We did it! Scott and I ran together in our first race in 4 years. Much slower than I’ve ever run a 10k, but it doesn’t matter because we did it without stopping, especially on the final hill. And I felt good at the end and even smiled. Hooray! The only part I didn’t like was before the race. It was freezing. I was dressed in my usual winter attire — tights, a green shirt, orange sweatshirt, black vest, gloves, and a buff — but it wasn’t enough. I was so cold that I felt like I might throw up. I’m fine running outside when it’s very cold, but I have to be moving, which we weren’t for almost an hour.
10 Things
the cobblestones at the beginning were a challenge — so uneven and broken
David S. Pumpkins and his 2 ghosts were running the race
also a guy portaging a canoe — an actual canoe! I wonder if he was running the 10k or the marathon
other costumes: 2 m-n-ms — red, 2 oompa loompas, curious george and the man with the yellow hat
a guy dressed up like the granny from Little Red Riding Hood
running down a hill, I passed one of the leaders of the race running back up it. I thought I heard hime call out, only 5?! as he passed the 5 mile marker
one runner approaching another one and calling out, I love your earrings! They make your outfit look extra special
a guy in a banana costume struggling up the first hill, wheezing loudly and breathing heavily
bump/bump bump bump/ bump bump buuuuummp (overheard: the opening to “eye of the tiger” at the top of the hill)
speeding up on the stone arch bridge and (almost) sprinting across the line with Scott with a huge smile on my face — a great race!
adding this several hours later: I found this poem on HAD (havehashad.com) and I didn’t want to wait until the next time I run to post it, so here it is:
The fact they call Casper friendly Means he probably isn’t Probably a real piece of shit The type of ghost Who keeps business unfinished Just to stick around Longer than anyone wants One time grandpa fell on a knife And grandma said a ghost did it And I bet it was fucking Casper I don’t trust him for one fuck And don’t care if he hears it, either Haunt me, baby HAUNT ME!!! One day I’ll be a ghost, too And then we’ll see who’s friendly We’ll beef until the sun explodes Eats the earth and everything else And that will be the end of all business Unfinished or not
2.7 miles 2 trails 37 / feels like 29 wind: 15 mph
Okay winter. Wore tights under my shorts, a long-sleeved shirt under my sweatshirt, gloves and a buff. The only part of me that was cold: my ears. Now, sitting at my desk, they burn. Blustery out there. Swirling wind. A few times I mistook a falling leaf for a flying bird, which was very cool to see. A brown bird, floating by.
My legs were sore. I’m eager to get my blood checked at my physical in a few weeks. My iron might still be low. Until then, more burgers and a new multi vitamin that’s not quite a choking hazard.
10 Things
more of a view today: cold blue water through the remaining red and yellow leaves
slippery leaves covering the trail — don’t fall!
near the sidewalk at 36th and 46th: a deep hole, dug up by the city workers, not as neat or wide as the holes carved out on our street, more like a gash or a missing chunk ripped out
walkers bundled up in winter coats with hats and gloves
the entrance to the Winchell trail, which was shrouded in yellow the other day, was open and bare today
dripping water at the ravine — drip drip drip
looking down at the gorge from the edge, a pleasing palette: steel blue, dark green, gray, brown
a brown leaf fluttering by my face, looking like a floating bird
at least 3 or 4 lonely, empty benches
a kid’s voice below — would I encounter them later? Yes
Revisiting a poem I posted on this day in 2020, My Doubt/ Jane Hirshfield, these lines reminded me of something:
the lines:
I would like to grow content in you, doubt, as a double-hung window settles obedient into its hidden pulleys and ropes.
the something:
Dance with the pain
That last one is something I describe a lot. What does that even mean? It means to greet the pain or discomfort like an old friend. Know that it’s always there waiting for you. If you accept it, and envision yourself enjoying its company, it’s much more manageable.
Being content with the doubt and greeting pain as an old friend. Accepting doubt and being content with it I think I can do, but befriending pain? I’ve been trying to work on that as part of this larger writing/living/moving project. The pain I’m thinking of is the pain in my knees or my back or my hips, but it’s also other, deeper pains: the pain of aging, loved ones dying, living within a body that doesn’t work as well. Not sure if I’d call it a friend yet, more like acquaintances. I think it’s possible, but what does enjoying the company of pain look like, outside of the model of sadomasochism?
