I want to run the New York City marathon,

very much.

I crave going back there to run those borough lacing streets,

I must,

I don’t know how on earth I got in, again, after having to pull out last year because of the terror in Griffith Park, but I did, and I need to go.

I also want to.

I don’t expect miracles; I simply want to be there. I am grateful to be here, I fought death, or at least the breath of it, a hint and genuine possibility of it licked my cheek on the hot roof and windshield of that car, but I ripped my body and soul out of its clutches,

I am meant to be here,

and I am grateful for it.

The ability to type is high on the list of what I am grateful for having the ability to do again since ripping my hand to shreds. True, my hand will be tense and tight every morning for the rest of my life, but who knows how many of those mornings I will have? When I first realized that fact, I assumed it would be decades and imagined myself as an old lady, and a wave of pity washed over me but what a gift it will be to wake up with a stiff hand for another thousand mornings? I can deal and even embrace pain if it provides opportunity to be in it, here, taking what I know/believe is right for me, my purpose,

it doesn’t need to be much,

it needs to be true,

exact, and I know what it is, it is what I am doing right now, baring and sharing it all, for myself and anyone else who wants or is tugged to listen, to feel, to learn, what is true and real for themselves.

I know I will find what I am looking for on the New York City marathon course, not utopia, or another perfect and fast experience like my first time, rather I want the gritty, dirty, hard, painful, tiring, exhausting, glorious, ugly, gorgeous truth,

another chance,

to be among runners, and cheered on by the gutsiest of all, the humans of New York.