I usually run at noon. Or as close after noon as work will allow. It’s my lunch break most days, one of the biggest benefits of working from home. And during the winter it’s a huge bonus to get outside for an hour during daylight.

But some days I just can’t squeeze it in. This past work week had five of those days in it. I simply had too much to do – too many words to write, too much to understand, too many deadlines to keep up with – to take a break until the sun was getting low in the sky.

Five days this week, I ran at sunset. I got up from my chair a little unsteadily, pulled away from the glue of email, changed into running gear shivering with anticipation of cold, and strapped on my light vest. One last thing before leaving the house: plug in the Christmas tree, which we’ve put in the kitchen. I can see it from the path leading out of the neighborhood.

Although it’s not my usual habit, five evening runs in a row felt good. Each one provided an airlock between the day of work and evening of toddler chasing/dinner cooking/Christmas card writing/general adulting. Each was also a reminder that despite being busier than I have been all year, I made time THAT ONE DAY to be outside, to move, to challenge myself physically. To resist digitalization. And each one gave me some new things to look at.

There are the holiday lights in my own neighborhood. I usually zip past them in the car, but five days in a row I got to see them come alive as the sun went down.

There’s the nearby park, and learning to navigate it in the dark, by feel and sound. Mud paths, unseen prairie grasses, owls.

There’s the sky. Darkness descended quickly each day – I’d start in near daylight but finish at the point where other pedestrians are nearly invisible and deer a total shock when they jump out from the tall grass. But there was always a red-orange stripe in the far west by the time I got in the car to go get my son.

Yesterday, Dec. 20, I noticed a small group of elders in the prairie overlook shelter in Meadowbrook Park. It’s the highest point in the park and a great place to watch the sunset. When I passed again (having reached my turn-around point) they were walking back to the parking lot in the twilight. Someone was wheeling a cart with coffee carafes. A party, I thought. Cold place for it.

“Look at the sky,” someone said. A few turned to look, including me. Now, sunset running can also be panicked running if I’m not careful. The combination of outrunning a challenging workday, rushing to get my kid on time, and trying to keep my balance in the dark combine to make me an irritable ‘get-out-of-my-way’ runner without a second to lose. The sky was pretty amazing last night, a long stretch of mottled blue with a glowing gold heart.

I stopped running, stopped my watch. Stopped my big hurry for a few moments. I know I don’t take enough time to look at the sky. I’m always rewarded when I do.

All week I wondered idly, “when is the winter solstice?” It turns out I was looking at it right there: The sun setting in preparation for the longest night of the year. Astronomical winter started this morning at 3:30 a.m. local time. Was that the reason for the gathering at the prairie outlook with coffee?

My week of sunset runs took on a coherent shape: my own slow, quiet celebration of our hemisphere’s descent into darkness. They satisfied me, and so have the writing projects I’ve been working on during the days.

Happy winter! I’m ready.