Thought the rain wasn’t coming until later today so I got ready for my run — changed into my running clothes, stretched, put on my running shoes — then opened the door to drizzle. Decided to go anyway. At first, it was intermittent drizzle, but halfway through it became a steady, soft rain. Not enough to soak my shorts but enough to cool me off and to inspire a chant:
drip drip drop drop drip drip drip drop
drop drip drop drip drop drip drip drop
drip drip drip drop drop drop
drop drop drip drop drop drip drop drop drip drip
I continued my 9 minutes of running, 1 minute of walking plan and was successful. In the last mile, my left started to hurt a little, then my left calf, and my foot. It’s fine, but to be safe, I stopped at 5.3 miles. The run was never easy, but it also wasn’t hard to keep going, knowing that I had a walk break coming.
10 Things
a soft green everywhere
an empty river
new trees wrapped in plastic looking like wild turkeys
a dark tunnel of green with a bright circle of white at the end
on your left / thank you!
front yard tree with a giant boulder just in front of it
empty benches except for the one near folwell: 2 people not sitting, but standing behind it
the rumble of planes sounding like thunder
the sharp clang of a mailbox lid falling shut
chains from a trailer rattling and scraping on the rough road
green haze: Running on the east river road, quick glances over to the gorge — a soft green and silver view of trees and sky
I was delighted to discover halfway in that the poem-of-the-day on the Poetry Foundation is about rust! The entire poem is wonderful, but it’s long, so I’ll only post most of the rust part:
Like when a song gets so far out on a solo you almost don’t recognize it, but then you get back to the hook, you suddenly
recognize the tune and before you know it, you’re putting your hands together; you’re on your feet— because you recognize a sound, like a light, leading you back home to a color:
rust. You must remember rust—not too red, not too orange—not fire or overnight change, but a simmering-summer change in which children play till they tire
and grown folks sit till they grow edgy or neighborhood dogs bite those not from your neigborhood and someone with some sense says Down, Boy, or you hope someone has some sense
who’s outside or who owns the dog and then the sky turns rust and the streetlights buzz on and someone’s mother, must be yours, says You see those streetlights on don’t you,
and then everybody else’s mother comes out and says the same thing and the sky is rust so you know you got about ten minutes before she comes back out and embarrasses you in front of your friends;
ten minutes to get home before you eat and watch the Flip Wilson Show or Sanford and Son and it’s time for bed. And it’s rust you need to remember when the cop asks, What kind of work you do?
It’s rust you need to remember: the smell of summer rain on the sidewalk and the patina on wrought-iron railings on your front porch with rust patches on them, and the smell
of fresh mowed grass and gasoline and sweat of your childhood as he takes a step back when you tell him you’re a poet teaching English down the road at the college,
when he takes a step back— to assure you, know, that this has nothing to do with race, but the rust of a community he believes he keeps safe, and he says Have a Good One,
meaning day as he swaggers back to his car, and the color of the day and the face behind sunglasses and the hands on his hips you’ll always remember come back gunmetal gray
for the rest of this rusty afternoon.
Rust — I’ve been wanting to write a poem about rust for some time. Is this a sign that I should try today?
2.6 miles river road trail, south/winchell trail, north 64 degrees
Thought briefly about biking to the lake and swimming, but it’s drizzling off and on, and it’s not that warm, and I imagine the water isn’t that warm yet. Just checked the temp: 61 degrees. What’s the coldest water I’ve been in? Probably colder than 61 as a kid in Lake Superior, but as an adult, I’m not sure. Too cold for me today, so I did a short run.
I wanted to run to the south entrance of the Winchell trail but there was a very large — 40 or more? — kids up ahead, walking and blocking the trail, and I didn’t want to encounter them. So I turned down at 42nd. Before I turned, I enjoyed witnessing the kids from afar. They kept trying to get passing cars to honk by yelling honk! honk! honk! They were not quite in unison, and sounded almost like a vee of geese flying overhead. Nice! A few cars honked, one for several seconds — no quick tap, a long HONK! At first I thought they were part of a school group but would teachers let students yell at cars like that? Maybe it was a walk-out protest?
My weather app disagrees, but I think it was very humid. Now that funding for gathering weather data has been taken away, I don’t trust any forecasts. How could it only be 64% humidity when I ‘m sweating this much, and it is drizzling a little?
