What night running taught me about living inside time.

“Flowers grow out of dark moments.”
— Corita Kent

I’ve been running alone in my dreams for as long as I can remember, fueled by my inner gazelle.

Padding softly through mazes of streets, enveloped in a black-blue surround.

Occasional cracks of gold bleed into the night as the stars – reluctant to be disturbed – tease the velvet with their quiet insistence.

One maze leads to an old house, seemingly abandoned.

I reach for the doorknob, find it unlocked, twist it open, and step inside.

I’m fully lucid, present, yet I can’t shake the foreboding sense that I’m witnessing the past and future all at once.

Is it tomorrow, twenty years from now, or a decade ago? Could all of it be happening simultaneously?

My legs surge with energy, yet I never notice if the hand turning the knob is smooth or gnarled.

The moment stretches like a continuum – an entire life collapsed into a single breath.

A gestalt of time.

All of it relevant.

Stop. Explore. Acknowledge. Admire.

When I wake, I rarely recall every detail,

but I remember the mood.

I remember how the house felt.

I run in waking life, too. At night, of course.

Podcasts or playlists spill faintly from open earbuds.

Streetlamps keep me company.

I say hello to neighbors in their evening rituals,

and I greet the ferals lounging in the desert breeze.

What if this act – putting one foot in front of the other – was never about getting from A to B?

What if it’s really about rhythm, about keeping time with yourself, like a metronome syncing your pulse to the world?

Neighborhood street glowing in vivid technicolor tones. — photo courtesy of ka newborrn

I step outside, turn the doorknob gently shut, and resume my pace.

The air presses against my back, wind meets my face, melancholy melodies stir in my ears.

I’m grateful – for my health, for my path, for everything behind and everything ahead.

I’ve spent years abstracting individual hairs.

But now I know: it’s the whole silhouette that matters.

The movement between shadows and light.

The cohesion in letting go of strict start and endpoints.

Stop. Explore. Acknowledge. Admire.

The truest superpower?

Embracing the dark while discovering the light.

A memory of my mother, dressing as ritual, and the quiet trust between us.

Dressing her for special occasions became a ritual around the time she turned 70. Holidays, vacations, even casual dinners—I’d do her makeup, style her wig. And she loved it. Curation sparked her confidence. We’d talk shop like it was 1978: Ilie Wacs, Adolfo, and everything in between. They just didn’t make ’em like that anymore. And when did Teal Traina fall off the map?

Hixons of Milwaukee was her go-to store after landing her first promotion—before kids, before all of it. The sales associates would call her personally when something perfect arrived. So did Betty, the owner of Nearly New, an upscale consignment shop tucked inside Glendale’s Crestwood Village. My mother dragged me there almost every Saturday morning at 10 a.m. sharp when it opened.

Okay—took might be more accurate than dragged. Betty was kind, and I liked sitting on the old retro bench with its heavily waxed spindles and peeking inside the jewelry case. But the real motivation for walking through the musty, palazzo-tiled corridor to the sleigh-belled front entrance was the Crestwood Bakery next door. There was always a lemon tart or chocolate éclair in it for me.

She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s shortly before her 81st birthday. I moved into what I would come to call Black Gardens five months later, making the four-hour drive from Los Angeles in rare Southern California rain. By the time I reached Henderson, the sun was blazing.

She was in the backyard, seated with the ferals, and beamed like a Cheshire when she saw me.

I had just left her in January. There were subtle changes—nothing too obvious. Her personality was the same, but her appearance had started to shift.

She was wearing a thin, boat-necked short-sleeved shell—one of those tops that starts the day under a suit jacket but ends up alone once the afternoon sun hits. Beneath it, she wore a long-sleeved, collared blouse buttoned all the way to her neck. My mother ran warm, like me. It was odd. But the look was familiar in a way I couldn’t place.

Later, I’d realize what it reminded me of.

When Dody Goodman wore her bra outside of her blouse in the movie, Splash.

“Oh Mr. Bauer… You got calls from Marineland, Ripley’s Believe It or Not, and Mrs. Paul…”

A few days later, we were getting ready for my niece’s dance recital and dinner. She didn’t feel like sitting still for full makeup. Just lipstick. And eyebrows, of course. Drawn-in brows were her uniform.

She said she’d do them herself. I insisted. I had an agenda: I planned to confiscate the "brow pencil" she'd been using—an old Almay eyeliner stub that was more green than brown in certain lighting and loaded with glitter. Glitter I found on the couch, in the refrigerator, on the cats… for months to come.

I’d been saving the blouse for her.

She leaned in to read the label and arched a penciled brow.

“Eileen Fisher,” she said, impressed.

She knew her fashion pedigree.

Her face lit up in all the right ways when she tried it on. Her brown eyes sparked gold against the pewter color. The textured silk made her skin glow.

I noticed a shift at the restaurant. She was self-conscious. Her presence had always been commanding—but that night, her beauty had evolved into a softness. Her eyes darted around the room and returned to me again and again, searching for guidance, safety, reassurance. Almost like a child, but without the confidence.

But it was still a good day. Because she trusted me completely. And I knew it might not be the case tomorrow.

A bit of dressing stained the blouse as she maneuvered the chicken breast I had cut into bite-sized pieces. Her eyes widened and locked with mine.

I wanted to hug her. Feel her scratchy wig against my cheek, strands permanently frazzled from surviving one-too-many Vegas heatwaves. But she was seated across from me, wedged snugly between my niece and brother-in-law.

“It’s okay, Momma,” I said. “I’ll make it look brand new again. Just like you taught me. Eat your chicken. Momma, it’s okay.”

Visibly relieved, she returned to her meal.

Another dab of dressing escaped the corner of her mouth and deepened the stain. I reached across the table and wiped her face with my napkin.

“Thank you, baby,” she said.

And I couldn’t stop looking at her.

She was so incredibly beautiful.

My Momma has always been—will always be—exquisite.

STOP. EXPLORE. ACKNOWLEDGE. ADMIRE.

SHE LET ME DRESS HER