. The town feels alive again, and there is a new sense of purpose to my days as I assemble all the scattered bits and pieces of life into a coherent flow around my classes. I also realised that not obsessing over running every second actually positively impacted my training. Of course, I’m putting in the miles, but I find my mind wandering on the runs. I’m mulling over readings I have done for class, brainstorming ideas for my thesis, or simply rejoicing in the movement, relishing the block of time away from my desk.
Gratitude is a theme that has cropped up persistently during my runs this week. On Wednesday, I ran the first 12k in a series of Twilight Trail Runs hosted by Skilpadvlei Wine Farm. It was an unforgettable experience, running through the vineyards and on trails that slope towards the embrace of the Stellenbosch Mountain range, all while watching dusk pool auburn and pink in the contours. A youth run club also competed. The ten or so of them were singing and psychic each other up at the starting line. I later discovered that the run club was explicitly established for young boys in poor communities at risk of being recruited by gangs. What a beautiful brand of empowerment – offering people a healthy way to feel strong and giving them access to a sense of identity, purpose and belonging that is dislodged from crime and violence. Plus, these athletes were fast! They dominated the top five of both the 6k and 12k races. I’m telling you this because I witnessed something during that race that will stay with me forever.
At around kilometre five, I was alone on the trail. As we got deeper into the race, the group dispersed. Those in front of and behind me were out of sight. That particular section of the route offered the most spectacular views of Stellenbosch, Simonsberg, and the Jonkershoek mountains. Plush red grapes hung heavy on the vines that lined the trail. I was immersed in the view, when from behind, one of the members of the youth run club sped past me. He was in first place for the 6k. They started later than us and shared the same route for the first half of our 12k. He was practically sprinting, but he looked so comfortable doing it. A huge smile lit up his face as he, too, turned his head to absorb the view. He couldn’t have been older than fourteen. When he was a few metres ahead of me, far enough that he probably thought I couldn’t see him, he touched his hand to both his shoulders, kissed it and held it up to the sky – the universal sign of religious thanks. I got goosebumps. Here was this young boy, whose situation at home I couldn’t even begin to imagine, giving his all in a race and still taking time to look at the view and express gratitude. I realised that he wasn’t running only to win; he ran like he was praying, like he was celebrating the possibility of a better future. That moment, for me, was infused with the divine. Something inside of me shifted.
I spent the rest of the week dwelling in gratitude. During the day, I would make lists of everything I found beautiful and stirring – the hubbub on campus of young people with big dreams, the feeling of being surrounded by history and knowledge in the library, the different hues of the sunset each day, the nuances of joy that accompany every run. As the week progressed, my lists started to include things that weren’t that noticeable, like the soft glow of fairy lights and conviviality amongst friends, the supple movement of my limbs and joints as I performed delightfully ordinary tasks like washing the dishes or doing the laundry, the privilege of sitting in class and studying something I love, the sweetness of fruit, the sound of pages turning. This morning, I will add grey skies and soft rain to my list.
This practice has turned everything into a source of inspiration. I feel like an open nerve in the best possible way. My entire being is becoming more receptive to the beauty and enigma of everyday things. Albert Einstein said: “The greatest gift is to get lost in the mysteries of existence.” Perhaps that’s the best blessing gratitude can offer – it allows you a way of extending beyond yourself, welcoming curiosity and wonder, and acknowledging that no matter how difficult life gets, there is always a sunrise to watch, something to learn or air to breathe.
The sun, fully risen now, is hiding behind the opaque clouds. The birds have given up their futile attempts of ushering in the light with song. Raindrops create patterns on my window, and the coffee has just finished brewing. What a beautiful day. Today I will uncover more ways in which life provides. I will turn every day into a place where I feel at home and I will continue searching for poetry in the ordinary, making art in the living.
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