Tag: morning

april 8/RUN

3.25 miles
river road path, south/river road, path, north/edmund, south
50 degrees
Deaths from COVID-19: 39 (MN)/ 12, 912 (US)

Yesterday in the late afternoon it was almost 70 degrees! Today, at 8:45 am, 50! Wow. It’s warming up. Having windows open, hearing more birds, feeling the sun on bare arms. It all helps me to endure this terrible pandemic. Ran on the river road path heading towards the falls. Not too many people. Ran back on the part of the road that has been temporarily turned into a pedestrian path. More people out today, but still not bad. 6+ feet of distance the whole way! I liked running above the river although I can’t remember what I saw or heard below. Too busy listening to a playlist, I guess. Ran my second mile faster then took a quick walk break before running by the ravine and the welcoming oaks. Saw a few runners, walkers, dogs, bikers. No roller skiers. No Dave, the Daily Walker. No shadows–mine, or planes, or big birds. Usually, there is a constant buzz or hum or rumble of a plane somewhere overhead. How many planes are flying out of Minneapolis right now? (Looked it up: about 100 flights listed for the day, 47 of them cancelled. Not sure how that compares to a “normal” day. Still seems like too many flights to me. )

Update on planes: Sitting at my desk with the window open, writing this, I am hearing a plane roaring above me. It’s the first one I’ve noticed in a while.

I like the idea of this poem–reflecting on what you didn’t know you loved until finally you did. I like how it’s a list–a long list. I’m thinking that this poem could be an inspiration for a poem about what I didn’t see. Maybe what I’m not seeing during this pandemic? Things I don’t realize I’m missing until suddenly I do? Perhaps this is a variation on a writing prompt I created: #61 Run beside the gorge. Afterwards, think about your run in terms of what wasn’t there, but usually is. Make a list of what you missed. Write a poem that creates something out of that lack.

Things I Didn’t Know I Loved/ Nazim Hikmet – 1902-1963

it’s 1962 March 28th
I’m sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train 
night is falling
I never knew I liked
night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain 
I don’t like
comparing nightfall to a tired bird

I didn’t know I loved the earth
can someone who hasn’t worked the earth love it 
I’ve never worked the earth
it must be my only Platonic love

and here I’ve loved rivers all this time
whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills
European hills crowned with chateaus
or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see
I know you can’t wash in the same river even once
I know the river will bring new lights you’ll never see
I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow
I know this has troubled people before
                         and will trouble those after me
I know all this has been said a thousand times before 
                         and will be said after me

I didn’t know I loved the sky 
cloudy or clear
the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino
in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish 
I hear voices
not from the blue vault but from the yard 
the guards are beating someone again
I didn’t know I loved trees
bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino
they come upon me in winter noble and modest 
beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish 
“the poplars of Izmir
losing their leaves. . .
they call me The Knife. . .
                         lover like a young tree. . .
I blow stately mansions sky-high”
in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief 
                                        to a pine bough for luck

I never knew I loved roads 
even the asphalt kind
Vera’s behind the wheel we’re driving from Moscow to the Crimea 
                                                          Koktebele
                               formerly “Goktepé ili” in Turkish 
the two of us inside a closed box
the world flows past on both sides distant and mute 
I was never so close to anyone in my life
bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé
                                        when I was eighteen
apart from my life I didn’t have anything in the wagon they could take 
and at eighteen our lives are what we value least
I’ve written this somewhere before
wading through a dark muddy street I’m going to the shadow play 
Ramazan night
a paper lantern leading the way
maybe nothing like this ever happened
maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy
                                       going to the shadow play
Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather’s hand 
   his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat
      with a sable collar over his robe
   and there’s a lantern in the servant’s hand
   and I can’t contain myself for joy
flowers come to mind for some reason 
poppies cactuses jonquils
in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika 
fresh almonds on her breath
I was seventeen
my heart on a swing touched the sky 
I didn’t know I loved flowers
friends sent me three red carnations in prison

I just remembered the stars 
I love them too
whether I’m floored watching them from below 
or whether I’m flying at their side

I have some questions for the cosmonauts 
were the stars much bigger
did they look like huge jewels on black velvet
                             or apricots on orange
did you feel proud to get closer to the stars
I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don’t 
   be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract 
   well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to 
   say they were terribly figurative and concrete
my heart was in my mouth looking at them 
they are our endless desire to grasp things
seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad 
I never knew I loved the cosmos

snow flashes in front of my eyes
both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind 
I didn’t know I liked snow

I never knew I loved the sun
even when setting cherry-red as now
in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors 
but you aren’t about to paint it that way
I didn’t know I loved the sea
                             except the Sea of Azov
or how much

I didn’t know I loved clouds
whether I’m under or up above them
whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts

moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois 
strikes me
I like it

I didn’t know I liked rain
whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my 
   heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop 
   and takes off for uncharted countries I didn’t know I loved 
   rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting 
   by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
is it because I lit my sixth cigarette 
one alone could kill me
is it because I’m half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow
her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

the train plunges on through the pitch-black night
I never knew I liked the night pitch-black
sparks fly from the engine
I didn’t know I loved sparks
I didn’t know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty 
   to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train 
   watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return

                                                     19 April 1962
                                                     Moscow

april 7/RUN

4.3 miles
47th street loop
53 degrees/93% humidity<br>Deaths from COVID-19: 34 (MN)/ 11,018 (US)

Another good run. Started on the river road trail and was able to stay on it until I crossed at Becketwood. Very humid and foggy. Saw the Oak Savanna and the river and the Winchell Trail. Encountered only a few runners–6+ feet away. Noticed the solitary bench again. One day, when this is all over, I’ll stop and sit at that bench. Heard some woodpeckers and cardinals and some other bird that almost sounded like it was cackling</span>–what was it? No roller skiers. No geese. Running south on Edmund, almost to 47th, I saw an animal over in the “tree graveyard”–the flood-prone stretch of grass between the river road and Edmund that once housed the <a href=”https://vimeo.com/showcase/4545236/video/75586084″>tree with teeth</a>. Fairly certain it was a dog but I’m not sure–I hardly ever am with my vision. Don’t think it was a coyote. Running back, north on Edmund, I saw Dave, the Daily Walker from a distance! I almost called out, “Hey Dave!” but decided against it. He was too far away. I’m glad to see that he’s doing okay and still out by the gorge. Did some more triple berry chants. Listened to the grit scratching under my shoes. Anything else? Very happy to be outside and feeling okay and not freaking out because there were too many people on the trail.