Yesterday it rained all day. Today it was wet and gray and leaf-littered. For the first mile, I heard a squeak squeak each time I stepped on the wet leaves. Saw and good morninged a regular: Mr. Walker Sitter. Heard kids yelling at the school playground. Smelled the sewer gas. Avoided city workers and roofers and bikers almost over the white line. Admired the “edge of the world,” now open and looking even more edge-y. Worried about slipping on the wet leaves and falling down the steep slope. Dripped sweat in the humid air. Counted drops falling from the sewer pipe in the ravine. Wondered if the distance/pace was not working properly on my watch. Forgot about everything else.
The color of the day is YELLOW.
tunnels of yellow leaves above me
piles of yellowed leaves under me
yellow cross walk signs glowing in the gloom
a runner’s bright yellow running shirt
(writing this entry): a neighbor’s yellow tree outside my window,
yellow leaves on the hydrangea bush
a stretch of yellow trees, just past their peak, beside me near Folwell
a yellow entrance to the Winchell Trail
The yellow I see is mostly bright. Not gold, but with hints of orange and green.
Before I ran I memorized A Rhyme for Halloween. Then I recited lines from it as I moved. Never all at once, but every so often.
As I was searching for another poem to post I thought about how many poems I’ve already posted and why I keep posting more when I hardly have time to read the ones I’ve already posted. So today, I decided to revisit a poem that I posted on October 25th, 2020: Beginning/ JAMES WRIGHT. Beautiful. Reading it right now, I love the opening:
The moon drops one or two feathers into the field. The dark wheat listens. Be still. Now.
I love the idea of the moon dropping feathers and the dark wheat listening. And now, as I read the third line, Be still. I’m thinking of it less as a command to not move (to be still), and more as an invitation or a plea to continue to exist (be, still). And then I’m connecting that idea to the last 2 lines of the poem:
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness, And I lean toward mine.
Perhaps my darkness involves an impossible wish, that my mom and Scott’s parents were still alive.
6.2 miles minnehaha dog park and back 53 degrees wind: 15 mph
Back on track with the weekly “long” run with Scott. Today we ran past the falls to the dog park, then turned around. Beautiful but windy. Not sure if this has ever happened before, but a gust of wind blew my cap off my head. I joked with Scott that the wind was mad at me for the bad poetry I was composing. Something about how the bright sunlight strobed through the trees while the leaves disrobed and the wind probed the empty space where red and gold and green had been. Pretty bad — I guess I deserved to get my hat knocked off. Thankfully I was able to catch the cap before it blew into the street.
After we passed the falls, which were in full flow, I recited Mary Oliver’s “Can You Imagine” to Scott as we followed the paved trail on the edge of the bluff, above Minnehaha creek as it travels to the Mississippi. When I was finished he admitted he had become distracted when I recited the line, Surely you can’t imagine they just stand there loving every minute of it” because he started thinking about the song with the lyrics, “loving every minute of it.” At the time I couldn’t remember who sang it or how it went, but I just looked it up. Loverboy. Excellent.
10 Things
a bright yellow tree
next to a fiery red one, both glowing from the sun
my favorite orange tree near the double bridge, now bare and looking brittle
3 roller skiers! Before I saw them, I heard their poles click click clacking
a pileated woodpecker laughing, somewhere in the trees
another woodpecker tap tap tapping away at the roof of the kiosk
May Swenson’s scarcely gliding stream from her poem “October”: Minnehaha Creek as seen from the tall bridge that crosses over the Veteran’s Home
from the top of the bluff at Wabun Park, you have a clear view of the new development on the old Ford plant grounds
the glitter effect: the sparkling water burning through a gap in the trees
dodging walkers, a few with coffee cups, as we sprinted down the hill and through the tunnel of trees
Wow, so much yellow. Full fall color, I think. I was sore this morning from my run yesterday, but glad I went out to be with all of this beautiful color!