I ended my run on the dirt trail that climbs up the edge of the grassy boulevard. I had to watch carefully for roots or rocks. On either side, vivid, abundant (or excessive) green grass. In the middle, bare dirt — brownish gray, fuzzy, almost a nothingness that was difficult to see. The green, dizzying, disorienting. Inspiration for my green sonnet?
Shuffling down the path in the park, I go on whistling what was once considered a lively tune, thankful to even be a satchel of ligaments and bone still able to transact enough chemicals, one neuron to another, that I can appreciate the day lilies, star jasmine, and have some idea about what’s missing when a streak of grey engraves hosannas of moonlight, the spindrift off the rocks, anything that sounds remotely like a prayer sent into the air to a god who, in his infinite memory, must know he abandoned us here—so many self-conscious molecular assemblies— specs in a starry whirlwind of desire.
Wow — a satchel/ligament and bone still able to transact enough chemicals,/one neuron to another — what a description of a human!
spin-drift: sea spray; fine wind-borne snow or sand
4.15 miles minnehaha falls and back 68 degrees dew point: 59
Even though it was warm and the dew point was high, my run was good. Managed to bring my heart rate back down and keep it under 170 until I reached my favorite spot at the falls — 2.25 miles in. Excellent. I’m feeling stronger, mentally and physically.
10 Things
a turkey in the middle of the road, honking? squawking? yelling? at the cars unwilling to stop and let him cross
a hazy green above the gorge
the sun hitting the light green leaves so intensely in the distance that I thought it was a bright yellow crossing sign instead of a tree
the falls were rushing, all white foam framed by green trees
a steady procession of cars on the road
roots and rocks hidden in the shadows on the trail — I lightly twisted both ankles, one from a root, the other a rock
the tree that feel in the creek sometime last year was gray — will they remove it?
a line of a dozen or more cars backed up on the parkway, stuck at the stop sign
a crowded trail heading north — bikers and walkers, a few runners, strollers
the water fountains have been turned on again! I stopped for a drink and to wet down my hat
Listened to the hum of traffic as I ran south, my “Doin’ Time” playlist heading back north.
before the run
Thinking about LN’s poem — that I posted yesterday — about standing in the north woods with birch, which led me to think about becoming a tree, like in Katie Farris’ “What Would Root” and Linda Pastan’s “In The Orchard” — I shall come back as a tree.
I’m also thinking about Mary Oliver and “Can You Imagine” — surely you can’t imagine trees don’t dance from the roots up, wishing to travel a little, not cramped as much as wanting a better view, or sun, or just as avidly, more shade.
during the run
I don’t remember thinking about becoming a tree or rooting or stillness while I ran, but I remembered right after I finished and as I walked back home I recited “What Would Root” in my head. I need to practice the second half of the poem. Then I thought about the illusion of stillness and how nothing, not even rocks or trees, stand still. They’re sinking and shifting and swaying and responding to (being changed) by the world around them.
after the run
Still as not not moving but being stuck in a rut, doing the same thing again and again, as in, you’re still doing that?
Still as not needing more, content, at peace, satisfied, stilled desire or anxiety.
If Socrates drank his portion of hemlock willingly, if the Appalachians have endured unending ages of erosion, if the wind can learn to read our minds and moonlight moonlight as a master pickpocket, surely we can contend with contentment as our commission.
Deer in a stubble field, small birds dreaming unimaginable dreams in hollow trees, even the icicles, darling, even the icicles shame us with their stoicism, their radiant resolve.
Listen to me now: think of something you love but not too dearly, so the night will steal from us only what we can afford to lose.
walk: 1 hour winchell trail / edmund 77 degrees
Remembered to take Delia the dog for a walk before it got too hot. We walked to the Winchell trail than sauntered, me studying the leaves with my fuzzy vision and fingers, and Delia sniffing them with her snout. Warm in the sun, cool in the shadows.