Everything this morning was wet–the air, the road, the grass, the trees. A thunderstorm earlier. The thunder was so loud and rolled for a long time. After one roll, I felt the floor shake. Wow! Our power went out for a few seconds. I don’t remember ever hearing thunder roll like that. I’ve heard an occasional boom or crack but not a rolling rumble. Scott said that they used to have about 10 of these big thunderstorms every summer in Austin, MN. Usually when we get bad storms, tree limbs litter the path. I don’t remember seeing any this morning.

I love the form of this poem and the various ways you can play with the lines. In his description, Herrera writes: “The solar circle poem can be read in any direction, or simultaneously with various voices at a ‘distance,’ or it can be cut out and spun like a wheel. You choose where to begin and end.”

april 6/RUN

4.35 miles
47th ave loop*
46 degrees
Deaths from COVID-19: 30 (MN)/ 10,524 (US)

*a new loop for this year: Edmund Bvld, south (or, if really early and uncrowded on river road trail)/grass just after 42nd to Becketwood to short stretch of paved trail/cross 44the Edmund/Right on 47th/right on 44th/right on short paved trail to Becketwood to grass/Edmund Bvld, north/left on 32nd/left on 43rd

Started at 8:30 this morning and there was hardly anyone out near the gorge! Decided to risk it and run south on the river road trail. I encountered two other people–both walkers, both respectful of the need for distance. It makes such a difference to be out there alone! It was overcast. The river was not shimmering or sparkling. I couldn’t tell if it had ice on it or foam or what. Ran past a solitary bench overlooking the gorge and thought how nice it would be to sit there and watch the river. Heard a woodpecker. Some workers laying fiber internet lines. 2 bikers on the road. Some cars–after I passed it, one car started honking. Not sure why. Was someone biking on the wrong side? Were they saying hello? I always have trouble understanding honks. Did some triple berry chants for a while. Also, recited “Auto-lullaby” and my variation, “Pandemic Lullaby.” Decided that my line: “think of a tree stump/housing a gnome” would fit better as “think of a tree stump/that houses a gnome.” Now that I’m saying it again, I think it should actually be: “think of a stump/housing a gnome”

surfaces

The new route I’ve been trying during this social-distance era has many different surfaces: street, sidewalk, dirt path, grass, shoulder, curb, asphalt trail. Smooth, rough, wet, slanted, uneven, muddy, gritty, high, low, full of divots, leaf-covered, cracked, pot-holed, narrow, wide. Straight, curved, up, down, partially blocked.

from “The Victorious Ones”/ Chris Nealon

Then came fire

It wasn’t yet a new world, or the end of the old one

But water, money, feeling overspilled their banks

                There was finally something real to be afraid of

                There was finally no reason to fear

Even animals approached us as they hadn’t in ten thousand years

Buildings were either shelter or they weren’t

Music got quiet

And poetry—

Poetry began to ask the question it had hidden in the forest

Poetry returned to lists, enumeration, inventory

It chose sides

This was not the same as prophecy

Look around you now        and ask yourself

Which of these—

                The innovators, profit-makers, the ones behind high walls,

                                The ones who are planning for the great catastrophes—

                Or the ones with no ability to plan,

                Who live from hour to hour, year to year,

                                In whom terror waits to be uncurdled,

                Who live in the great wide world—

Which of these will be the victorious ones?

Nobody knows.

Love this line: “Poetry began to ask the question it had hidden in the forest.”
 

april 5/RUN

4.2 miles
river road, north/south
38 degrees
Deaths from COVID-19: 29 (MN)/ 9,132 (US)

Ran outside by the gorge this morning. Headed north towards downtown on the trail. Not too bad except for when, at one of my new favorite spots just above the rowing club, a woman didn’t move over enough and then said “good morning” to me right when we were at our closest–maybe 4 or 5 feet away. Am I a freak about this stuff? Perhaps, but I’m not fucking around. I don’t want to get sick and I want to be able to run by the gorge without worrying that other people will get too close. The rest of the run was good in terms of distance. The river was glowing and sparkling. It wasn’t too cold or too warm. Heard some woodpeckers. Saw a roller skier. Clickity-clack! When I turned around, I ran on the road, in the lane that they blocked off for pedestrians. Hardly anyone else was on it, which was nice. Ran straight into the wind on the way back.

It felt good to run and I mostly enjoyed it but sometimes it’s tough to be out there having to focus so much energy on spotting other people and making sure that we’re not too close. Hard to do any of my creative exercises. Maybe I can find a time that’s even less crowded and this will get easier?

april 2/RUN

4 miles
edmund, south/45th/edmund, north/32nd street, west/43rd ave, south
51 degrees
Deaths from COVID-19: 18 (MN)/ 5100+ (US)

Bracing for scarier weeks as the virus continues to spread in the U.S. Minnesota is supposed to reach the peak in late May/early June. Ordered groceries (including toilet paper) online to pick up. It will be ready on Saturday, April 11th. Glad we’re stocked until then. Such strange, unsettling, terrifying, exhausting times.

