Bliss

Okay, bliss is a big word, with synonyms like jubilation, ecstasy, rapture. So maybe I don’t mean “bliss” exactly but rather some unbidden moment of joy that transcends everyday experience. Hmm. Perhaps I do mean bliss. I have written about this before, and I am delighted to be able to write about it again.

I am running up a slow, steady incline through the red rock country of southern Utah. It’s early morning, cool and crisp, a blindingly blue sky. There’s a point in a long-ish run where the ease takes over the effort. Maybe at mile 3 or so, I stop thinking about the heaviness in my legs and how the dry air is chapping my lips and how in the shade, where there is a bit of it, it is downright cold. I’m just running. For perhaps 10 seconds, my mind is actually scoured of thought, which I think is the place mediation is supposed to take you. When I start thinking again, it is with new (and surprising) clarity about a book project I’ve been puzzling over for months. It is a true ah-ha moment. I almost stumble over my own not-so-fleet feet.

My run takes me up to a charming little artists’ “village” with a lovely café where I order the first coffee I have had in four days, an Americano served in a heavy, hand-thrown ceramic mug. I take my coffee outside to sit at one of the tables on the brick patio. I am alone. None of the shops and galleries are open yet. The barista turns on the outdoor sound system. It’s Van Morrison. If I had to listen to one and only one performer for the rest of my life it would be Van Morrison.

The sun warms the top of my head. I smell the coffee. I listen to Van. And not to be too woo-woo about this – but it is pretty damn woo-woo – I feel a whoosh of energy rush through my body, head to toe, crown to root. (Yes, I’m talkin’ chakras here. I warned you about the woo-woo.) My head feels weightless, my chest opens, my feet, which have endured five miles of asphalt pounding, tingle with electricity and warmth. In the space of a breath,  I   feel   it   all.

And then it’s gone. Unbidden bliss.

I write this as I sit in my cramped regional jet airline seat on my way back to my life. I am wedged between the window and an excessively wide-shouldered, loudly snoring man. I write about this to preserve the memory, a memory to be ignited during moments that are decidedly unblissful.