As the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness descends on southeast Michigan, I am returning to an old love – trail running.

As a person with generalized anxiety, as I move through the golden woods, I find myself reflecting that my experience with trail running has a lot of parallels to my daily experience living life.

I have to go about it with a measure of control. If I approach it with too much abandon, there’s a good chance I’ll end up hurt.

I am constantly scanning several feet in front of me, looking for hidden dangers and obstacles.

I am usually worried that if I take my eyes off the terrain, or get tired or lazy, that I’m going to take a nasty spill.

I meet all kinds of different souls on the trail. Some are friendly and want to exchange a moment. Some are wary, and some are baleful. It doesn’t matter. As long as they aren’t an escaped homicidal axe murderer, it’s all good.

If I’m in the right frame of mind, I can get into a meditative flow state where nothing really matters except what is right in front of me, my feet on the trail, my breath in my ears, and the world moving past me.

This state never lasts as long as I would like it to.

Every now and then I see a glimpse of amazing pure beauty, and it takes my breath away.

I’ve learned that my pace doesn’t matter. I take as much time as I need to get through it. It’s not about the end result, it’s about the journey.