Lessons of the Trail

When I was ten years old, I got the one and only spanking of my life and I still blame David Cook for that. He was at my house when we realized his mom was calling and she must have been hollering for a bit, because she did not sound pleased. Well, I figured we’d be twenty years old before he ever got his shoes tied, so I raced over barefoot to let his mom know that he’d be right home. Much to my shock and utter dismay, this “good deed” was promptly rewarded upon my return by a firm sting to my behind. In front of company, no less! The pain passed quickly, but I about died of shame. And after that, I made it a point to wear shoes while the rest of the kids on Diaper Alley romped around barefoot.

So you see, it’s really a miracle that I haven’t taken up running naked sooner. No, this is not extreme rebellion or even an extreme sport (although there are clothing optional races and that, quite frankly is not a race I want to see, let alone participate in). Running “naked” is just another way of saying “barefoot”. Still, for the first couple of weeks I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was doing something really indecent. Something deserving of no less than an old fashioned whoopin’. (Or a hypodermic needle in the foot.)

Let me say right off the bat that I am not writing this to make a case for barefoot running or even minimalist running. (Or to put the blame on my mom – this is after all DAVID's fault). I haven’t been running barefoot long and there are enough people out there who really know their stuff and don’t need me screwing up the facts. Arguably, I may even be disqualified from the “purist” barefoot community because I sometimes like to run on these Northern Michigan trails in “barefoot” shoes. (No – I’m not talking about Vibrams FiveFingers, the ones with toes, although I’d like to try those. And yes, this whole idea is fraught with contradictions… “five fingers” and “barefoot shoes”… but again, I’m not here to get into all that.)

All I am saying is that barefoot running/minimalist running seems to suit me for a whole lot of reasons, but one of the main reasons is it jibes with my running goal.

“What are you training for?”

I began to hear that question a lot as people became aware of the distances I was logging while running. It’s a fair question. Seems you can’t toss a rock on the VASA without hitting someone with a goal. I imagine that it is very gratifying to have the discipline to work hard to accomplish a running goal. To cross that finish line. I admire people who do it. They inspire me and I'd like to do it myself someday. The truth is I do have a goal and it is this… to run.

Today on the trail I’m breathing in the joy of meeting my goal. I run without pain. Better yet, I run without the burden of expectation and it frees my soul to play. I am ten years old and back at Diaper Alley, romping around without fear of reprimand. (OK – some people make it their goal to reprimand barefoot runners, but let’s ignore them!)

Barefoot running has given me this gift. It may even let me forgive David.



A Word About The Shoes!
I must say I LOVE these! I’ve dubbed my New Balance Minimus WT10’s – my very own “Nimbus 2000’s” just in time for HP7P2 this week! (I’m not a qualified reviewer - for those people I might suggest Jason Robillard's site www.barefootrunninguniversity.com or Angie Bee www.barefootangiebee.com)

44

“be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Live the questions now. Perhaps over all there is a great motherhood, as common longing.” -Rilke

When I hit 40, a strange anomaly took place. I began to measure my age in relation to where my mom was at my age in relation to me. If that is as confusing as I think it is, I’ll try to clarify.

The day I turned 40, I found myself thinking, “I am the same age as my mom was when she gave birth to me!” I imagined myself as her. I imagined the vitality of a life within me. Somehow this made me feel younger.

Today, as I near 44, (it’s just two days away) I am thinking, “I am the same age as my mom was when I was four years old.” Again, I imagine myself as her. I imagine dealing with a four year old. I imagine going insane. Somehow this makes me feel older.

My friend Bryan recently handed me a memoir to read. It’s about a woman who gets pregnant at age 44. He thought I might enjoy it.  I am thinking he might enjoy a memoir for his birthday; the one about the man who loses his penis at age 36. It’s the least I can do for a friend.

However, I did read the book. Consumed it really. I imagined myself as her. I imagined myself pregnant at 44. I imagined not being able to go through with it. I imagined not being able to not go through with it. Somehow this makes me feel neither young nor old, but perhaps a bit wiser.

There’s something strangely paradoxical about putting myself in my mother’s shoes though. It’s both selfless and selfish. Aware and oblivious. Spiritual and temporal. It’s all about her, but it’s all about me. I am her. She is me.

But what of us?

We are not solely defined by our ability to procreate yet procreating is the definitive answer to our existence. The absolute. Without it, we are nothing. I am nothing. No “Happy Birthday to you!”, or even “Average Birthday to you!”

Everyone is born.

Everyone dies.

The question is… how will we choose to live?

When Doves Cry

I stand with arms buried deep in the heat of freshly laundered cotton.

Snap.  Fold.  Stack.

Drumming a domestic rhythm against the long strains of winter; my soliloquy to spring.  A soft coo from outside the laundry room window slips into this cadence; accent on the upbeat.  It fits the morning ensemble the way things long-anticipated and then forgotten often do.

Understated.  Delicate.  Orderly.

I’ve been waiting a long time for this.

Relatively speaking.

dig if u will the picture...

February 14th, 2011 - My husband and I put up a platform bird-feeder.  I want to draw in doves.  I want to absorb their haunting cry.  I try to imagine it.  Almost crave it.  I wonder what it sounds like.