Ran the new route that Scott and I discovered yesterday. South on Edmund, on the grass after 42nd street, past Becketwood, back on Edmund, right on 45th street, Becketwood, grass, north on Edmund, right on 32nd street/left on 43rd ave. It was 4 miles. Not too bad. Encountered a few people on Edmund but that was it. A nice route. It would have been nicer if I hadn’t been running straight into a 14mph wind for a lot of it. What do I remember? Listening to my feet shuffle on the grit. Noticing the river through the trees as I ran at the highest point on Edmund, between 36th and 35th streets. It was cloudy so it wasn’t glowing and too far to see any detail, but it was beautiful. I think I heard some birds. Don’t remember any woodpeckers. Oh–I think I heard a wedge of geese honking high up in the sky. Heard some chainsaws. Some people talking. Another runner said hello but I wasn’t sure if it was to me or someone else. Felt pretty good running. Don’t remember what I thought about. I do remember, as I returned on Edmund starting to feel too warm. Took my pink jacket off and zipped it up while running, then put it around my waist. Quite the feat. I probably looked ridiculous.

Last night, during one of the many times I got up with restless legs, I started composing a variation to “Auto-lullaby,” one of the poems I like to recite while I’m running.

A Pandemic Lullaby/ Sara Lynne Puotinen

Think of a sheep
reciting a poem;
Think of a tree stump
housing a gnome.

Think of your dog
asleep in a chair;
Think of that time
when you cut your own hair.

Think of a bird
that sings in your ear;
Try to resist
suffocating from fear.

Think of Cyclops Baby on
a garage door;
Think of a run, and
count to four.

If you are anxious, then
take a deep breath.
The outcome most likely
is sickness not death.

For now, I’ll stick with this ending, but I’m not satisfied. I’ll keep working on it. Read it to Scott and he didn’t really like my original first stanza: Think of a sheep/ cooking your breakfast;/ think of that summer/ when you visited Texas. Partly because he didn’t think it rhymed, partly because I’ve never visited Texas in summer. I’m not sure; I like how breakfast and Texas work together, but I decided to switch it up and connect it more to what I like to think about in order to feel better.

While searching for “april” in poets.org, I came across this poem. It’s not about April–well, it could be talking about April in Minnesota.

Because You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetry/ Howard Nemerov – 1920-1991

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned to pieces of snow 
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.

There came a moment that you couldn’t tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.

march 31/RUN

3.5 miles
edmund bvld, south/north/32nd west/43rd south
46 degrees
Deaths from COVID-19: 12 (MN)/ 3,400 (US)

Trying not to read too much news about the virus. I am doing what I need to do: nothing. I haven’t left the house, except for my daily runs and walks since March 10th. This staying home all the time is not that different from my regular (pre-pandemic) schedule, except for the added fear about how bad it might get that hovers around me all the time.

After reading about how the virus can (in the right conditions) spread through the air and thinking about how much less fun it has been to run by the gorge, always trying to avoid people, I decided to run on Edmund Boulevard today. It is parallel to the river road, separated by a large stretch of grass, an occasional tree and some ancient boulders. From Edmund, you can’t ever see the river, but you can see the trail and the trees on the bluff and, in early spring, a few glimpses of the other side. Because it’s a road, there’s more room and more chances to stay farther away from other people. The only problem: the continuous stretch of it near me starts in the south at 42nd and ends in the north at 32nd. Even when you add in a few more streets to make a loop, it’s only a 5k. I’ll have to think about ways to make it longer without having to repeat.

Bright sun today. A few birds. Too many people walking around everywhere. Don’t remember what I thought about. Did I see anything interesting? No birds soaring above me. No Daily Walker. No shimmering river or welcoming oaks or spazzy squirrels. No kids playing at the playground. No roller skiers. No fat tires. No shadow following or leading me. Ran over some grit in the street and was able to listen to the shshshsh of my striking feet. Saw some dogs and their humans. A little kid on a bike. Two women taking over most of the road, keeping 6 feet of distance from each other. A runner pushing a kid in a jogging stroller. A man talking on the phone as he slowly walked on the grass.

an evening walk

Around 6pm yesterday, Scott, Delia the dog, and I took a walk around the neighborhood. Here are three things that I wanted to remember:

  1. Someone was playing saxophone outside. They were very good, so good that lots of people were walking on the street towards them. I was curious to see who and where they were, but Scott was freaked out by all the people, so we kept walking. I like hearing random instruments playing around the neighborhood.
  2. I found it! Finally, after seeing a cute little gnome-sized door at the bottom of a tree several years ago and then trying to locate it again with no luck, I found it! Well, Scott found it first. It’s near the corner of 33rd street and 48th avenue. Hidden behind some tall grass.
  3. We noticed some chairs set up at the end of a street, blocking it off. A woman was sitting in one of the chairs reading a book. Kids were biking up and down the street. Am I being too freaky to think that this might not be a good idea and that these kids aren’t staying far enough away from each other? I’m so glad my kids are older and that they are introverts who mostly like to text with their friends. It would be very hard to find ways to entertain a young kid who was super extroverted right now.

a poem, a page

Here are two poems I recently discovered that are about the relationship between a poem and a page.

POEM WHITE PAGE WHITE PAGE POEM/ from Muriel Rukeyser’s “The Gates”

Poem white page white page poem
something is streaming out of a body in waves
something is beginning to declare for my whole life
all the despair and the making music
something like wave after wave
that breaks on a beach
something like bringing the entire life
to this moment
the small waves bringing themselves to white paper
something like light stands up and is alive

Fool’s Gold/ Ted Mathys

This morning I love everyone, 
even Jerome, the neighbor I hate, 
and the sun. And the sun 

has pre-warmed my bucket seat  
for the drive up Arsenal Street  
with the hot car effect,  

a phenomenon climatologists 
use to explain global warming 
to senators and kids. 

I love the limited edition 
Swingline gold stapler 
in the oil change lounge 

which can, like a poem, 
affix anything to anything 
on paper. One sheet of paper, 

for instance, for that cloud of gnats, 
one for this lady’s pit mix 
wagging his tail so violently 

I fear he’ll hurt his hips.  
One sheet for glittered lip balm, 
for eye contact, Bitcoin extortion 

and the imperfect tense.  
Sheets for each unfulfilled wish 
I left in a penny in a mall fountain. 

Sun spills into the lounge  
through the window decal 
in geometric Tetris wedges. 

