One great thing about moving to a new place is all the unexplored terrain there is to cover -- and I'm not just talking about top-priority destinations. It can be just as interesting to venture out even in rather prosaic little neighborhoods, which is exactly what I've been doing during my (abysmally sporadic) runs since moving to Boston a couple months ago. I've covered all kinds of interesting ground right around my home and found lots of paths I like, but because I've never quite managed to love running for the sake of running, I have to change my route up frequently in order to keep myself interested.

The other day, for example, I decided to venture out in a southeast direction along a fairly major road behind my place. Other than a briefly disappearing sidewalk that necessitated a quick crossing to the other side of the road, it seemed like a promising route. The road took me past some beautiful old brick homes -- covered in ivy still changing to various shades of yellow -- and past some rather promising-looking bakeries.

Then, after I figured I'd hit a good halfway point, I turned around. Almost immediately, I knew something was up. A rather dull burn began to build in my legs, and my breath started to come at something of a premium. I was running uphill.



Granted, it was a rather low-grade incline, but I've been living in the Midwest for the past six years; the only hills we have there are overpasses. So even this pathetic little excuse for a hill was enough to make me really feel it as I started to "climb."

But here's the thing: Just a few moments earlier, I hadn't the slightest idea I was running downhill.

Theoretically speaking, a slight slope like that should have made the trip down just as much easier as the trip up was more difficult, yet I completely failed to notice it. If things seemed to be getting easier, I probably just subconsciously congratulated myself on how well my run was going without even thinking the credit for it may be owed elsewhere. Yet when things got harder, you better believe it only took a second for me to realize something was up and pinpoint the source of the problem.

Even in that moment, it occurred to me that what was happening just then was a rather sad illustration of a routine trend in my life.

See, it tends to take a seriously easy stretch of time before I'll officially take note of the good things happening to me, the blessings with which I'm being showered. But when my path gets only slightly easier -- when things are consistently good, but in non-flashy ways? I'm ashamed to admit that those times are often mistaken for ordinary, flat road.

Of course, once that metaphorical road of life begins to incline even the slightest amount, you can bet I'm instantly aware that things have gotten harder, that some trial or inconvenience is making the path more difficult than it was the day before.

If I were to stick with the running analogy, I guess you could say that the stronger you become the less you notice the inclines, but it's actually the other side of the metaphor that's been on my mind the past few days.

Maybe for now I just have to accept the fact that I'm going to feel the inclines, that things will occasionally get tough and that I'm going to have to work harder to keep going at those times. But as long as that's the case, perhaps those inclines would be made easier if I bothered to take at least equal note of the downhill stretches.

Perhaps this came to mind now because it's Thanksgiving season, when my mind is slightly more inclined toward at least the concept of gratitude -- even if I still fail to notice all kinds of things I ought to be grateful for. But maybe I can use the season as a springboard to start an ongoing, aggressive search for those downhill moments in my life. Because once I'm in the habit of seeing them, it's just another small step to being in the habit of expressing thanks for them.

As G.K. Chesterton wrote, "thanks are the highest form of thought; ... gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder." And I'd hate to think that I'm missing opportunities to elevate my thoughts, to compound my happiness, simply because I don't bother to notice when things are good.

Which means that, for the time being, I may just need to forgo exploration as I run and stick to this familiar route for a little while -- at least until I can learn to recognize that moment when the path starts to slope down and my momentum allows me to slightly ease up on my effort. Once I do that, I can make a conscious effort to be grateful for it, to enjoy it, to save up some energy -- and then turn around and head back up the hill.