Pulse

Nearing the top of Dimple Hill, the 1,000+ foot elevation gain of this McDonald Forest trail run speaks to me in the language of legs and lungs, and pulse — rapid thumps so loud I can hear them pounding in my ears. Finally on the summit, I walk back and forth with hands on my hips, taking in the view, listening to my heart rate slow to a whisper.

Pulse. There are so many in life: the heart, of course, but also the in-and-out of breath, sleep and wakefulness, daylight and dark, the tides, seasons.

Creativity has it’s own pulse, too. The musician lifts the bow. The painter lifts the brush. As a writer, keystrokes are followed by stillness, thoughts and words by space, productivity by fallow time, reflection, thoughts on revision. So many rhythmic pulses in life, life itself being a pulse: we’re here and then we’re not.

Pulse.

Pulse.

Pulse.

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