I have a sheet for Tetris, 
its random sequence of pieces 
falling toward me in this well 

like color coded aspects of the life 
I neglected to live, for the pleasure 
of making line after line 

disappear. The gold stapler 
has twenty-sheet capacity 
so I straighten my stack 

on the reception counter 
and staple the day together 
with an echoing chunk.

Wow. I love both of these poems and want to spend some more time with them. In Rukeyser’s poem, I love the idea of something streaming out of the body in waves of despair and music. I love the idea of something–what is that something? An urge? A soul? I love the different things you can imagine about that something. In Mathys’s poem, I love how the line break works in line 3: “and the sun. And the sun”. I love how the sun keeps returning. I love the gold stapler and how he links it with a poem: “like a poem,/ affix anything to anything/ on paper.” I love how each idea gets its own sheet of paper.

march 30/RUN

4.1 miles
river road, north/edmund bvld, south
39 degrees
Deaths from COVID-19: 10 (MN)/ 2,509 (US)

As expected, COVID-19 is getting much worse. Deaths in Minnesota almost doubled in one day. I just read an article about a choir rehearsal in Washington state in which 45 out of the 60 attending members were infected. Experts think it was spread through the air. Should I stop running by the gorge? Almost all of the time I’m able to keep a safe 6 feet+ distance, but not absolutely always. Today, for example, while running through the tunnel of trees I was only 3 or 4 feet away from some walkers. I almost twisted my ankle trying to stay as far away from them as possible. Maybe I should just run on the road through the neighborhood? As much as I usually love running beside the gorge, it has been more stressful than joyful lately.

Run with/without headphones, an experiment

Today, I’m trying a variation on this experiment:

Run on the two trails loop beside the gorge. Listen to music as you run south, up above near the road. Take out your headphones and listen to the gorge as you run north, down below on the Winchell trail. Think about how you experience running and breathing and paying attention differently when you listen to a playlist versus when you have no headphones in. Write about it.

It’s a variation because I didn’t run on the 2 trails. I ran north on the river road without headphones, and south on it and Edmund Boulevard with headphones.

without headphones

Sunny, bright, low wind. Looked down and admired the floodplain forest. So brown and airy. Felt like I was floating above it. Heard some birds–just a general sense of birds, can’t remember any specific ones. Don’t remember seeing too many cars on the road. A walker with his dog called out and asked how my run was going. I said, “Good. It’s a great day for a run!” Noticed a few patches of snow below me, near the Minneapolis Rowing Club. Noticed the Winchell Trail between the trestle and my turn around spot 1/2 mile later. Looking more clear and less muddy. Any other sounds? Some people talking. Can’t remember any other sounds. Counted to 4 a few times then tried chanting triple berries (strawberry/blueberry/raspberry–strawberry/blueberry/blackberry). Felt mostly relaxed and happy to be running but also on edge as I constantly thought about making sure I had enough distance from other people.

With Headphones, Listening to Playlist

More relaxed and happy to be listening to music: I’m So Free/Beck; Black Wizard Wave/Nur-d; Juice/Lizzo; Let’s Go Crazy/Prince. Had a big smile on my face and felt free and fast for a few minutes. Not worrying about viruses or annoying people who refused to move over or what would happen if I suddenly had a lot more trouble breathing. Often when I run without headphones, I feel more connected to the trail and my body. When I listen to music, I feel more like I’m floating, like I don’t have a body, like I’m not quite on the trail.

I really like listening to Beck’s “I’m So Free”. Thought I’d look up the lyrics:

excerpt from I’m So Free/ Beck

[Verse 1]
I’m on a tangent
Textbook ephemeral
Facts are confusing me
I’m so free now

I’m on a one-man waiting list
I’m bored again
I buried all my memories
I’m so free now

I see the silhouette of everything
I thought I ever knew
Turning into voodoo
I’m so free now

A panic cycle, sentimental
Feel it out until you know
It isn’t meant for you
I’m so free now

[Pre-Chorus]
I’m so free now
I’m so free now
And the way that I walk
Is up to me now
And if I breathe now
I could scream now
You can hear me
From Topeka to Belize now
I’m gonna freeze out
These enemies out
They never see what I got
No need to bend my knees down
Heaven forbid
I never cared
Time is running out
Nothing new under the sun
Better get down

[Chorus]
I’m so free
I’m so free-ee-ee
I’m so free
I’m so free-ee-ee
I’m so free (free)
From me, free from you-ou
I’m so free
I’m so free-ee-ee
Free-ee-ee
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
(I’m so free from you)
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
(I’m so free from you)

A horizontal aspiration
In the basement
With a thick and digital lust for life
I’m so free now

Looking over the lyrics, I always thought he said something about booking his ticket to Belize now, not “From Topeka to Belize now.” Whenever I listen to this song, I think of it as a feel-good anthem. Reading the lyrics, I’m realizing it’s much darker and angrier. Will that affect how I hear it in the future?

Later, during a deck do-nothing

This afternoon it is sunny and 58 degrees and the shadows don’t consume our deck until almost 3:00 so Scott and I decided to sit outside. Scott worked a little while I read a few chapters from 2 books and then soaked up the sun listening to the birds. A lot quieter today than last week. I had noticed that when I headed out for my run around 9:30 but forgot to mention it earlier in the entry. The bird that I heard last week, who keeps adding to their trill, was singing again. Scott told me it was a cardinal. Hopefully I can remember this. Decided to look up the cardinal and find out why they sing that way and why they might add syllables to their song. Found a great resource (TheCornellLab/All About Birds) and this information:

Scientists have described at least 16 different calls for the Northern Cardinal, but the one you’ll hear most commonly is a loud, metallic chip. Cardinals make this call when warning off intruders to their territory, when predators are near, as females approach their nests, and by both sexes as they carry food to the nest or when trying to get nestlings to leave the nest. When one member of a pair is about to feed the other, either bird may make a softer took note.

16 different songs! In another paragraph about the cardinal, it mentioned that their “syllables can sound like the bird is singing cheer cheer cheer or birdie, birdie, birdie.” Interesting. I’d like to listen to some more birds on the deck or out in the neighborhood and figure out my own words to match their syllables. Maybe the first step is to gather some recordings when I’m walking. Yes! Another experiment to add to my list!