10+ Things
clumps of tallish grass growing through the mulch — a vibrant green
even taller grasses growing among the flowers on the hill, creating a visual effect that was dizzying as my eyes tried to land on anything solid
little bits of some sort of plant scattered along the top of the fence. It looked like it was growing there — a form of lichen? — but I couldn’t tell. It might have just fallen from a tree
the pleasing, easily identifiable shape of the maple tree on the trees close to the trail
sparkling, blue water
blue water, blue sky, green trees
the laugh of a woodpecker
a yard with several bleeding heart bushes, all in bloom
sprawled tree shadows on the grass
the crotch of a tree — standing beside a tree that branched off into two equally sized limbs which looked like thighs to me. I imagined a person planted head first in the ground, which is what happens in “What Would Root”
walking near Hiawatha Elementary, watching as a gym class “ran” around the block, studying the different approaches to “running” — a steady jog, sprint then stop then sprint, skipping, arms flailing and screaming while moving
As I walked with Delia, stopping at almost every tree or tuft of grass or clump of dirt, I thought about the differences between walking and running, this time in relation to a sense of self. Does one enable you to lose yourself or step outside of yourself more easily? I haven’t decided, but I think while walking you can be more aware of what you are doing, how you are attending to the world and noticing what is going on. While running, the attention is less deliberate; you’re too busy managing your effort to carefully study things. There was more to that thought but I lost in the time that it took me to get home.
A near perfect morning. Wow! Sunny with a slight breeze. Blue sky. Quiet. A slow walk with lots of stops for Delia. We walked to the winchell trail and took the worn, wooden steps down to the oak savanna, then another set of wooden steps up to an overlook. So much green everywhere — new trees popping up, tufts of grass, moss. We walked behind the mesa along the abandoned chainlink fence and I marveled at the bright green moss. At one point, I bent down and touched it — almost like carpet, but better.
10 Things
the odd curve of the abandoned chainlink fence on the dirt trail behind the mesa
that same fence, buried deep in the dirt and leaves, only the top was visible
rowers! not seen, only heard — the coxswain calling out instructions
a speed boat moving fast near the opposite shore
tall grass in clumps and tufts and patches
someone sitting by a tree stump, hidden in the green until they were right in front of me
the clicking and scraping of a roller ski’s poles
two runners, running by single-file, talking about a video game
a big bird flying high in the sky
on the boulevard between the river road and edmund, the grass was uneven and bare in many spots, studded with dandelions in others
The moment of the walk was when I stopped to let Delia sniff — more like she demanded to stop — and I stood on the edge of the bluff looking out at the blue water and feeling the soft, cool breeze. All around bright green leaves were fluttering. Below, the river surface was glittering. The movement was mesmerizing, meditative.
The midnight streetlight illuminating the white of clover assures me
I am right not to manicure my patch of grass into a dull
carpet of uniform green, but to allow whatever will to take over.
Somewhere in that lace lies luck, though I may never swoop down
to find it. Three, too, is an auspicious number. And this seeing
a reminder to avoid too much taming of what, even here, wants to be wild.
manicure – patch – carpet – uniform Great words to describe an over-managed lawn. Last night Scott and I were talking about lawns and the moral imperative to maintain your lawn to a certain standard. That is not the case as much in our neighborhood. Most people’s yards don’t have manicured grass. Partly because we live in a quirky neighborhood in the city, and partly because we’re near the river and people know that lawn chemicals get into the groundwater and then travel through the sewer to the river. I mentioned to Scott that I don’t judge people if their lawn isn’t manicured, I judge them if it is because it can only be that way if they’re treating it with chemicals — and if they’re not using chemicals, they’re still wasting water on their laws. But, I don’t want to judge anyone, so I’m trying to work on that.
Somewhere in that lace lies luck. . . What a great line!
a reminder to avoid too much taming of what, even here, wants to be wild.
I’m always returning to this question of what it means to be wild and where the gorge fits into that. In the spring, when left alone, the small patches of grass on the bluff want to be wild. Tall blades and dandelions and little trees everywhere. Unruly, sometimes almost menacing as they creep closer to the trail, blocking out the view. Not wild, but re-wilding.
Today I tried the walk/run method: 9 minutes of running, 1 minute of walking. As usual, I followed this method approximately. Run 9:30/Walk 1:30, 8:30/1 — I can’t remember after that. It was good. It’s still difficult, but I’m pushing through more. I greeted 2 regulars! Dave, the Daily Walker and Daddy Long Legs. I noticed how green the floodplain forest was, only the narrowest sliver of river to see. And the view from the sliding bench? Green green green. If someone was walking below, would I even be able to see them? Ran on the grass and the dirt a lot. Thought about taking the short dirt trail that cuts behind a tree nearing the trestle, but didn’t. Next time? Admired someone’s raspberry red running shoes. I used to have shoes that color. Now they’re boring dark gray/almost black.
Ran through gnats. Most of them went in my eye, one in my throat. Also ran through cottonwood, or some white flowery thing that I thought of as cottonwood fuzz. Usually the cottonwood arrives at the beginning of June, so maybe it was something else?