I listened to a playlist, then took out my headphones while I was on the Winchell Trail, then put the playlist back in for the last mile. Ended the run with the theme to Rocky — not on purpose; it happened to come up on shuffle.
Smelled the sewer, heard the limestone dripping, called out right behind you several times. Thought (again) about stopping at the overlook to take a picture of the wonderful view of the river, but didn’t. Instead, I stopped at the entrance to the Winchell Trail and took this shot:
entering the Winchell Trail from the south
10 Things
4 or 5 stones still stacked on the ancient boulder
the floodplain forest is almost all yellow
the sewer gas from below smelled sour and unpleasant
a Minneapolis Park truck was parked in the grass above the gravel trail that descends through the ravine — are they planning to clear out more dead limbs below?
encounter 1: 2 people with 2 big black dogs on the Winchell trail — right behind you / sorry / no worries. It’s a beautiful morning!
encounter 2: a man with his dog — right behind you / no words, but he moved over slightly / thanks!
the “edge of the world” was mostly bare, with only a few streaks of yellow left
avoiding roots on the dirt trail next to edmund, imagining that I was doing agility drills
taking off my pink jacket at the bottom of the 38th street steps
encounter 3: 2 different people with dogs, or a dog?, bypassing the steps and continuing on the dirt trail to the oak savanna
Overdressed. Didn’t need the tights under the shorts or the long-sleeved shirt under the sweat shirt. Made the run a little more difficult. Still, a good run on a beautiful fall morning. Lots of yellow today. Very fall-y.
10 Things
St. Thomas bells chiming
I could see my breath at the beginning of the run
the light making the yellow leaves glow
at least 4, maybe 5, stones stacked on the ancient boulder
a biker calling out to me as I ran on the St. Paul side, good job! —Thanks!
looking down at the river from up on the lake street bridge: a sandbar! I’ve read about the sandbars, and thought I saw one just below the surface, but today, there it was, fully exposed
an inviting bench, perched above the gorge with an open view
almost perfect moment: looking down at the water falling over the limestone ledge, sparkling in the sun, murmuring softly, framed by yellow leaves
a west bound lane on the ford bridge closed off for construction, orange cones everywhere
running up to the “edge of the world,” and stopping to admire the open view
I stopped on the bridge to take a picture of the sandbar:
a sandbar in the Mississippi River below the lake street bridge
3.6 miles locks and dam no. 1 hill 51 degrees wind: 13 mph
My knees were sore last night and this morning and I wondered if I should go out for a run, but it’s supposed to rain later today and all of tomorrow, and I read an article that said sometimes running on sore legs is better than not running, so I ran. And I’m glad I did. My legs/knees feel better after than they did before.
Felt windier than 13 mph. It almost knocked my cap off.
I listened to beeping trucks and chainsaws and rushing wind as I ran south. When I got to the top of the hill at the locks and dam no 1 I stopped and put in a Bruno Mars playlist.
10 Things
the dirt on the boulevard was sometimes dark brown, sometimes light brown
more trees without leaves — have we passed peak leaf season?
a parks’ truck blocking the entrance to the overlook and the winchell trail — no winchell trail for me today
running up the hill, the sun came out briefly from behind the clouds, just enough for me to see the faint outline of my shadow. Hello friend!
more crunching leaves in the grass — brittle, brown, formed into little mounds by the wind
a rough trunk with lichen growing on it — on the north side — a faint, yellowish green
several different versions of green on the tree trunk and the grass
walking past a giant rectangular hole in the street — the spot where they busted open the street to work on the water pipes. Minutes before, workers had filled it with warm, bitter smelling tar (or asphalt?) Heat was coming off the filled hole, warming my legs
a falling red leaf hit me on the shoulder
color of the day: bright yellowish green. Not only was I wearing a shirt in that color, but I saw at least 3 other yellowish green shirts on a runner, a walker, and a biker
After staring at the yellowish greenish lichen, I took a picture of it:
a close-up of a tree with lichen on its north side
Ah, this fall weather! What a morning to be outside by the gorge. A little windier than I’d like, but wonderful. My legs felt a little stiff and sore, but I kept going and they got better. In the third mile, I started chanting triple berries. Just the same three again and again: strawberry blueberry raspberry strawberry blueberry raspberry. They helped me stay in a good rhythm.
