The Magic in a Forest Run

Once in a while I stay in bed past 8am. Which is luxury. 
Depending on the state of the soul.
This morning it was failure. The word that rung over and over again in my mind. There was so much I wanted to accomplish yesterday, but didn’t. So I lay there. Eyes closed. Trying to forget. 
An hour later I got up. Groping my way through the hallway, my foggy eyes eventually focusing on familiarity. Nothing had changed from the night before. 
Outside my window the pea soup fog bowl shimmered. Here for another day. 
I did the usual. Made a coffee. Sat down to read. Fed the spirit with something other then the self-imposed misery.
Eventually the sun sparked fragments of surprises through the window. I needed to go outside. For a forest run. 
Today was counter-clockwise of the Lynn Canyon Loop. 
This forest is a work of art. Its canvas is green. Elongated trunks shimmer with tonal bark. Light gleams in the shadows. Every trunk is different. Regal in its stature. 
As I run uphill I think how magnificent our lives are to have this. There is no hatred in the forests. Only love, and peace. 
We breathe in. We breathe out. 
No expectations here. 
Roots show up. Rocks unturned. Birds flee our paths. Leaves scatter fallen. 
At one part of the trail I find myself chiming how grateful I am. Then a myriad of stones come underfoot and I make a mantra in my mind: I am grateful for my feet, my ankles, my knees, my thighs, my lungs, my heart, my eyes, my ears, my hands and my thoughts. 
Another runner travelling the opposite way passes me by. 
Soon I am running downhill. Heels first. Focusing on my feet. 
The foghorns beat on in the distance and I come upon the sounds of the river, the rush of the water. 
I continue on in a steady pace alongside. 
Moments of yesterday soon forgotten.