No rowers, no roller skiers, no turkeys or geese or bird shadows. One fat tire. One little kid. Several runners and walkers and cars.
I don’t remember what I heard for the first half of the run, but for the second half, I listened to my windy playlist (it was windy out there!).
edges / middles / context
I started the morning thinking about surfaces and the places where things meet and textures and skin and feet. And then I remembered Emily Dickinson’s love of the circumference and the wonderful site, out of Dartmouth, all about ED in 1862. It has a blog post on ED and circumference.
I was excited to read this bit:
Laura Gribbin argues that Dickinson’s conception of Circumference rejects Emersonian expansion, revises the patriarchal conceptions of the (male) poet’s encompassing consciousness, and resists being taken over by an outside power. It does so by calling attention to “the circle’s necessary boundary or perimeter without which it has neither shape nor meaning.” In Gribbin’s reading,
“Circumference marks the borderline of symbolic and linguistic order. This border is a highly charged point of convergence where oppositions are collapsed, boundaries are explored, and meaning originates. Circumference is also the space within a circle where life is lived, pain is felt, and death is observed.”
In what amounts to a powerful critique of Romanticism, Dickinson stands not at the center but on the periphery, at the outer limits of knowledge and language, replacing, as Gribbin notes,
“the Romantic impulse toward transcendence with an alternative concept of knowledge gained within the limits of experience.”
Instead of the Emersonian emphasis on sight and specularity, Dickinson emphasizes touch and what can be felt. Because
“Circumference delineates that region where the imagination comes into play, [it] is thus the source of poetry itself.”
While reading my “on this day” posts yesterday, I encountered a discussion of middles from 6 may 2023. It’s in the middle of my summarizing of Mary Ruefle’s essay “On Beginnings”:
It’s about beginnings and how there are more beginnings in poetry than endings. The first note I jotted down in my Plague Notebook, Vol 16 was about the semicolon, which is a punctuation mark that I particularly like. Ruefle has just introduced an idea from Ezra Pound that each of us speaks only one sentence that begins when we’re born and ends when we die. When Ruefle tells this idea to another poet he responds, “That’s a lot of semicolons!” Ruefle agrees and then writes this:
the next time you use a semicolon (which, by the way, is the least-used mark of punctuation in all of poetry) you should stop and be thankful that there exists this little thing, invented by a human being–an Italian as a matter of fact–that allows us to go on and keep on connecting speech that for all apparent purposes unrelated.
then adds: a poem is a semicolon, a living semicolon, and this:
Between the first and last lines there exists–a poem–and if it were not for the poem that intervenes, the first and last lines of a poem would not speak to each other.
At some point as I read, I suddenly thought of middles. The in-betweens, after the beginning, before the end. How much attention do these get, especially if we jump right in and start with them. It reminds me of a writing prompt/experiment I came up with for my running log: Write a poem about something that happened during the middle of your run–not at the beginning or the end, but the middle (see 27 nov 2019).
the MIDDLE
mid-motion mid-walk, mid-run Activity: notice and record what you notice in the midst of motion. Pull out your smart phone and speak your thoughts into it.
Not how you got there or where you’re headed, but here now in-between
the middle: Lucille Clifton’s unfenced is, Alice Oswald’s purpled sea
I like the idea of being dropped in the middle — no need to endure a beginning or an ending, but what’s lost when we’re floating in the middle? Something that grounds or frames the experience: context.
aside: writing that last bit, I recalled a few lines from Jorie Graham’s “Still Life with Window and Fish”:
The whole world outside…. I know it’s better, whole, outside, the world—whole trees, whole groves–but I love it in here where it blurs, and nothing starts or ends, but all is waving, and colorless, and voiceless….
This morning, I came across a learning prompt on Poetry Foundation: Context.
The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines context as “the parts of a discourse that surround a word or passage and can throw light on its meaning.” The word itself comes from the Latin contexere, which means “to weave or join together,” which I interpret as “to make sense of” what we’re reading, particularly when we’re not familiar with the author’s background and/or work. Knowing a poem’s context can give us a sense of place, culture, politics, gender dynamics, etc., and situate us in a specific time and place using concrete references. . . .
