I ran to the end of a long winding coastal road on Sunday in the wind and sporadic rain with my head on a swivel as the textures of the landscape were extra rich that day. The mosses, puddles, seaweed, stunted shrubs holding onto little dried up berries, slick rock outcroppings, and broken road all caught my eye like a black crow to a shiny sliver of foil.
And there was this rock wall with old weathered graffiti. Marks of people’s existence fading in the salted air. Thoughts of my own impermanence flooded the remainder of my run. What is my mark on the world? What will I leave as evidence that I was indeed here? Will that evidence last anyway? Or will it succumb a slow dissolution at the hands of rain and sun and wind like my body before it?
I ran thinking deeply of what’s left behind in the wake of a life we sail through. Our names. Not spray painted on rock, inscribed in granite, printed in ink, or typed in the twitterverse, but our names on people’s tongues and spoken aloud. What’s left as evidence of our impermanence is the permanence of our names.