I never considered myself a runner until I moved to northern Virginia for the first time. The Navy sent me there from California under orders to learn a new language, and like a good sailor, I set about to doing that diligently. But as life often goes, during this period I also learned about other stuff that in retrospect seems obvious. I discovered the importance of cultivating a different sort of communication and community that ultimately proved more precious in the years that have followed.

When I was not sitting in that Rosslyn classroom of Diplomatic Language Services, I began to devote most of my spare time to distance running. In undertaking this objective, I was easily welcomed into a community of new friends that I never could have envisioned when I first rolled into town. This is one reason that Arlington, for all of its sprawl and association with our nation’s capital, holds a special place in my heart and head. And it is for the particular reason that, whenever I return, I aim to get back in touch with those moments from years ago.  

There is something about that snaking and intersecting running paths of northern Virginia that allow for a number of memories to break loose when I return for an early morning run. Looking at my watch and wondering how my pace got so slow. But age and treachery of body notwithstanding, I still find plotting a particular route to come as second nature; returning even after an extended time away always feels like stepping back into I a haunted house of unique memories that serve to make me smile. And, of course, the spirits impose a certain element of sadness. 

Life is bittersweet, especially if we are lucky enough to grow old and experience more of the fallible and complicated parts. I say this because in moving through each phase, you constantly interact with others who also moving along on an individual path. Some start before you, and sadly, some end seemingly while they are right alongside you. Comparison by most accounts is unproductive, because the reality is that everyone ultimately navigates the sprawl in varying ways. But if a group of you can manage to travel together and share a stretch of a long, slow run— well, in retrospect I now recognize that this is a true rarity. And an absolute gift. 

I’d be full of shit if I didn’t say that I sometimes feel overcome when I think about the people whose time on these trails have come to a premature end. I feel both angry and confounded. Not only because I still want and need them around — but also because I can find no consolation that will make it all seem acceptable. Here today, gone tomorrow. Sometimes the hardest parts of life suddenly spring up and the only thing I can come up with goes along the lines of, « Okay. So this is life. ». That’s it. You just have to pay the check and move on to the next thing that life has to offer. 

I’ll never be a motivational speaker.

When something hits you with a such a thrust of shock and unprecedented pain, it can at first feel impossible to shake the effect off and get back on your feet. It takes time and sometimes no time is ever enough to ever feel fully complete again. Sometimes all we can do is try to add beauty to the scars we now bear.

A running trail skirts along the southwest side of the Pentagon building. In passing this place, you can take in the end result of a massive post-2001 reconstruction that conceals the most perceptible traces of a massive wound. Still, the grounds and building hold no shortage of reminders for those who are looking. From the 9/11 Memorial lining the surface area just outside, to a chapel installed in the outermost ring of the building, these reminders point to a swell of emotion that will always be under the surface. 

And in speaking of things unseen, in addition to the chapel inside, there is also another space of significance. As you are heading to the memorial chapel, make a turn down a hallway you will pass on the right. Walk about 15 paces, and there is a closed door that in any other universe would have been a small office or custodial closet. But this door bears a plaque that reads “Reflection Room”. Especially as a sailor, whenever I find myself back in the Pentagon, I always find time to duck into here for a few moments. I have never found anyone inside.

The Reflection Room is a quiet space that pays tribute to the Navy personnel who were killed on that day the plane hit the Navy side of the Department of Defense building. The room has a simple bench that allows you to sit for a moment and observe the marble slab that stretches up to the ceiling. Inscribed on it is a roll call of the names of the fallen. At the base is an ever-present offering of mementos left by visitors, friends and families from all across the globe. It’s a place of ever-present community and communication.

I think it is important to both know and attend to the sacred spaces that hold for us measures of personal significance. When I come back to Arlington, I like to think about the faces and locales that help to reassure me that I’m doing a thing or two right in this world. Sure I still spar with myself and accept my share of tugs and toils. Some mornings I wake up, look in the mirror, take stock of the creaks in my body and think, “Dear God, did I get into some kind of horrific car crash last night?” But then I get moving and slowly these sentiments shake themselves out. Whether it be through a run or some other kind of interaction that helps to slough all of the less palatable stuff. Then I go to bed at the end of the day and the cycle continues. This is life.

Identifying with faces and the names—these are the reasons that add up to a life with purpose. These are the experiences that I like to focus on come this time of the year. Maybe this is because it’s mid-December, and more likely perhaps I’ve recently spent an Arlington evening watching a string of Hallmark holiday movies with implausibly saccharine storylines. Life is far from a December miracle where the lighting is soft and all of our dreams come true. Instead, I find more comfort in the messy moments. The ones that are funny, and the ones that are gone forever but remain sharp in my mind. Northern Virginia, a place that most sailors avoid like the plague, happens to be a place that does this for me. 

So many memories that make me smile. So many memories that that prick my eyes.