Adaptation, ecumenism

This post has nothing to do with running.

Well, nothing literally. But everything, metaphorically.

Tonight, after the first joyful day of daylight saving time (that’s right, picky grammarians–no “s”), I was watching a sweet little gal I’ve known for about eight years now. She’s old, and can’t get around as nimbly as she used to. Conservatively estimating, she’s produced over 200 babies during her lifetime. You’ve probably guessed by now that she’s a denizen of my pond, a paradisiacal little ecosystem that burbles in my garden. About 90% of my troupe of 15 or so resident goldfish bear her markings: orange with splotches of white, with a gracefully long tail. I’ve given away dozens and dozens more.

She has cataracts, and is completely blind. But this intrepid matriarch manages to feed efficiently, because she’s learned how to search out the pellets. While younger fish nab a bite by sight alone, she relies on a subtler system. She nudges the periphery, hunting for stray pellets that have floated off to the sidelines and become entangled in the fringe of baby’s tears and creeping jenny that edge the pond.

I was admiring her ingenuity tonight, when something else caught my eye. Over in the corner near the parrot’s feather, a pellet was moving, seemingly by its own volition. Upon closer inspection, I noticed a tiny baby goldfish, black and invisible, propelling the ball of food (about half its size) forward with mouth attached.

Young and old alike have a place in my pond, both managing to thrive. And while I know it’s too corny, I’d like to say the same of our running club, which honors contenders of all ages and abilities. (I knew I could bring it back around to running.)

Thanks, SBAA.