10 Things
rowers on the river! 6 or 8 in one shell
the river was blue heading east, brown on the return trip west
either wind or water through the trees, making a shimmering sound
still so much green everywhere
2 different bikes blasting music that I couldn’t quite identify
click clack click clack — a roller skier passing me as we neared the lake street bridge
a minute later, a rollerblader approaching from the north, heading south
flowers in the pipe sticking out of the trestle railing that’s been turned into a vase — a memorial for someone
a man using a DIY walker/runner — bike wheels, yellow frame (I think I’m remembering that right?)
the glitter effect: wind + sun + water = wow
My view facing south on the Lake Street bridge
No geese or fat tires or Daddy Long Legs. Also, no headphones. Listened to the wind, radios, conversations, my feet thudding on the ground.
I stopped at my favorite part of the tunnel of trees. Walking up the small hill, I noticed leaves gently falling from the trees, birds chirping, the light coming through the canopy. I decided to stop and take a short video:
at the end of my run, above the floodplain forest
Here’s how I see/hear this video: The view of a canopy of trees. Occasionally, a leaf stirs in the wind. All around this view, leaves were drifting down one at a time. If I put my face right up to the screen — nose touching — I can see that these trees are GREEN!, but with my face a foot away, the scene looks grayish brownish, with only the whisper of green. When recording this video, I mostly heard the birds and not the cars above me on the road. But watching the video I hear mostly the loud rushing of cars and some wind. The birds are very quiet.
The birds, both remembered from when I stood at the spot recording this video and heard in this clip, made me think of a wonderful bird poem I discovered yesterday:
Sudden dash of light in the corner of my eye, a soundless flash in hazy swathe of trees leaps stealthily from the small maple to the crabapple that has taken this year’s drought hard. My eyes bore into foliage. Is it a mynah? Dad, you taught me well how to look and listen. This is Michigan, and it’s probably a grackle, but I think of the crow pheasant (the coucal) I often watched in India, a wily master of camouflage. I remember the first
time I ever saw one close up. I was seven or maybe eight, sickly and bookish. While sitting in the shade of a sprawling gulmohar that dropped scarlet whorls of flowers on me, it darted from under the hibiscus. So graceful its arched tail, so fiery its beady eyes. I was reading some Enid Blyton novel about young girls in a boarding school in rainy England who ate scones and crumpets, and had
fabulous adventures. It was a hot afternoon as this avian beauty that normally threaded light woodland and field slipped into my grandaunt Lily’s garden. She was a famous doctor at Tata Hospital when few women stayed single and had careers. She drove a grey Standard Herald, and her frantic beeping of the horn sent her gardener’s sons rushing to throw open the low iron gates when she came home. Once, she gave me a nest a weaver bird had abandoned. It adorned my bedroom for years. She would tell me
about the trips she had taken when she was young. All over Europe, and yes, to the Isle of Capri—her favorite. All eyes, I would listen. Then she would sing “‘Twas on the Isle of Capri …” or play a Vera Lynn record. Did she have many lovers? I wanted to wear expensive Dhaka saris, high heels, smoke cigarettes (as I had seen her do at dinner parties sometimes), travel— be like her. Would I ever go anywhere? I who failed in math and science, hated bullies, hated school. My head sailed in the clouds. My brain, they told me, was for the birds. My handwriting a bird’s nest. My weak fingers would never grasp a pen properly, my legs never walk normally again. When would my flesh grow light, my bones breathe only air so I could fly? When the bird
appeared from nothing, shapes shifted, my book levitated. The bird floated, not walked. Did it even have feet? I felt my weight lift. Floating was as good as flying. It seemed not to see me, as if it were a peaceful spirit passing through. Strange girl, they said. A dreamer. Did I imagine it then? Hearing a creak of leaf and branch near my deck, the blur I saw earlier turns to flesh and blood—a gawky crow who arrows to the roof from the forsythia and caws shrilly. Curious juvenile, her glance is full of questions. Friend or foe? Food or death? I throw my head back, look up at her. She peers at me over the edge. I slip indoors for bread, then leave ripped bits on the railings. Where is she? She’s hiding somewhere, watching me
watch her. They emerge and melt, these wily beings— show a wingtip, glitter of eye, flick of tail. Leave me a feather to dream on, a map to follow. My mother and I fed them scraps everyday.They jostled each other on the ledge, fought for crumbs, always hung around our windows. Then disappeared into neem, peepul, or the banyan tree as big as a city. Did they wonder where we’d gone? Had they heard us weep? Had they pecked at the shuttered windows and silence? Wild fig seedlings now grow from cracked brick. A sudden woosh
of wing beats. Listen! The air throbs. Three trumpeters pass over me to land on the pond. I wave. This is where I live. And there and here and there. Crow, sparrow, finch, blue jay, nuthatch, chickadee, cardinal, mallard, cormorant, heron, geese, swan. They visit, feed and fade. Return. They know their own. I’m for the birds. I’m never alone.
