The Weekly Ritual That's Helping Me Cope With COVID-19

It’s 6:00 a.m. on a Friday morning when my alarm goes off. Instinctively I push snooze and close my eyes again. But even as I curl into the warmth of my covers I know I’ll need to get up in the next few minutes in order to have enough time for a morning trail run. This thought is just enough to get me moving.

I put on the running clothes I laid out the night before, heat up some day old coffee — no time to brew fresh — lace up my trail shoes and I’m out the door 20 minutes later. 

My destination: Tinker Creek Trailhead, just outside Roanoke, Virginia.

This has become a weekly ritual for me. One that would have been difficult, if not impossible to pull off in my pre-COVID world. Sometimes small gifts are tucked away in unimaginable circumstances.

I set out into the woods following a small stream, winding my way deeper into the forest. There is a lush green in front of and behind me. Weeks ago that wasn’t the case. Spring was just beginning to unfurl, but now it is out in full force. Last week, I encountered a turtle in this very spot. I swear we each jumped just a bit as we stumbled upon each other. He slunk back into his shell while I crouched to peer at him for a few seconds. Then we set off in our separate directions. Today, however, he is no where to be seen. I run up and up and up until there’s a small clearing for power lines that signal it is time for a little walk break.

The soil turns to a rust red clay as I press on. I pass under an enormous electrical tower and a hum stirs the air around me. I am almost to the top. My thighs are tired and my lungs are achy, but after a few twists and turns I have reached the summit. Through the silhouette of trees below I can see Carvins Cove Reservoir stretched out before me. I stop for a bit and catch my breath. I know that the best part of the run is yet to come. It is the reward for all my effort. And downhill I fly over rocks and roots. I descend the back side of the mountain, letting gravity pull me along the trail.

A full creek up ahead has me tip-toeing across a soggy log as I grab the branches of a nearby tree to steady myself. Then I am on the other side. Down and down and down I continue. I wind toward the edge of the lake and before I know it, I step off the trail and am rewarded with this view.

The greening mountains frame the lake on all sides. The sun is just beginning to peek over the ridgeline. Mountains once draped in shadow are being cast aglow as the first rays of light softly appear. I feel the rise of gratitude and wonder, and an overwhelming sense of thankfulness washes over me. What beauty there is in this world! I walk toward the dock in awe of all that my eyes behold.

This is my church – The Church of Glory In the Morning. How lucky I am to be a member, to be here in this very moment, witnessing the start of another day. I whisper a thanks to my Maker. I ask for patience and grace and that I embrace what the day holds. May I please, pretty please, be kind to my kids when they start to annoy me?

I think of all the grief in this world, of all the lonely people, of the heartache and sorrow and I ask for help. May they all receive what they need today. I cast all of this into the air and water, into the sunshine and onto the shoulders of the distant mountains. I take a deep breath and walk away. I somehow feel lighter.

Just before I head back into the woods I turn back for one last glimpse. I spy a lone duck treading water near the shore. The silhouette of a single bird passes in the distance. I, too, am alone at the lake. Then again, maybe I am not.

As I run back along the trail that carried me here, I think of Mary Oliver’s poem, “Wild Geese.” My feet pound the dirt as my mind recalls her powerful words,

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert repenting.”

Trails and words – each can carry us along. I reach the top of the mountain and discover that clouds have overtaken the sky. There will be no sunlight filtering through the trees today. Back downhill I tramp, through the narrowest section, pushing an overgrown leafy tendril out of my way as I travel onward.

“You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”

“Meanwhile…” I can’t quite remember what comes next but I make a mental note to look the poem up when I get back to my car. I am content to turn the first few verses over and over in my mind as I heave myself down the mountainside. Pure joy is riding in the rhythm of my feet and in the truths folded inside those precious words. I start to feel quite like a soft animal loving what it loves.

Back at my car, I find the ending to her poem with a quick search on my phone.

“Meanwhile the world goes on.”

Yes. Yes it does.

“Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”

I am not sure that words more lovely have ever been strung together. Thanks for your beautiful sermon on this glorious May morning, Mary Oliver. Thanks for flying down the mountainside with me, singing your lovely song. Thanks for joining me at my mountain church.

I read the poem one last time for good measure and then add one last word that seems quite appropriate.

Softly I whisper a resounding, “Amen.”