A sense of place, a connection, an anchor, a way to ground ourselves and our understandings.
a few hours later: I just remembered Kamala Harris’ coconut tree comment, which RJP loved to quote during the campaign:
context
added the next day: As I read through this entry again the next morning, I suddenly remembered something I posted earlier this spring about how not knowing or acknowledging a person/community’s history is to de-humanize them, to turn them into an object and not a subject. I can’t find where I wrote about it or what I was referencing. After a lot of searching, I found it! It’s in an interview with Jenny Odell about her new book on time, Another Kind of Time. Instead of posting the lengthy quotation here, I’m putting it in my entry for 8 may.
ground contact time
The Apple watch has all sorts of data points, most of which don’t matter to me or are meaningless because I don’t know what to compare them too. One such data point is “ground contact time.” Mine is almost always between 235 and 240 ms. It’s cool to think about how little time my foot is on the ground — and how much time I’m flying! — but what does this number mean? I suppose the fact that it is consistent is good, but should I be spending more time or less on the ground? I found a helpful primer on GCT (ground contact time) that has a chart — and plenty of caveats about that chart — to use for evaluating your ground contact time:
< 210 ms: Great
210 – 240 ms: Good
241 – 270 ms: Room for improvement
271 – 300 ms: Needs improvement
> 300 ms: Lots to work on
The bottom line: less time on the ground is better. It makes you a more efficient, less injury-prone, faster runner.
So, mine is good, but barely. Ways to improve it include: picking up the cadence, being lighter on your feet, dynamic hip exercises — plyometrics or hill repeats, more deliberate arm swing. Maybe I’ll try some of it; I’d like to fly more! I think I’ll start with hill repeats. I’ve been wanting to do those for some time.
All of this talk about surfaces and edges where things meet — seams — and middles and shortened time on ground is making me want to reread Wendell Berry’s “A Native Hill.” I finally have a physical copy of it. I think I’ll read it and mark it up this afternoon!
Warm! Nothing hurt, it was just hard. My heart rate was higher. Who cares? No back or calf or hip pain! I’m trying to ease back in. Today I ran 4 minutes/walked 1, 8 times. I was proud of myself for sticking with it, even as my heart rate climbed. Yes, I’m ready for some mental toughness!
10 Things
an abundance of sparkles on the river
more green leaves crawling up the trunks of trees
fee bee fee bee
shadow, 1: a straight-ish line on the path from the fence
shadow, 2: soft, sprawling branches
shadow, 3: me — sharp, upright, satisfied
the faint, slightly off tune dinging of the train bell
flowing falls
park workers had the one set of stairs blocked off — I heard water, were they spraying down the steps?
passing another runner from behind, they were dressed warmly in long pants and a a jacket and breathing heavily
enoughness / contentment / not scarcity
Moss lifeways offer a strong contrast to the ways we’ve organized our society, which prioritizes relentless growth as the metric of well-being: always getting bigger, producing more, having more. Infinite growth is ecologically impossible and exceedingly destructive, as it demands the transformation of the lives of other beings into raw materials to feed the fiction. Mosses show us another way—the abundance that emanates from self-restraint, from enoughness. Mosses have lived too long on this planet to be seduced by the nonsense of accumulation, the delusion of permanence, the endless striving for productivity. Maybe our heartbeats slow when we sit with mosses because they remind us that contentment could be ours.
Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean— the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down— who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
When I think of green, I think of another concept Robin Wall Kimmerer promotes: abundance — as in, a gift economy and a challenge to the (mostly) myth of scarcity. In May, green is almost too abundant — a gift that is not scarce!
walk: 45 minutes winchell trail (ravine) / tunnel of trees / edmund 76 degrees
Took Delia out for a walk in the afternoon. The green is taking over. The view from above in the tunnel of trees was only green — no dirt trail below, no sliver of river, no exposed sewer pipe. Just green. As we walked, I thought about another passage I read from RWK in “Ancient Green” this afternoon:
They [green moss] cover the inanimate with the animate. Without judgment, they cover our mistakes, with an unconditional acceptance of their responsibility for healing.
Ancient Green/ Robin Wall Kimmerer
Everywhere green — not moss, but leaves — were covering bare branches, sewer pipes, the gorge. A green skin growing over whatever winter did to us, a return of the strange idea of continuous living despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Did I feel that way about the green I was encountering today? Somewhat, but I also felt it taking over, transforming the floodplain forest in ways I didn’t like: too hidden.
overheard: music from car radios! Someone blasting “Bohemian Rhapsody,” someone else “Rhapsody in Blue.” Until typing these 2, I didn’t make the rhapsody connection.