I clicked on one the links at the bottom of the page and found a great video about how the Cardinal sings: with a paired structure located where the bronchial tubes from each lung come together, the syrinx. Fascinating! Cardinals are a strange bird for me because my damaged cones in my retina make them virtually impossible to see. I rarely can see red. But, I can hear it!

One more thing: I just remembered that I heard another bird that sounded much farther away. Who who who. Was it an owl in Seven Oaks? In looking for a link to Seven Oaks, I found this cool site about the history of Minneapolis Parks. Nice!

march 29/RUN

2.6 miles
river road, south/edmund bvld, north
39 degrees/ 18 mph wind
503 confirmed cases of COVID-19

Happy Birthday to my two children, born on the same day three years apart! It’s a crappy time to be having a birthday but they’re both handling it well. As I write this at 12:30 pm, they are both still sleeping. They have turned nocturnal while the schools are closed. Scott and I managed to stay up until midnight (no easy thing to do for us old folks) and blast The Beatles “Birthday” while I danced around clapping and singing loudly and looking foolish.

Wind

Windy this morning during my run. It was at my back heading south. I ran straight into it heading north. Speaking of the wind, I just added a writing prompt to my unabridged list of experiments:

What do you remember–other than how difficult it is–when you are running straight into the wind? Pick a windy day, run straight into the wind, write about it.

Often when I’m running into a strong wind, I think about the other people around me–the walkers, runners, drivers–and wonder if they’re feeling it too and what they think about me running straight into it. Do they think, how crazy is she to be running into this wind? As I passed some people about to cross the street, heading west instead of south, I wondered if they were feeling the wind too. I noticed how much less I felt it when I had my hood on. I almost didn’t notice it. I remember it making a loud rushing noise, every so often, as gusts came through. Sometimes I thought this noise was a car, but it never was. I felt the wind tug at my hat a few times. I don’t remember seeing any trees swaying or leaves swirling. Oh–I also remember hearing it rushing through the ravine at 42nd and wondering if it was gushing water or the wind–I guess I’m still not sure. I thought about the Boston Marathon and the Olympic Trials and the strong winds the runners had to run into and couldn’t imagine how they ran so fast for so long with such resistance. Yuck, no fun! Professional runners are such bad asses.

Here are two poems about wind:

Wind/ Florida Watts Smyth

What does wind stir in me
That stirs not in the tree?
It stirs a farther hope.
Trees stand, but I shall run
Beyond that slope,
Beyond the sun,
And see,
Wind-swept, the spaces of eternity.

Who Has Seen the Wind?/ CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

Who has seen the wind? 
Neither I nor you: 
But when the leaves hang trembling, 
The wind is passing through. 

Who has seen the wind? 
Neither you nor I: 
But when the trees bow down their heads, 
The wind is passing by.

march 27/RUN

4.2 miles
river road, north/river road, south/32nd to Edmund Bvld
43 degrees
398 confirmed cases of COVID-19

Another beautiful day by the gorge! As the days get scarier, my hour outside in the morning (running, then walking Delia the dog) becomes more necessary and appreciated. Fresh air, warm sun, noisy birds! Early on in my run a group of walkers thanked me for moving over and giving them space. A simple gesture that enabled me to be open and generous to others I encountered. Not too crowded. Was able to greet Dave, the Daily Walker. Heard some geese, woodpeckers, a few dogs barking down below. Also heard the beeping alarm of an approaching train (I think?) as I ran under the trestle. Didn’t stop to see if a train would come. Ran by a lonely bench with a beautiful view of the other side. Didn’t stop to sit and take in the brown slopes and the blue river. Will I ever stop? Maybe someday. Running above the rowing club, admiring the bare tree trunks, I thought about what color brown they were. Maybe milk chocolate? I love the soothing colors of light blue and brown.

Bliss Point or What Can Best Be Achieved by Cheese/ Benjamin Garcia

A.k.a.

          the other gold. 

                    Now that’s the stuff, 

                               shredded or melted 

                                         or powdered 

                                                 or canned. 

                                                             Behold 

                                         the pinnacle of man 

                     in a cheeto puff! 

Now that’s the stuff 

                      you’ve been primed for: 

                                             fatty & salty & crunchy 

          and poof—gone. There’s the proof. 

Though your grandmother 

                        never even had one. You can’t 

                                    have just one. You 

                                              inhale them puff— 

                                                                     after puff— 

                                                                after puff— 

                               You’re a chain smoker. Tongue 

                      coated & coaxed 

but not saturated or satiated. 

                       It’s like pure flavor, 

                                   but sadder. Each pink ping 

                                                       in your pinball-mouth 

                                                                expertly played 

                             by the makers who have studied you, 

                               the human animal, and culled 

                    from the rind 

         your Eve in the shape 

                                 of a cheese curl. 

                                              Girl, 

                                come curl in the dim light of the TV. 

                           Veg out on the verge of no urge 

                  of anything. 

         Long ago we beached ourselves, 

                                 climbed up the trees then 

                                          down the trees, 

                                                knuckled across the dirt 

                               & grasses & thorns & Berber carpet. 

                                           Now is the age of sitting, 

                                   so sit. 

           And I must say, 

                       crouched on the couch like that, 

                             you resemble no animal. 

                                    Smug in your Snuggie and snug 

                                                     in your sloth, you look 

                                           nothing like a sloth. 

           And you are not an anteater, 

                                   an anteater eats ants 

                                                   without fear 

                                       of diabetes. Though breathing, 

                 one could say, resembles a chronic disease.  

                                                                                            What’s real 

                             cheese and what is cheese product? 

                              It’s difficult to say 

               but being alive today 

                                      is real- 

                                                real- 

                                                       really 

                                like a book you can’t put down, a stone 

                       that plummets from a great height. Life’s 

                      a “page-turner” alright. 

               But don’t worry 

                                      if you miss the finale 

                                                of your favorite show, you can 

                                                   catch in on queue. Make room 

                                      for me and I’ll binge on this, 

                                                            the final season with you.

