“Running is the greatest metaphor for life: You get out of it what you put into it.”
— Mishka Shubaly
It’s the Sunday of leaving,
half-full boxes, half-measured haste,
the weight of what was once worth something
now vanished without a trace.
I have stood too long at the line,
Get set… then silence, then bang—
false starts that stole my breath,
races run just to be called back again.
Some I ran and lost,
some I crossed alone,
some I swore I couldn’t finish
until the ground caught me, unknown.
And always, Your voice—
loud and silent all at once,
the coach I needed,
though I never knew I did.
Life is not one race but many,
with finishes we choose to see,
with turns that bend and peaks that rise,
and hope that carries endlessly.
I have not stretched, only run,
trusting pace to pull me through,
never seeing the finish line—
only believing that I do.
*written after packing up my house and leaving a place I called home for twenty years*
BB Grey--musings 
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