It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are. (The Man with the Blue Guitar/ Wallace Stevens)
rhapsody: a portion of an epic poem adapted for recitation
What a beautiful morning! This year winter was a blur. It’s hard to believe that we’re only a month away from open swim season. Walked with Scott and Delia down the worn wooden steps to the winchell trail. Took the trail that winds below the mesa. Scott wondered what the trees near the 36th street parking lot were. According to his app, plum trees. He was dubious. We talked about FWA and RJP and the big changes in their lives — one graduating from college, the other moving into their first apartment. After seeing the rowers I wondered, would FWA like rowing? or canoeing? or kayaking? I think he might. Just asked him and his response: Nah. Oh well.
10 Things
the water in the ravine was gushing — heard it first, then saw it — not drip drip dripping, but rushing out of sewer pipe
the hillside that leads up to the trail in the oak savanna was covered in green — more of our view of above, blocked. Last week I was still able to see whole people running and biking above. Today, only the flash of movement through the trees — at first, I thought it was a bird, then I realized it was a biker
2 bikers on the street — one on a tall bike, the other on a fat tire
so many new leaves on the branches — as I noticed them I thought, a slick new leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm — a line from Ada Limôn
voices . . . a bullhorn . . . rowers! An 8 person shell + the white motorized boat with the instructor giving instructions to a new class
the annual walk-a-thon was happening — as we ascended the 38th street steps, we saw that the road was blocked off and that there was a row of a dozen port-a-potties
a sharp, whistled call in the savanna — what bird is that?
a cloud of bugs right outside our front door — yuck!
so many tulips in a front yard, causing Scott to quip, we’re living in Holland!
in the stretch between the savanna and the 38th street steps, the chainlink fence was leaning over to the ground, buried in mulch and leaves
Moss, Robin Wall Kimmerer, and Succession
A few days ago, I encountered the concept of succession in ecology. A meadow becomes a thicket. A thicket becomes a forest. Today I noticed that one of RWK’s chapters in Gathering Moss was titled, “Binding Up the Wounds: Mosses in Ecological Succession,” so I decided to read it. RWK is discussing an area of the Adirondacks blighted by a now defunct mine and abandoned. One of her students is doing her thesis on some moss in the area and whether or not they might help seeds, then trees, establish a home in the otherwise inhospitable tailings (the waste material of a mine: sandy, dry soil, slashes of rock).
succession defined: Ecological succession is the process by which the mix of species and habitat in an area changes over time. Gradually, these communities replace one another until a “climax community”—like a mature forest—is reached, or until a disturbance, like a fire, occurs (source).
Out of the carpet of living moss came a crowd of seedlings, the next step in binding up the wounds of the land.
. . . a little grove of aspens that had somehow gotten started in this desolate place that everyone wanted to cover in garbage. We know now that these aspens originated from seeds caught on a patch of moss, and the whole island of shade began to grow from there. The trees brought birds and the birds brought berries which now blossom around us.
Gathering Moss/ Robin Wall Kimmerer
Out of the waste of an abandoned mine, moss. From moss, a seed, then a tree. With a tree, birds and berries and blossoms and shade.
A little cooler, but sunny. I wore shorts and my legs didn’t feel cold. The green continues to spread. I’m sure I still have a view of the river but I don’t remember looking at it, not even once. I saw some rowers heading down to the rowing club, but didn’t hear them on the water. Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker. Was passed by several groups of young and fast runners. High school or college teams? Not sure.
Mostly I felt good. My heart rate is still high. I guess I lost some fitness on my almost 2 week break. Monday, I’ll try some more deliberate walk-run segments.
Listened to other runners, cars, water gushing out of sewer pipes heading north, my “I’m Shadowing You” playlist heading back south.
Ran on the grass for a few stretches to avoid other runners and walkers. Thought about how several sites recommended running on more gentle surfaces, like grass, when dealing with a herniated disc or sciatica.
before the run
I’m thinking more about open fields, meadows, lawns, boulevards, village greens, grasslands both wild and manufactured. Grassy spaces I recall from childhood, living in sub-divisions in North Carolina and Virginia and Iowa: soccer fields, manicured lawns, pastures just beyond my backyard.
as if it were a scene made-up by the mind, that is not mine, but is a made place,
that is mine, it is so near to the heart, an eternal pasture folded in all thought so that there is a hall therein
that is a made place, created by light wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall.
An eternal pasture with a hall made by light and shadows. After the poem, I wrote about Duncan’s idea of projective verse
poetry shaped by rhythms of poet’s breath. So cool–I want to explore this more, thinking about breathing when I run vs. walk vs. sit.