The first time I read this poem, I didn’t like it. But after listening to the poet speak it (which you can on poets.org) and reading his blurb, it started to grow on me. I like the use of orange/cheese/cheese puff and what it references without directly saying. And I like his ideas about the form: “having the lines feel like eating cheese puffs—addictive, airy, crunchy, gone.”

march 26/RUN

4.15 miles
river road, north/river road, south/32nd to Edmund Bvld
35 degrees
346 confirmed cases of COVID-19

What a beautiful morning! Went out about 30 minutes earlier, wondering if that might mean less people on the trail. It did. Got a little closer than 6 feet when I was passing a few people, but was able to mostly keep a good distance. So many birds this morning! Geese honking. Woodpeckers pecking. Not sure of the others–probably some robins or cardinals, blackbirds. There are lots of finches near the gorge, so maybe some of those too? One day, I will be able to hear the difference and identify them.

The river was a beautiful light blueish gray. Greeted Dave the Daily Walker. Recited one of the poems I memorized last week (Auto-lullaby) a few times. Anything else? Noticed the chain was still up, blocking the stairs to the Winchell Trail past the trestle. Thought about how muddy it probably was halfway down. Enjoyed running above the rowing club on the part of the trail farthest from the road. I’m finding it difficult to pay attention to anything other than the people and how far away from me they are. Maybe this will change as it becomes warmer. I hope so.

Walked Delia the dog right after my run. So calm and sunny and spring-like outside! Hardly anyone walking through the neighborhood.

Small Kindnesses/ Danusha Laméris

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”

march 25/RUN

3.25 miles
river road, south/edmund bvld, north/33rd street, west/43rd ave, south
45 degrees
287 confirmed cases of COVID-19

Felt warmer today. Wore shorts with tights underneath and my orange pullover. No gloves, no buff. Started on the path by the gorge, but it was crowded. At one point, three walkers were evenly spread out across the path. I had to temporarily cross the road and run in the grass. What is wrong with people? Still managed to keep my 6 feet of distance. Decided at the 44th street parking lot, to cross over to the grass on the other side and then run on the road at Edmund. Much better. If there are this many people out on the trail, and some of them refuse to honor a safe distance, I might have to start running on Edmund all the time. Not as nice as being right by the river, but still a nice view. And still outside. Took a left at 33rd and ran through the neighborhood on the edge of the road, mostly in the sandy grit. ShShShShShSh. Love that sound and the feeling of my feet slightly slipping. Why? Not sure. Was able to greet Dave the Daily Walker. I’m glad he’s doing okay.

birds! birds! birds!

Even as I recognize that chattering birds have been here all along, there is something different about hearing them in early spring. So loud today. Heard a few mourning doves and my favorite: the bird who does a rapid fire of sharp noises, almost like a laser gun from a 1970s sci-fi movie. Pu Pu Pu Pu Pu Pu. What is that bird? update from Sara, 2024: I can’t resist chiming in here: a cardinal. Also heard at least one woodpecker. Will I ever be able to recognize and remember bird sounds? I think it might take years.

LOVESONG OF THE SQUARE ROOT OF NEGATIVE ONE/ Richard Siken

I am the wind and the wind is invisible, all the leaves
tremble but I am invisible, bloom without flower, knot
without rope, song without throat in wingless flights, dark
boat in the dark night, pure velocity. As the hammer is
a hammer when it hits the nail, and the nail is a nail when
it meets the wood, and the invisible table begins to appear
out of mind, pure mind, out of nothing, pure thinking.
Through darkness, through silence, a vector, a violence,
I labor, I lumber, I fumble forward through the valley as
winter, as water, I mist and frost, flexible and elastic to
the task. I am the hand that lifts the rock, I am the mind
that strings the worm and throws the line and feels the tug,
the flex in the pole, and foot by foot I find the groove,
the trace in the thicket, the key in the lock, as root breaks
rock, from seed to flower to fruit to rot, a holy pilgrim
moving through the stations of the yardstick. I track,
I follow, I hinge and turn, frictionless and efficient as an
equal sign. I flip and fold, I superimpose, I become
location and you veer toward me, the eye to which you
are relative, magnetized for your revelation. Hook and bait,
polestar and checkmate, I am your arrival, there is no
refusal, we are here, you see, together, we are already here.

5 Things I Like About this Poem

  • The flow and effortless movement forward
  • Assonance: rope/throat/boat
  • through silence, a vector, a violence
  • I labor, I lumber, I fumble forward
  • I am the hand that lifts the rock, I am the mind/ that strings the worm and throws the line and feels the tug,/ the flex in the pole, and foot by foot I find the groove,/ the trace in the thicket, the key in the lock, as root breaks/ rock, from seed to flower to fruit to rot, a holy pilgrim/ moving through the stations of the yardstick.

I just remembered why this poet seems familiar–I just listened to an amazing podcast with him! Episode 52: Richard Siken–Commonplace Conversation with Poets (and other People)/ Rachel Zucker A great interview and really intense when he talks about how fucked up his father was.

What is the significance of the square root of negative one? After looking it up (because I have forgotten any high level math I might have had 25 years ago), I know it has to do with imaginary numbers. But, what does that mean here?

I want to memorize this poem. update: Sara, 2024 — I have memorized it! It’s #4 on my My 100 list!

march 24/RUN

4 miles
river road, south/up and across Ford Bridge/turn around/river road, north/Edmund Bvld
41 degrees
262 confirmed cases of COVID-19

Warmer this morning. Cloudy. Leaving my block I heard some chainsaws–Oh no! Looks like they might be cutting down the big, beautiful oak tree at the end of our alley. I love gazing up at the tree. My kids and I named it squirrel city a few years ago because it seemed to house so many squirrels. Bummer. update, from 2024 Sara: they were not cutting down that tree! It is still here, still giving me a reason to stop and crane my neck and marvel at its thick branches!

A nice morning for a run. Very few people out by the river, which was nice. Was able to keep 6 feet distance with everyone, I think.

