May Thoughts

mulch is the smell of

spring is coming we are all

going to be fine

The Juxtaposition of Pain

April 16, 2013

Yesterday, two bombs exploded at the finish line of the Boston Marathon at around 3:00 in the afternoon. Another went off at the JFK library later, believed to be unaffiliated. Three people were killed. One was an eight year old boy who had gone to cheer his father on.

As I reflect, I realize that until now I have not been able to separate myself from the fact that this is an “act of terror.” This term immediately calls to mind a whole collection of associations with strong connotations- external threat, war, anti-Americam, anti-freedom, anti- captialism, patriotism, courage, hero, red, white, blue.

Not until now have I been able to remove myself from examining these events from the point of an American and, instead, simply take the persepctive a girl who loves to run.

Right now, all I can think about is pain. There is good pain, like the way your legs feel after you have been running for a while. They ache, they feel almost separated from your body, like phantom limbs. But this pain is encouraging. It sustains you. It makes you feel strong.

And then there is bad pain. The kind of pain that makes you stop dead in your tracks, feeling the hot breath of Death upon your lips. The pain of one moment holding something firmly in your hand, and the next, having it plucked from your reach. The pain of suddenly having a time limit. Of having to come to terms with the end. This pain is both physical and mental. An army and navy.

That afternoon in Boston, these two feelings were juxaposed to a fatally close degree. And I cannot even begin to imagine what those runners must have felt.

They were tired, their legs were burning, their hearts were racing, their skin was sweating. But the finish line was in sight. They knew that they only had to push a little further, take a few more strides until they would cross the finish line. And then their pain would cease. The warm glow of accomplishment and celebration would take its place.

But then, the bombs explode. And everything comes crashing down to the pavement.

Those runners who were just a few minutes too slow, who didn’t get to cross the finish line, experienced this increibly baffaling jump from one kind of pain to the next. The first whispered words of encouragment in their ear, the next hissed fire and ice down their throat. The physical pain of exposed blood and severed bone. The mental pain of knowing that they had just taken their last step, and not understanding why.

Now, more than ever, I carry the weight of each stride with thanksgiving.