“Olson argues that the breath should be a poet’s central concern, rather than rhyme, meter, and sense. To listen closely to the breath, Olson states, “is to engage speech where it is least careless—and least logical.” The syllable and the line are the two units led by, respectively, the ear and the breath:
“the HEAD, by way of the EAR, to the SYLLABLE the HEART, by way of the BREATH, to the LINE”
The heart, by way of the breath, to the line — This idea will be the start of a moving while writing experiment!
after the run
up to the wind-stripped branches shadow- signing the ground before you the way, lately, all the branches seem to, or you like to say they do, which is at least half of the way, isn’t it, toward belief — whatever, in the end, belief is… (My Meadow, My Twilight/ Carl Phillips)
My husband and I were arguing about a bench we wanted to buy and put in part of our backyard, a part which is actually a meadow of sorts, a half acre with tall grasses and weeds and the occasional wild flower because we do not mow it but leave it scrubby and unkempt. (The Bench/ Mary Ruefle)
And, back to the field:
Crossing a field, wading
through nothing
but timothy grass,
imagine yourself passing from and into. Passing through
doorway after doorway after doorway. (Threshold/ Maggie Smith)
After the rain, it’s time to walk the field
again, near where the river bends. Each year
I come to look for what this place will yield –
lost things still rising here. (After the Rain/ Jared Carter)
Brr. Colder today. Walked with Delia around the neighborhood. Purple, white, red, yellow flowers all around, even on the sidewalk. The ephemerals don’t last long! Even with the cold wind it felt like spring. My legs are a little sore from the run yesterday, but my back and glutes are fine. I think I’ve turned a corner with my injury.
before the walk
What’s the difference between a meadow and a field? Looked it up and found this:
A field is used more often to describe an area managed by people. The field before you was once an orchard and pasture belonging to a farmer. A meadow is used to describe a wild area.
Fields and meadows start when trees have been removed from an area. This can occur naturally with a forest fire or flood, or humans may cut down a forest. Seeds from grasses and weeds take root shortly after and a meadow is born.
Meadows can be large or small and can occur anywhere, including in the middle of a forest, alongside a pond or stream, or in the middle of a highway.
Both fields and meadows are open areas with few or no trees. Grasses, and wildflowers are usually the dominant species. Only a limited number of shrubs and trees are present. When allowed to grow larger shrubs will take over a meadow and after years become a thicket. Thickets become forests as tree species take root. This natural process is known as succession.
My family’s farm in the UP had a big field — the front 40. They once grew potatoes, and rocks. When no one mowed it, trees grew quickly. Not fast enough for me to see a forest, just thickets of scrubby trees that housed black snakes and foxes and mice. The back 40 field was a pasture for grazing cattle.
Abandoned orchards reminds me of a favorite essay by Wendell Berry, “A Native Hill.”
I’m inspired by these lines: “When allowed to grow larger shrubs will take over a meadow and after years become a thicket. Thickets become forests as tree species take root. This natural process is known as succession.
succession
A meadow becomes a thicket. A thicket becomes a forest. A forest returns to meadow. A meadow grows into a thicket. A thicket remembers its forest.
And what about an oak savanna?
An oak savanna is a community of scattered oak trees (Quercus spp.) above a layer of prairie grasses and forbs. The trees are spaced enough so that there is little to no closed canopy and the grasses and forbs receive plentiful amounts of sunlight. The savanna is often thought of as a transition system between the tallgrass prairie and woodland environments, but may contain species that are found only in it and not in either forest or prairie. As a result, it is an important and diverse system containing species from both woodland and prairie, but containing some species that is unique to only savanna.
Once common in Minnesota, the oak savanna is now a rare ecosystem. Before European settlement, oak savanna covered roughly 10% of the state, and now there is only a fraction of that left. What happened? Savannas rely on periodic disturbances such as fire, grazing, and drought to flourish. Such disturbances prevent most tree species from establishing themselves and turning the habitat into a forest community. Fire-adapted trees, such as bur oak trees with their thick, corky bark, and prairie grasses are resilient to fire and do well in environments where fire is a common occurence.
Without fire, tree saplings begin to grow in the savanna and are able to take over, shading out and eliminating the grass and forb species. Soon, where there used to be an oak savanna, there is now a woodland habitat. Oak savannas have become rare because settlers suppressed fires. Farming and development has also helped obliterate the oak savanna ecosystem.