Things I remember:

  1. Running on the Ford Bridge and looking out at the river. So beautifully blueish gray.
  2. Feeling like I was in a trance, as I looked through the spaces between the railing posts.
  3. Running on the sandy grit and listening to it scratch and sh sh sh sh.
  4. Hearing some people and a dog as I ran on the double bridge. Wondering if they were down near the river or over in the grass near the entrance to the Winchell Trail.
  5. Seeing them in the grass and hearing one woman talking very loudly, shouting something about someone hiring a personal attorney. What was she talking about?
  6. Running on the road, on Edmund Boulevard. Checking out the houses. Noticing the one with lots of windows and an awkward deck on the front was finally sold.

After my run, went home and picked up Delia the dog for a walk. Walked by the house a block over with the over-the-top Christmas decorations and noticed that they had propped full length mirrors–2 or 3–up against the front of the house. To reflect the lights more? Does it work?

Only yesterday, I mentioned that the birds never left and have been around, making noise, all winter. Today, looking at an entry from December, I found proof: a recording. Just listen to those birds chattering!

water, 12-29-19

march 23/RUN

4.3 miles
top of franklin hill and back
35 degrees
5% slushy snow-covered
235 confirmed cases of COVID-19

Snowed last night. Only a dusting but enough to cover the deck. No snow on the sidewalk, only a little on the trail. Some people outside, doing a better job of keeping their distance. Very wet and drippy. The floodplain forest was the color of light brown sugar with a dusting of white sugar–I guess that sounds nice, but I prefer either brown or white, not both. A helpful run. I was able to forget about everything. Listened to headphones on the way back, after turning around at the top of the franklin hill. Ah, a few minutes of freedom.

the birds aren’t coming back, they never left

Had a thought while I was walking Delia the dog after my run about the birds. I’ve been reading/hearing people talk about how wonderful it is that the birds are back because spring is almost here. Perhaps this is (somewhat) true, but I’ve been hearing the birds all winter. Sure, some of them migrated and are now returning, but many of them were busy making a racket all through January and February, even when it was below 0. Most people stay inside with their windows shut tight when it’s cold outside so they wouldn’t be able to hear any birds. My (not so deep) thought: The birds aren’t coming back. They never left. It is you who is returning for spring.

some delightful sounds

When I hear dripping around my house, it stresses me out as I envision crumbling foundations and rotting boards. But, when I’m walking around the neighborhood, I love hearing the different drips and drops and trickles and gushes. Today I had to stop twice and record some sounds. Now I wish I would have recorded more!

1

Dripping in the gutters, 2 ways

2

water bubbling near a neighbor’s foundation

This was the poem of the day on poetry foundation. I have always found tolerance to be an awful word so I appreciate the condemning of it here. A favorite line: “neutral fellows/seers of every side” Love this reminder to be less ironic and distanced and more committed and passionate. I’m trying.

Goodbye to Tolerance/ Denise Levertov

Genial poets, pink-faced   
earnest wits—
you have given the world   
some choice morsels,
gobbets of language presented
as one presents T-bone steak
and Cherries Jubilee.   
Goodbye, goodbye,
                            I don’t care
if I never taste your fine food again,   
neutral fellows, seers of every side.   
Tolerance, what crimes
are committed in your name.

And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,   
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped   
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never   
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.

It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
forever
because you choose to believe it is not your business.

Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,   
your loaves grow moldy,   
a gulf has split
                     the ground between us,
and you won’t wave, you’re looking
another way.
We shan’t meet again—
unless you leap it, leaving   
behind you the cherished   
worms of your dispassion,   
your pallid ironies,
your jovial, murderous,   
wry-humored balanced judgment,
leap over, un-
balanced? … then
how our fanatic tears
would flow and mingle   
for joy …

march 21/RUN

3.4 miles
ford bridge and back
25 degrees
138 confirmed cases of COVID-19

Cold, sunny. Woke up feeling anxious again. Running and being outside always helps. Not too crowded on the trail. Still spent a lot of time focused on whether or not other people were near and how to be distanced from them. Even so, till managed to notice the noisy birds. Pretty sure I heard a woodpecker. Noticed the river too, glowing again. This time, it created a wide white path stretching from shore to shore. As I ran south, the white path moved with me. Almost stopped at a few of the benches overlooking the river but I never like to stop. When it gets a bit warmer, I should walk to one of them and sit and stare and breathe.

Immediately after finishing my run, I came home, got Delia the dog and took her for a walk. I could hear lots of birds, but it seemed quiet and calm. Hardly anyone out–many more people by the gorge than in the neighborhood. Walked by the kids’ old elementary school and felt nostalgic, a brief rush of sadness that they were almost grown up even as I’m glad that they’re older. Passed at least 2 houses with their delightfully tacky winter/christmas decorations still out. At one house, a grand old tree stump served as a table for several (4 or 5) plastic snowmen. In past summer’s this same stump has housed gnomes and trolls. At another house, lights, a make-shift archway, 2 fake christmas trees, and some garlands slumped sadly in the brown grass. Do they still turn on the crazy lights at night? Will I ever check? Not sure.

Such a strange, unreal time right now.

Yesterday, I finished a draft of my double abecedarian. The entire poem was crafted around using x-box for the Xs. Not sure if it is finished yet, but it was fun. I always love doing abecedarians, especially double ones. Every time I never believe I can come up with words that end in J or Q but I do.

Any Game Starting with Z/ Sara Lynne Puotinen

A
blank drab
claustrophobic
day. The kid
emits moans grunts an occasional whine
flails on the bed then falls off
grounded feeling
holed up with-
in this ennui
jailed in striped PJs
knee deep stuck
longing lacking all
meaning sucked from the room
nothing-to-do-ness raining down like a monsoon.
Oh cruel world too
pointless to want for more seconds pile up
quietly in a q
restlessness grows by the hour
spreads settles
travels right
up the walls like kudzu
vining hovers above like geese in a V
waiting wanting to break out. Meanwhile in the corner the not so new
x-box
yawns sputters chokes on its own dust imploring the kid to play something anything play
Zombie Apocalypse or Zombie Pinball or Zombie Death Drive. A plea: any game starting with Z.