I love how place — both India and Michigan — are so present in this poem. And I love the story she tells, about seeing a bird in India, being a misfit only for the birds, looking up to her grandaunt, and how she tells it. Also, I want to think some more about this line: All eyes, I would listen.
Ran the ford loop with Scott. Finally, it’s cooler. Much easier to run. We talked about a problematic NYTimes article that Scott had read earlier that was so sloppily edited that they spelled Gov Walz’s name wrong (as Waltz, I think). We also talked about the rowers on the river and the Brooks’ mile on the marathon course.
Mostly the run was easy. My IT band was acting up by the end and I rolled my ankle on something in the grass in the last mile.
Running over the lake street bridge I noticed a single shell on the water. Then more shells, some with only one rower, one with eight. Then buoys. A race! A few minutes later a woman overheard us wondering about it and told us it was a tournament. It was so quiet on the bridge that we were able to hear the oars slapping the water. They made such a delightfully awkward sound. Without sound, the rowers float effortlessly over the water. But when you can hear the oars you can feel the effort of their rowing. I like being able to hear them; they feel more real that way, more body, less machine.
10 Things
dark blue water. near the edges it looked almost black
the lamps lining the path on the st. paul side were on, the ones on the minneapolis side were not — the minneapolis have been stripped of wires and never repaired/replaced
rowers’ voices drifting up from the river near Shadow Falls
it started overcast, almost gray. by the time we were done, the sky was bright blue
a chipmunk darted in front of me, narrowly missing my foot
plenty of color on both sides of the river — yellow, red, orange
the ford bridge stretched in front of us, looking longer than it usually does
on both the lake street and ford bridges, a tiring wind blowing into us
a motor boat near the shore. I wondered if its wake would cause problems for the rowers
turkeys! 3 of them in someone’s yard on the st. paul side
Typed “oars” in the search box on Poetry Foundation and found this poem. I like the form and want to read the larger work — Emptied of all Ships — that it comes from:
Hooray for (slightly) cooler weather! And hooray for legs that let me go out to the gorge this morning! I love fall running, almost as much as winter running, but not quite. Today I was able to greet Dave, the Daily Walker and run a 5k without wanting to stop. It was windy. Not a helpful wind that pushes me along, but a frustrating wind that is always in my face.
No playlist today. Instead, I listened to the wind and a buzzing sound coming from somewhere below the lake street bridge.
10 Things
the slap of a runner’s feet as she ran past me
a bright circle of white light through the trees — the river
overheard: some of those hills are ____? Didn’t get to hear the ending
running north, it is still mostly green
encountered: a few runners, some bikers, walkers with and without dogs, a big stroller
one runner’s gait: smooth, strong, steady feet up and down up and down
another runner’s gait: jerky with flailing arms
and one more runner’s gait: fast with quick thuds as their feet pounded the pavement
a buzz below — was it a weed whacker? leaf blower? a much bigger machine?
the ravine between the 34th and 35th street parking lots is thick with green. Still no view of the black iron fence or the limestone ledge below it
the view above the ravine, between the 34th and 35th street parking lots
I don’t remember hearing any birds or dripping water or roller skier’s poles. No fat tires or radios or rowers. Only a quick view of the river. A few yellow leaves, some red. No orange.