Reading about oak savannas, and pastures too, I came across the word, “forbs.” What are forbs? “A forb or phorb is a herbaceous flowering plant that is not a graminoid (grass, sedge, or rush). The term is used in botany and in vegetation ecology especially in relation to grasslands and understory. Typically, these are eudicots without woody stems” (wikipedia).
after the walk
And now I’m thinking about prairies. According to this site, the difference between a savanna and a prairie is the number of trees — less in a prairie.
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee. And revery. A prairie alone will do If bees are few. (To make a prairies/Emily Dickinson)
Meanwhile, the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees (Wild Geese/Mary Oliver)
And the difference between a prairie and a meadow? For many, they’re interchangeable. For some, prairies have more warm season grasses and meadows have more cool season grasses.
As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them, so the meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together
and trying, with difficulty, to remember how to make wildflowers. (The Meadow/Marie Howe)
Reading up about different grasslands on an Illinois site, I found this curious fact:
Virtually all of Illinois’ native prairies are gone today. Most of the remaining lots of undisturbed prairie are in railroad rights of way, pioneer cemeteries and other spots that were not conducive to farming
Warm! Green everywhere — tufts of grass on the bluff, leaves unfurling from the trees. Lots of bikers on the trail today. I ran to the falls without stopping, then took several walk breaks on the way back. My heart rate was high, my legs were sore. I think I should do a post-injury walk/run plan to ease back into moving.
As I write this on my deck, a black-capped chickadee is doing their feebee call. So loud! So constant. No answer yet.
10 Things
Sea Salt is open at the falls — I could smell it as I ran through the park — what was the smell? fried and salty?
a group of kids with adults — students/teacher? — below me on the winchell trail
the falls parking lot was full of cars
kids yelling/laughing on the playground
a park worker driving a big mower, cutting grass on the strip between the walking and biking path — the lawn mower had a bright orange triangle on the back
a biker in a bright yellow shirt with a matching bright yellow helmet
someone swinging at the falls playground
a biker biking in wide circles under the ford bridge
flashes of white though the (already) thick green on the trail below me and beside the creek — I think it was the heads of people taking the path that leads to the river
America’s optimistic to dye its money green. Leaves are green because of chlorophyll, which is the machine that turns sunlight, water, and carbon dioxide into leaf, stem, and root. All the little blades of grass left behind by the lawn mower like Civil War soldiers. Same as cash.
Grass! A whole month with grass? Maybe a whole month with green, one week with grass? Yes! And (at least) a week with Robin Wall Kimmerer’s gathering moss. Will this challenge idea go the way of last month’s steps? Forgotten after a few days? I hope not.
like Civil War soldiers — the line this is referencing in Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass was one of my first favorite lines from a poem:
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
I posted this section of Song of Myself on 18 may 2020. Here’s another part I want to remember:
They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
And now I’m thinking about Mary Oliver and her line about rising up again like grass, and realizing that she was referencing Whitman with it. She loved Walt Whitman. Uh oh — I’m feeling a shift in direction. Will I forgo grass for a study of Walt Whitman?
during the run
As I mentioned in my 10 things list, while I was running, I encountered a park worker mowing the strip of grass between the bike and walking paths. I decided that that would be my image of grass for today. I could smell the freshly cut grass as I ran by. I wonder what the parks’ department’s schedule for mowing grass is — how often? and how many acres of grass do they maintain across the city?
after the run
1
Read Mary Oliver’s chapter in Upstream, “My Friend, Walt Whitman.” I’m pretty sure I’ve posted this line before, but I’ll do it again because it fits:
I learned from Whitman that the poem is a temple–or a green field–a place to enter, and in which to feel.
2
I decided to look up information about minneapolis parks and mowing.
4,660 acres of grass/turf mowed
They divided grassy areas into 3 types: athletic fields, general park turf, reduced mowing areas.
general park turf: “We cut grass to a height of 3 inches on a regular basis as time and weather allows, but grass height may exceed 5 inches at times. This standard applies to most of the Park System including neighborhood parks, boulevards, parkways and active use areas within regional parks.”
reduced mowing areas: “We maintain some park lands through mowing on an infrequent basis. These areas include steep hillsides, erosion prone slopes, shorelines and park lands that are not intensively maintained.”
I love that the parks department posts this information!
Also wanted to add this video. It’s light on sources, especially the early history of grass, but I like the clips from commercials:
And here’s a useful resource to return to, and also to use to supplement the video: