I haven't been running much lately. I tell myself a combination of the too-cold temperatures and dark nights and feeling not-quite-100 percent healthy around the holidays is to blame. I've managed a few short glides on our elliptical, and some very slow hikes in our woods. I wrestle with what this means -- for how long during a "pause" can I call myself a runner? When the length of the "pause" extends beyond the length of my prior years running consistently? How long will this slump last? I don't know.

I came across this old Wendell Berry poem today. It brought me a long sigh of not quite relief, but solace. It prompted a new perspective on these deep winter days, on how my running has become less of an accomplishment and more like an old friend I haven't seen in a while. And I texted a friend to see if she wanted to run (just a little) this weekend.

"Our Real Work" by Wendell Berry

It may be that when we no longer know what to do

we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go

we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.