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I worked harder on this book than nearly anything I've ever done, including studying for the Ohio Bar Exam. For research, I checked nearly 50 books out of the library. Plus, I had my own stack of who knows how many books that Ed and I own. When the initial edits came back from Zen Master, NEA grant recipient, college professor, pro editor Sean Koho Murphy, I wasn't sure I could do what he suggested. But there was no time to stew. My deadline loomed.

Gratefully, people like you showed interest in movement meditation. You folks, Ed, Brenda Knight (Associate Publisher at Mango Publishing Group), the rest of my family, and dear friends buoyed me. Pressure? Yes, but more like cheering. When I closed my eyes, I saw you folks lining the street, holding race signs that read "You can do it!" and "You trained for this" to pull me through.

The early reviews are glowing. And the book just earned another #1 New Release badge in another category bringing it to five, six, seven? I've happily lost count!

Here's your little taste:

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Introduction

On a bright Saturday morning, as I ran along the Olentangy Trail with three other members of our pace group, the conversation turned to meditation. It might as easily have turned to which central Ohio restaurant we would go to for breakfast, upcoming races, or last week’s Buckeye football game. Instead, a woman asked how I practice.

“I do sitting meditation,” I said. But I also meditate while I run. I was meditating just now.”

“That’s a thing?” another woman asked.

“It is for me.” I explained.

“Today, I’m noticing my left foot. When my mind wanders, I gently bring it back.”

“The whole run?”

“Most of it.”

“How long can you think about your foot? Isn’t that boring?”

“I don’t think about my foot. I experience it. I notice the sensation of my foot hitting the ground and observe any changes. I pay attention to how my foot feels in my shoe. I sense if it hits harder than my right. When my mind wanders, I count my footfalls. When I pay close attention, it’s not boring at all.”

Silence.

Eventually, someone brought up breakfast.

But a few weeks later, the woman who initially asked approached me. “I tried your left foot meditation. It’s interesting. I rarely pay attention to my feet. Since I tried it, I feel more relaxed when I run.” She thanked me.

That brief conversation led to this book. The woman, like many other people I’ve talked to, found the notion of movement meditation odd but also appealing. Movement meditation was worth exploring and explaining. Of course, I didn’t create movement meditation. Centuries-old traditions embrace it. But for that woman, it was new.

What I didn’t tell my sister runner was that this path of noticing—whether it be her left foot, her breath, or her thinking—is about much more than physical activity.

Meditation might make her a better runner, or someone else a better golfer, tennis player, dancer, gymnast, or weightlifter, but more importantly, consistent practice could lead her to insight—the kind that can enhance daily life. It might even free her from suffering, a pain she might not even know she has. If one person finds that, it will be worth any effort.

Chapter 1 

Why Bother?

If you’re like most people, including me, you exercise for a variety of reasons. You’re depressed so you exercise to cheer up, or you’re anxious and want to calm down. Maybe you hope to relax or zone out. Perhaps you seek bliss and joy, an escape from your troubles. Or you want to feel strong. Then again, you might just want to look fabulous in your swimsuit. No shame in that. The beach beckons.

Plus, you’re already busy. There’s the partner and the kids and the dog. You need to mow the lawn. That work project is (still) due, and those groceries aren’t going to shop for themselves.

So why add what sounds like another task? Your mind gets a workout every day, all day long. Isn’t exercise a time to give it a rest? Why pile what seems like another layer on top of your current exercise routine?

After all, meditation of any sort takes time, energy, grit, determination, and discipline. As contemporary Buddhist Monk Bhante Gunaratana (Bhante G.) says in Mindfulness in Plain English, “Meditation takes gumption.”[1] Why on Earth would you want to infuse your movement with something that requires effort and dedication?

There are a host of reasons.

You’re probably already aware of the many ways movement improves your life. Meditation enhances that. Studies on people who meditate show the physical, emotional, and cognitive benefits ranging from improved athletic performance to growing new brain cells.[2] Combine the two for a supercharged growth recipe.

But there’s an even more compelling reason to add meditation to your movement routine.

Freedom.

Beneath any desire you may have to relax, zone out, or toughen up, and under that wish to look and feel physically and mentally better, lies the urge for freedom.

Freedom from what?

Freedom from suffering.

And that—freedom from suffering—is the main reason I bother.

During the winter after I turned 49, the social media post of a high school friend caught my attention.

It read: “Call me crazy, but this running is getting to be fun!”

I did indeed think she was crazy, but she also looked like she was having fun.

I was definitely not having fun.

The chronic depression that plagued me most of my life had resurfaced after seven loved ones, including my 24-year-old niece and my mother, all died during the same year. That friend’s social media post found me on the couch. I don’t remember bonbons specifically, but excess food had become the anchor in my “wellness plan” ballooning my weight. Exercise seemed long behind me, and I didn’t believe it would help anyway. I was suffering so much; I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay on the planet.

Meanwhile, that high school friend kept running.

As I watched her gradual progress, principles I knew from years of meditation and previous stints of movement resurfaced. The change in her and the shift I felt was familiar: impermanence. Her progress and my interest reflected the natural ebb and flow that’s always happening, which many of us never notice.

Her online training plan said, “Sixty seconds of jogging.” That’s not all it said, but that phrase stuck like a mantra. As winter wore on, my curiosity grew.

One March weekday when my husband, Ed, and most of the neighbors were at work, I pulled on faded, tight workout clothes, picked up a digital kitchen timer, leashed up our yellow Labrador retriever, Morgan, and walked to a secluded ravine in our neighborhood where no one could see us. I set the timer for sixty seconds then stood long enough for the dog to wander away and “water” a nearby shrub. When I finally hit the timer button, it set in motion a series of changes so huge I can hardly believe them myself.

But running was tough.

In my first book, a running and mental health memoir Depression Hates a Moving Target, I shared how a congenital ankle defect, my weight, one especially unhelpful medical professional, and my incessant, negative, chattering thoughts threatened to derail me. Some days, I still hear that familiar refrain, “Who do you think you are?”

Gratefully, before I found running, I’d already been meditating for fifteen years. I also had a solid writing practice, a strong community, several great teachers, mental health medications, and therapy. Movement rounded out that tool kit.

I quickly realized I could meditate while I ran. Infusing the thoughts and body sensations that arise on a run with focused attention and a calm attitude makes running less difficult and more interesting.

Meditative skills keep me going when willpower fails.

In the years since that life-changing social media post, I have run nearly 12,000 miles including two ultramarathons, three full marathons, thirty-six half marathons in 23 states, and more than 100 shorter races.

While those numbers may sound impressive, what counts is my improved inner fitness. I went from a woman who wanted to die to one who thrives. I feel more stable, calm, caring of others, and interested in the world than before. That inner transformation motivated me to share this practice.

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