I stop running the day I learn I must move house. It’s not for lack of wanting. At first, I tell myself I’ll continue to take advantage of this beautiful spot until the day I leave. I think I’ll do a double loop of the Bay run before I’m out and continue my laps up and down the canal after work. I dream of last year’s winter morning sprints in the park: early sun, dew on the oval, shoes grassy, tapping them over the balcony and watching the mushy blades scatter while I breathe mist.
It’s summer now, and the landlord’s request is to vacate by late autumn. But because the days are still sticky, I find they elicit the same, forever alluring excuses for why I shouldn’t move my legs: too hot, too tired, too unbothered, too old, too late, and of course, a waste of precious moving prep time. If I save up all those hours of running and put them towards packing, just imagine what better place I’ll be in when I move! I am convinced that I am suffering alone (people have offered me help), that it’s too demanding (I haven’t packed a single box), and that I have no time to prepare (I have been given four months’ notice). Instead of running, instead of planning, instead of packing, my weekends largely consist of me staring dumbly into space and avoiding thinking about anything practical.
As things do when one remains in denial, life piles onto itself. The summer gets swallowed up by a family member’s cancer diagnosis, and time fills with scrambly rushing to and from medical appointments, googling best and worst-case scenarios, navigating family politics and practicing diplomacy. By the time autumn rolls around I’m emotionally and mentally fatigued, yet rather than commence the arduous task of packing, I find myself struggling to keep my government job and get caught up in the throes of applying for a permanent contract. To relieve the stresses of what is becoming a messy and demanding year, I reach out to an old partner and before I know it, find myself falling into familiar but unhealthy attachment habits. With three weeks to go and counting, cancer surgery, a job interview and a difficult ‘goodbye’ are all on the cards and although it’s a five minute walk away, the park feels endlessly out of reach.
Two days before the move, I express my concern to an aunt and uncle, though not without a significant downplay of the situation. Yes, I am stressed, but I do have it mostly under control, and yes it’s a hard job, but sure I’ll be ready for the move, and yes, I’ve rejected everyone’s offer to help so far, but no, no, not at all, I won’t mind if you want to stop by and lend a couple of hours of your time, if you insist. In desperation to appear more prepared that I am, I shift some big pieces of furniture, dismantle my bed, pack away some books, and wrap my mattress. It’s a sweaty job, which makes me think the hard part is over, and I am feeling bolstered when help arrives. Perhaps there won’t be much to do after all! After a quick turn around the house, my kind aunt and uncle observe that I don’t have enough boxes. Really? I hear myself say, before making some feeble excuse about throwing things away. Then of course, there’s the untouched kitchen. What was the plan there? I confess there wasn’t one – there still isn’t. And how about the loose bits and pieces on the bookshelf, vases, frames pictures, candles? The time to panic has passed. My uncle makes an emergency trip to bunnings, my aunt finds the bubble wrap for delicates and I am relegated to the kitchen to sort through everything I have avoided for the last four months. And as the world around me is pulled down and boxed up, I find that not only had I decided to give up running temporarily, but realise I have no longer been yearning to return to it.
Things vanish into storage. Although it’s me supervising the filling up and locking away of the unit, I feel so removed from the process that, when it’s all gone and I’m handed the key, I want to cry after my things as if I have no idea where they’ve been taken. I practice the alternative, which is meditating and trying to enjoy the idea of living with less. To my horror, my pile of meagre belongings quickly accumulates the moment I know I’ll be settled for a few months in my childhood room at the family home.
In the now dark, winter mornings, I force myself to wake early so I can make the long trek into work. At first, I do this daily and tell myself it will be good for me, the trip from sleepy suburbia to the happenings of the big city. However, things get slightly out of hand when, after fourteen days, I realise I haven’t spent a single one of them at home, and I find myself beyond exhausted at the eternal commute I’ve trapped myself into. I’ve found the train comfortable — it allows me to practice being restless without being able to tangibly act.
My childhood room is painted a blue so blue it’s uncomfortable to look at, let alone sleep in. I remember once being so proud of it, a radical room colour, the envy of school friends. When I was older, and it was time to repaint, a family friend took me to pick out a new shade. Of the thousands to choose from, I managed to find one nearly identical — a slightly greener tinge perhaps? Thirty-year-old me berates my younger self for being unable to master a sensible choice at fifteen, as consequently I’m stuck in an opaque tropical ocean that I have not asked to holiday in. Even with the blinds wide open, the light does not bounce off the painted walls. The sun loses itself in the colour, and the room feels mournful at all hours of the day.
So, it’s in between all those things: the endless train rides, the escapes from the family home, the painful blues. In between living back with parents when you thought you were fully grown enough to never need to go back. In between the weight of life sitting squarely on your chest, keeping you down so you can’t sit up in the middle of the night to take a sip of water. In between any other semblance of life routines, self-discipline and healthy habits, where there is never much time left to think about filling the void. In between those in betweens, I try to catch glimpses of who I might be if I were to, freely and without malice, teach my hard-to-get-moving legs, how to put one foot in front of the other again…
The first time it happens is by accident, one cold morning on my way to the bus stop, the first leg of my journey to the city. According to google maps the bus is three minutes away, while my walk is another five. I don’t have time to do the mental maths, but I do have time to take a breath, hold the straps of my backpack tight, and commence an energetic jog down the street. When I turn the corner and see the bus coming the other way, I break out into a full sprint. I wave at the driver, hailing him down as he passes the roundabout and turns onto McCulloch Road. The next few seconds, I decide, will become crucial. If I can make it to the intersection, and the bus is still standing, I have one more opportunity to wave, be seen by the other passengers (not that they would necessarily plead my case to the driver) and carve out a path through the wet grass in my heeled boots.
I board in a hot sweat, gulping down warm, bus heater air. I sit beside an unsuspecting, lazing school student who is taking up one and a half of the two-seaters, and plonk myself down. I don’t even remove my bag or take off any layers which are now surely sticking together, just sit numbly for a while, as the bus I made a life-altering, committed race for stands with its engine on for another two minutes. By the time we move, I feel my breath returning to normal and with it, a fresh feeling, a realisation: I am exhilarated by the fact I can move my body, my legs, my lungs — that they still work for me in this way is a miracle. When I arrive home that evening, the first thing I do is take out my running shoes, which I had the foresight of saving from storage, and try them on; that they are more comfortable than I remember is delicious.
Something about the shivering I get from the cold the morning I dress for a run makes me feel I am appropriately anxious and adequately excited. Throwing together a couple of thin layers, I deprive myself the luxury of heating the kitchen and shove half a banana into my mouth, followed by a couple of orange segments for citrusy freshness. I do some squats and take a meditative breath before emerging onto the quiet street. The fog assures me that no-one is out at this time, and I’m emboldened by the idea that it’s my shoes alone that will be treading the damp litter fallen from the scrub. I move through the bushy reserve on my way to the newer part of town, which boasts large, double-storey brick houses, manicured soccer fields and, most importantly, a lake, all of which I can run laps around. The song of currawongs and cockatoos underscore the crunchy sounds of my footfalls, while crows wail at each other knowingly. The winter has caught me by surprise, but now, here, in movement, I am also alive.
Gabriella Florek 