During this morning’s dark winter long run, I began to count. Not miles, or minutes, or heartbeats. Beanies. Not hats, caps, scarves, helmets, or hoodies. Specifically, I began counting knitted beanies, because I was wearing one, and wondered who else was out there wearing what I was wearing. One… two… three … seventeen. Bright red, moss green, yellow with a pom-pom, and navy pulled low, but mostly black. The simple act of counting in my head made my stride loose and relaxed and the distance came and went. Repetitive, low-stakes mental tasks can calm the nervous system and counting can create a rhythm. In this way, counting is not about numbers at all. It’s about redirecting attention away from anxiety, boredom, pain, fatigue, miles, or whatever. We count words, pages, chapters. We count steps walked or climbed. We count sheep. We count backwards. We count days, hours, minutes until something begins or ends or returns. We count anniversaries. We count cracks in the pavement, in the wall. We count lamp posts. We count raised hands. We count stars. Like OneRepublic’s 2013 song “Counting Stars” – Lately, I been, I been losing sleep; Dreaming about the things we could be; But, baby, I been, I been praying hard; Said, ‘No more counting dollars, we’ll be counting stars; Yeah, we’ll be counting stars.’ We sing about counting. We count while singing. Like The Swingers 1981 song “Counting the Beat” – I’m counting the beat, two-three-four-five; I’m feeling the heat, glad to be alive; I’m counting the beat, six-seven-eight-nine; I’m wishing that you, that you were mine. What else do we count? Time, breaths, calories, votes, blessings, regrets, wrinkles, likes, subscribers, losses, lovers. There is something ancient about counting. Before writing, before clocks, before money, there was the human need not only to record how many, but to mark milestones, to mark gains, to mark memories. Authors count words. Five hundred words today. A thousand tomorrow. They make the unmanageable manageable. They lead into the next break: a coffee break, a lunch break, or finishing time. What struck me, running among the beanies this morning, was how counting had shifted my relationship to the run. I was no longer “going for a run.” I was participating in a silent game with no winner. Maybe this is the real benefit of this type of counting. It makes us observers instead of judges, participants instead of competitors against the clock. Perhaps counting is really offering us a choice; not whether to count, but what to count. Attributed to John Lennon, and also a 1927 birthday card, “Count your age by friends, not years. Count your life by smiles, not tears.” Maybe the art of counting while running is less about numbers than about training the eye and mind to notice what makes us feel lighter, steadier, and what makes the road ahead more interesting than being in a little running bubble, oblivious to all. Counting beanies on a morning run is evidence that we are here, and we are not alone, even before dawn in winter. Other people are interesting too, out there on the Paris streets, and today I see them. Really see them. Counting, While Running Two steps, Count the milestones, One beanie, Five red beanies. Inhale four, Count strangers on dark streets, Count the moment, Two steps, Count, not to finish, not to win, not to prove. Count, in rhythm, in number, just to be.
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Saturday, 17 January 2026
Counting the ways, the days, the words, the birds …
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Counting the ways, the days, the words, the birds …
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