February 23rd, 2011 - I trudge through snow to the middle of the yard and refill what only finches have consumed.  I peer at the trees.  At the sky.  A song is in my head.  “How can u just leave me standing, alone in a world that’s so cold? Maybe I’m just 2 demanding…”  

“Maybe I’m just like my father but doves_ will_ come, damn-it-anyway!” I scream.

Is this what it sounds like?

It's been a long winter.

February 28th, 2011 -  I notice a pair of doves perched in the oak at the edge of the yard, striking curious poses.  They do this for about an hour and finally fly away.  This is the last I see of them.  Maybe they heard me screaming.  (Even doves have pride.)

I give up.

Until this morning.

Perhaps they feel the heat between me and laundry and rhythm and forgetting.  Perhaps they sense the heat of the tears that burn at the edge of my vision at the sudden awareness to their cry.

"Darling don't cry."

But there they are on the platform, as if they have always belonged to this place, eating their fill.

Lyrics (used throughout) from “When Doves Cry” by Prince

Setting Sun Over Michigan in Three Acts

One sun setting on an icy planet.  One sun setting the stage for ‘Setting Sun Over Michigan in Three Acts'.   With the days growing longer, we emerged from our dormant shells to document this single event; the waning light hitting our pods at the slightest of intervals, husks bursting forth to push people into the light all over the state.   The photographic evidence held all the mystery of an unexplained occurrence and captured attention on everyone’s favorite social network.  "Did you see it?"  "Here in Saugatuck we did!"  And in Traverse City.  And from my sister at the edge of no man’s land on the northern shores of Lake Superior (where I am sure she can see the North Pole from her house!).  It appeared in the sky like a beacon!  Like a sign!  Like a promise!  “Spring forward” is near.  And it’s more than something to rob an hour of repose or make everyone late for church some Sunday morning in the not too distant future.  Though we lie dormant, we are still hurling through space, pressing forward into the next season, earth peeling back layers of dark matter to break through to light; light giving birth to life.

Act 1: Saugatuck Sunset courtesy of Clay Lubber - 2/13/11

Act 2: Traverse City Sunset courtesy of Angela Josephine - 2/13/11

Act 3: Copper Bay Sunset courtesy of Gina Louis-Mercier - 2/13/11

To Call My Own

I’ve been in the process of giving birth to a home recording studio for the past two weeks but I have to admit that it has not been the liberating and fulfilling journey hoped for. Instead, it has been a series of intense contractions and unflattering pushes with lulls to consider it all. I’ve sent back one breakout box in favor of another which necessitated uninstalling software that I’ll only have to reinstall in 3 days time when the new box gets here. My monitors are too large and the room is too small. There’s something oozing from the concrete under the carpeting and I think whoever chose fire engine red for the walls a few years back must be a crazy woman. (Or she will be shortly.) When this baby arrives however, you can bet I’ll be handing out cigars and passing around photos. If I can just survive the labor! I’m not demanding perfection. I’m just hoping for a healthy, happy sacred space to call my own.

That Kind of Day

“I have found that in the simple act of living with hope… the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious.” – Elizabeth Edwards

I’ve got a big pot of chili bubbling away on the stove with just the right amount of two favorite secret ingredients to light up my mouth in just the right way because… it’s that kind of day. When I was at the grocery store picking up the ingredients for the chili, a woman mopping the floor kicked the bucket (literally) and declared, “It’s that kind of day!” And I got an email from a friend that said, “What started off as a beautiful morning has turned into the worst possible night." In other words… “It’s that kind of day.”

That beautiful morning, Sandy and her family gathered to lay to rest her sister Brenda, finding closure in the fast and furious disease that took her life. That would have been one kind of day. Except for the arrival of the news that Brenda's ex-husband had died unexpectedly that very same evening. This comes on the heels of a long chain of loss this family has suffered over the past year.  "That kind of day?!"  I can hear Sandy snort right about now, “How about ‘That kind of YEAR!’”  I assure you this is not the ranting of a bitter heart but the dry sarcasm of a woman who missed her calling on SNL. Like when she imagined Brenda confronting her ex ‘up there’…“What the HELL are YOU doing here?! Those kids need you!” I marvel at her sense of humor in the thick of all this crap.  She hasn’t lost hope in the face of ‘that kind of day’. Repetitively.  

This is where I might be tempted to trumpet some trite charge like “Carpe Diem!”. However, the day has been seized, squeezed, spilled and mopped up again. Instead I am just going to agree. It IS ‘that kind of day’. For me with my pot of chili. For Sandy with all that loss. Even for the lady with the mop.

Alive and Well

I don’t care if anyone reads this. What I care about is making sure I write. To hold myself accountable to the simple resolution to be present and aware in my life. To see God in the ordinary. To wake into the sacred day and merge with its sacred pulse. Somehow setting this blog up some time ago set me off balance by the sheer expectation of it. What if I don’t have anything to write? What if the well runs dry and I’m left with a dusty cup and nothing to offer? Well clang, clang… welcome to the inner ramblings of the self-fulfilling prophetess. I’m done rambling and am just going to write, which at times may be nothing more than rambling, but it’s better than nothing. It is something - to show up for my day and acknowledge that the Sacred is there whether I see it or not. So read if you want or not. I’ll be writing regardless, clanging my pen against the cup that overflows and groping for that pulse when it is faint; declaring the Sacred alive and well each time.