3.2 miles
trestle turn around
37 degrees
Sunny. Spring-y. Birds chirping. Hardly any wind. A few highlights: I was able to run on the walking path that curves away from the road and the biking path and follows the rim of the gorge just above the Minneapolis Rowing club! Still a few tricky snow-covered spots, but mostly clear. Enjoyed running up the hill from under the lake street bridge, listening to my feet sh sh sh on the grit–I liked the feel of it too, easier than bare asphalt. Anything else? No Dave the Daily Walker. No geese. Looked briefly at the river. It was open–no ice. I noticed a few stones stacked on the smaller of the two boulders just above the trail winding down through the tunnel of trees.
Before starting my run, I listened to two versions of my January Joy poem, one with the parts about running, one without. I’d like to keep the running stuff in and I love the line about adequate knees and functioning feet but I’m leaning more towards the version without it. Maybe I can use those lines in another poem?
January Joy, Version 1
To see the river
the open river
brown, a thin skin of pale blue
To be alone with the river
the uncrowded river
nothing between us but bare branches
To be as empty as the river
the bare white river
a blank page waiting for words
To be as spacious as the river
the boundless river
stretching wide, able to hold multitudes
To be nothing next to the river
the ancient river
small and new and insignificant
O to be the space
above the river
between tree top and sky
illuminated by the sun!
The sun!
glowing up the gray gloom
warming my cold face
flashing through tall, slender tree trunks
How wonderful it is to be alive and outside!
O great runs!
O clear paths!
O strong legs
and adequate knees
and functioning feet!
How wonderful it is to be
moving, breathing, feeling free
on this winter-perfect day!
January Joy, Version 2 (preferred)
To see the river
the open river
brown, a thin skin of pale blue
To be alone with the river
the uncrowded river
nothing between us but bare branches
To be as empty as the river
the bare white river
a blank page waiting for words
To be as spacious as the river
the boundless river
stretching wide, able to hold multitudes
To be nothing next to the river
the ancient river
small and new and insignificant
O to be the space
above the river
between tree top and sky
illuminated by sun!
The sun!
Glowing up the gray gloom
warming my cold face
flashing through tall, slender tree trunks
How wonderful it is to be
alive and outside
on this winter-perfect day!
I am really looking forward to Victoria Chang’s Obit, which comes out next month. Here’s something interesting she said in an interview about writing the poems for the collection:
The old self dies all the time, and it’s quite miraculous. Yet, I asked the man who runs these residencies in Marfa on the way in, what it’s like to be 77. He said, “I feel exactly the same.” How can this be? The tension between what remains and what is discarded in the self was really interesting to me. I always find it odd thinking about how we spend our whole lives learning and all that experience and knowledge accumulates, and then we die. Who designed this thing?
I feel this sense of old selves dying very strongly. I see myself as a series of Saras, not one Sara lasting through time. Sometimes the selves are associated with an age: like Sara age 8. Sometimes with a location: Hickory, North Carolina Sara. Sometimes with a tragic event: Sara whose mom is alive, Sara whose mom is dead. Looking again at Chang’s words I wonder, what have I kept (knowledge, memories, perspectives, understandings) that links all of my Saras together? What have I discarded/forgotten?