Michael Scholtz

RUNNING TOWARD CLARITY

We had reached that time of year when darkness came early. A late afternoon run begun and the fading light would quickly decline into shadows. Without what little warmth the low hanging and dimly lit sun provided, the blackness gave way to a biting cold.

On this particular December night, moisture hung in the air as if it might snow any moment. My breath floated upward before me like the exhaust of a steam locomotive, and the frozen vapor began to accumulate on my clothes, my eyebrows, and my beard.

Viewed from afar, I may have appeared like a crazed person without the sense or the means to escape the iciness. Running into something or away from something out of some unknown fear or desperation. What else could explain being out there in the woods, alone and at night, guided by only a small headlamp?

Unknown to this observer, however, I was not running from dread or despair. And I was not chilled, at least not now that I was moving. The hard part was done. Leaving the warmth of my car to step into the depth of the piercing weather, like diving into an icy pool. That contrast was stark and hard against my skin. It had shaken me to my core and left me shivering and doubting my resolve.

But now? Now I ran in a sea of warmth. Cozied down inside my hat, jacket, and gloves, I was awash in the heat produced by my own internal engine. I felt safe, held close by some magic that kept the hostile dark at bay. As I glided along the trails, my shield from the frostiness seemed as impenetrable as the great hall of a castle, warmed by a crackling fire. I was protected, at ease, and free to think of other things besides the pressing frigidness that lurked just outside my fortress.

My thoughts turned to the light of the moon, starkly white against the deep, murky backcloth of sky. I noticed that as I passed, the light that shown before me revealed the green needles of trees, the yellow of long fallen leaves, and the crimson of winter berries, only to have them pass back into blacks and whites when my light no longer fell on them. And I could just make out the twinkling of Christmas lights worn proudly by a house on a distant ridge.

Surrounded by what on one hand was very real and tangible bleakness, I found myself wrapped in warmth, surrounded by color, and witness to the celebration that marked the season.

That run stands out in my memory as one of my most cherished. What makes it special are the contrasts between the warmth of my car and the unyielding cold just outside, the fluid movement of my body inside my self-made and luxuriously warm sanctuary compared to paralyzing bitterness that met my face, and the sparkles of color, spectacle and celebration amidst the darkness.

The word contrast describes one thing being strikingly different from something else that is in close association. It is clarity and sharpness, edges being drawn into focus. Contrast is texture. Feeling elation, joy, or excitement is made more magnificent because we have at other times felt grief, disappointment, or apprehension. We feel one more powerful only in contrast to the other. And contrast is a spice that flavors the otherwise mundane. While predictability is often important, too much sameness leads to stagnation. Contrast makes experiences stand out. It is exciting, out of the ordinary, risky, and adventurous. And through this ability to set apart, contrast helps us notice, to appreciate, and to be grateful for.

Returning home that December evening, I recall feeling satisfaction and a deep contentment. I was awash in feelings of accomplishment, having overcome the unease of leaving the warmth and the glow and stepping into something piercing and uncaring, to later return to the hospitality and security of lights and central heating. Home represented not only radiance but love and constancy.

Something else I noticed that night was a familiarity with the process of letting go of something comfortable, exploring the depths of challenge and feelings that awaited beyond the tether, and returning once again to safety. This familiarity reminded me that contrast is also a type of wisdom. Over time we often feel differently about an experience based on having been through it before. This type of contrast reminds us that we are not the same person we were before. Experience teaches us that we can endure. And on the other side of that enduring awaits a return to our center.

The story of that long ago evening leaves me with the belief that contrast is a thing to embrace. With it comes a sharpness of clarity about who we are and a texture of experience that reminds us that we are alive, and that life is ever changing. And profound experience always leads back home. Like a melody returning to the root note, we are drawn inexorably back to a place of deep belonging and rightness.

Photo by Simon Berger on Unsplash