[writing this on November 15, 2023] For the past week, I’ve been writing about the wind more. Yesterday it was 20 mph and difficult to move through. Looking over some of my entries for this day, I was reminded of how I had written about wind before. November = wind. I guess that’s why they call it “The Gales of November.”
nov 15, 2017 / 4 miles / 37 degrees / wind gusts: 25 mph
Reading this entry, I could have written it sometime this week, or almost. Not much has changed by the gorge, or how it’s changing is too slow and small to register over such a short span — only seven years. I don’t find this boring or disappointing; I like the repetition and the reliability.
Windy. Dark. Gray. Cool. Before leaving the house, I could see the trees swaying, so I knew it would be windy. Decided to not wear headphones and pay attention to the wind instead. How many versions would I be able to name? Remembering to pay attention to the wind was difficult. I kept getting distracted. Another runner creeping up on me. I could hear their feet strike the grit on the path. Tried slowing down a little–or did I unwittingly speed up?–to let them pass. They must have turned off at Lake Street. The few remaining orange and gold leaves stubbornly clinging to the branches, refusing to concede to winter. The faint beeping of an alarm–beep beep beep beep beep–coming from a car driving by. The uneven path just past the railroad bridge, waiting to twist my ankle if I stepped wrong. But even with these distractions, I noticed the wind.
What has changed? FWA was a freshman in high school, now he’s a junior in college. RJP was in her first year of middle school, now she’s a senior. Scott and I had just started community band and now we’ve been in it for over 6 years. 2 beloved parents, several aunts, and a godmother died. Cancer, the pandemic, diminishing vision. Swim races, running races, poems published. 5,548.2 miles run, about 1700 entries written.
This entry also contains some delightful early poems about the wind and the November colors. I’d like to revisit and revise some of them.
nov 15, 2020 / 3.2 miles / 33 degrees / wind gusts: 30 mph
More wind! Posted a poem about the wind from Emily Dickinson and made note of a few phrases/verbs I liked:
I love her descriptions of the sound of wind as “old measure in the boughs,” “phraseless melody,” “tuftless tune,” and “fleshless chant.” I think fleshless chant is my favorite. Oh, and I really like the verb thrum. I need to use that in something.
nov 15, 2021 / 4.75 miles / 32 degrees
In 2021, I didn’t write about the wind, but the dark, partly inspired by Maggie Smith’s poem, “How Dark the Beginning”:
We talk so much of light, please
let me speak on behalf
of the good dark. Let us
talk more of how dark
the beginning of a day is.
Yes. The dark is not always bad. And, while we’re at it, let’s talk some about the “bad” light: too bright, dazzling, disorienting, burning too hot, deceiving, overwhelming/overstimulating. Can I make this poem fit with the November theme of lifting the veil? Maybe lifting the veil, coming out from the dark and into the light, isn’t always good? Or, maybe a veil can be lifted when we stay in the dark?