Yeats saw spring as childhood, summer as youth, and autumn as manhood. The latter is maybe my favorite season of the year.
Crispy, cool weather (like today).
Invigorating air.
Leaves underfoot.
Though every season is a time for running, the season I love best is autumn. Heaven (winter) is not yet, but it's coming. Meanwhile, the old horse still lopes. The aging equestrian still rides. The grizzled warrior battles on. The runner still runs. It's just you and the leaves crunching under your running shoes. Everything around you is dying. But you've never been more alive.
Today I did an 11-mile "long run." When it comes time for a long run, my body can't wait. My autonomic nervous system will settle for nothing less. I'm like a dog scratching at the door when he hears the word "walk." So the moment I wake up thinking "long run today," my body badgers me until I do it. My body loves these long runs.
My sōma is healing my psuchē. I feel strong, confident, and more than a little grateful. If you looked at me, you wouldn't think you're looking at a septuagenarian in the winter of life. For a brief moment you might catch a fleeting glimpse of the Dave of spring and summer -- running for pure unadulterated fun, running at the speed the body wants, feeling the springy ground beneath his feet.
And a gentle peace filling his soul.