Running as Meditation: Awareness in Motion
In a world filled with noise and constant distraction, running becomes something more than just a physical activity. For me — and I believe not only for me — a solitary mountain run is a practice of presence. It is a form of meditation in motion. It’s not about results, pace, or distance. It’s about the quality of attention, about how deeply you can be present — here and now.
The Body as a Center of Awareness
In classical meditation, the body remains still while the mind becomes a mirror. In running, it’s the opposite: the body moves, and that movement reveals thoughts, tensions, emotions. Every step, every breath becomes a stimulus for observation. When I run long and alone, I begin to hear not only the rhythm of my heart, but also the unspoken, the repressed, the hidden within me. Sometimes pain is just pain. But sometimes it signals that something in me is tightening — not just muscles.
From Distraction to Focus
There are moments when I run and my thoughts scatter — thinking of everything and nothing. That’s not meditation. That’s escape. But there are also moments when I find the rhythm: breath, step, landscape, rustling leaves, the sound of the forest. In such moments, attention is not narrowly focused — it expands. I begin to notice things I would otherwise overlook: the texture of rocks underfoot, the mist drifting above the trees, the echo of my steps on an empty trail. Mindfulness in motion doesn’t mean controlling everything. It means accepting whatever arises — fatigue, fear, awe, serenity.
Solitude Not as Isolation, but as Deepening
People often ask me: “Why do you run alone?” The answer is simple, though not obvious. A solo run is not an escape from others. It’s a path toward hearing myself more clearly. When you run with someone, you are always in relation — adjusting pace, talking, sharing attention. Alone, I can fall apart and reassemble — without witnesses, without masks, without needing to explain. In solitude, silence appears. And in silence, the mountains begin to speak.
That’s why I don’t listen to music during long runs. I need the space where I can truly hear the run, not drown it out. What matters most never comes through headphones.
Dissolving the Ego
The deepest moments in solitary running have nothing to do with success — or even effort. They arrive when the “I” disappears. When I am no longer a runner, a philosopher, a man with a story. There is only movement, breath, and the path. Time dissolves. What appears is a state some call “flow,” but for me it’s something more — a temporary suspension of subjectivity, an experience of being part of something greater. In those moments, it is no longer me running. The run simply happens.
Running as a Spiritual Path
Running can be many things. It can be a sport, a lifestyle, even an escape. But it can also be something else — a spiritual practice. A path of contemplation. A tool for self-awareness. It’s not about how many kilometers you’ve covered. It’s about whether you were present in every moment of that path. Whether you truly heard yourself, your body, the landscape surrounding you. Whether you were merely a person who runs — or for a brief, fleeting moment — you became the run itself.
I don’t run to get somewhere. I run to be.