Speaking of double abecedarians that begin and end with the same letter, here’s a list of words that begin and end with the same letter:

  • aqua
  • bib
  • caustic
  • dead
  • eye
  • fief or fluff
  • gig
  • hush
  • intermezzi (plural of intermezzo: brief piece of music between acts)
  • JJ (a name, or an abbreviation of judges or justices)
  • kink
  • lull (or lol)
  • Mom
  • northern
  • onto
  • plump
  • QQ (an instant messaging service in China)
  • rear
  • sass
  • tyrant
  • ubuntu (operating system for PCs)
  • verv (does this work?)
  • wow
  • xerox
  • yellowy (didn’t think this was a word, but it is!)
  • zzzzzzzz (when sleeping)

I only had to look a few of these up. Fascinating to learn new words, abbreviations, like JJ for judges.

march 20/RUN

3.3 miles
trestle turn around
29 degrees
115 confirmed cases of COVID-19*

*This number is mostly meaningless because very few people have access to tests. Governor Walz believes the number to be much higher.

Sun! Sun! Sun! So nice after yesterday’s gloom. Colder. Windier. More crowded on the trail. But nice. Needed. Found out today that even if they declare a shelter-in-place and we’re not allowed to leave the house (and this is mostly likely coming soon), we will still be able to go out for walks and runs. I’m glad. I was not looking forward to being trapped in this house for the next 3 months.

Earlier today, while out on a walk with Delia the dog, I noticed the river. Glowing below me. I was up on the hill above the parkway and there it was, a bright, beautiful light past the trees and beyond the fence. Wow! I had to stop and stare for a few minutes.

What else do I remember from my run? Difficult to run straight into the 15mph wind. Lots of walkers out there. I should try and find a better time to go for my runs. The earlier the better, I think. Don’t remember hearing geese or crows or woodpeckers or alarms or trains.

Overheard one woman say to another woman: “And they’re closed for 3 months, but she’s in Washington where it’s really bad!” Her friend seemed shocked that whatever was closing was closing for so long and I thought, “it will all be closed that long here too!”

Double Abecedarians

I love constraints and the challenge they offer. Double Abecedarians are especially fun. As far as I know, the classic double abecedarian has 26 lines and either starts each line working its way up the alphabet (a, b, c . . .) and ends working its way down (z, y, x . . .) or vice versa. After noticing how “x-box” both started and ended with the same letter–the dreaded letter x, I decided to try a double abecedarian where each line began and ended with the same letter (so, first line begins with a, ends with a, and so on). So much fun! And such a great way to distract you from pandemics!

Here are a few resources:

march 19/RUN

2.65 miles
two trails
39 degrees
light drizzle
89 confirmed cases of COVID-19

Checked the weather and thought it wasn’t supposed to start raining again for an hour, but a few minutes into my run, it started. Didn’t notice it that much, with my baseball cap and jacket on. Everything was gloomy and wet, dripping. There were a handful of people out by the gorge. Most were trying to keep their distance. Ran to the 44th street parking lot and then looped around. Thought about heading down to the Winchell Trail here but I had noticed a few people walking on it so I stayed up above until I was past them. Entered the lower trail at Folwell. Only encountered one person. She was wearing a rain poncho. I heard her sniff as I quickly ran by. Don’t remember much about the run except for looking out for others and making sure I stayed clear of them.

such loud birds!

The thing I remember most about my run was the birds. So loud! Right after I started running, while I was still in the neighborhood, so many different chirps and trills and coos and warbles and caws. Wow. Thought about stopping to get a recording but I decided I could do it when I finished. Of course, I forgot.

Came across so many wonderful poems today–which one should I choose?

Slam, Dunk, & Hook/ Yusef Komunyakaa

Fast breaks. Lay ups. With Mercury’s
Insignia on our sneakers,
We outmaneuvered the footwork
Of bad angels. Nothing but a hot
Swish of strings like silk
Ten feet out. In the roundhouse
Labyrinth our bodies
Created, we could almost
Last forever, poised in midair
Like storybook sea monsters.
A high note hung there
A long second. Off
The rim. We’d corkscrew
Up & dunk balls that exploded
The skullcap of hope & good
Intention. Lanky, all hands
& feet…sprung rhythm.
We were metaphysical when girls
Cheered on the sidelines.
Tangled up in a falling,
Muscles were a bright motor
Double-flashing to the metal hoop
Nailed to our oak.
When Sonny Boy’s mama died
He played nonstop all day, so hard
Our backboard splintered.
Glistening with sweat,
We rolled the ball off
Our fingertips. Trouble
Was there slapping a blackjack
Against an open palm.
Dribble, drive to the inside,
& glide like a sparrow hawk.
Lay ups. Fast breaks.
We had moves we didn’t know
We had. Our bodies spun
On swivels of bone & faith,
Through a lyric slipknot
Of joy, & we knew we were
Beautiful & dangerous.

I love the energy and the line breaks in this poem. And so much movement and momentum. And the assonance! “Dribble, drive to the inside,/ & glide like a sparrow hawk” The alliteration: “Nothing but a hot/ Swish of strings like silk” I also love how you can read this poem backwards or take it one line at a time and still is a poem.

a writing prompt from Sundress Publications

Sundress Publications is posting a writing prompt each day for the next two months to keep people writing. Here’s one from yesterday:

Choose two letters of the alphabet. Select a source material and collect 10-12 nouns or verbs starting with each letter. Use the words as a bank for a new poem.

march 18/RUN

4.25 miles
top of franklin hill and back
38 degrees
77 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in MN

Another day, another great run by the gorge. Overcast. Earlier on my walk, it was drizzling but I think it stopped by the time I ran. Encountered lots of walkers, a few runners, some bikers. Many people are trying to keep their 6 feet of distance, others are not. If they can’t be bothered to move over when it’s recommended to help lessen the spread of a pandemic, I guess there’s no hope that they ever will. Felt pretty good running, even if I was a little warm and my nose was a bit runny–tried to avoid touching my face but it’s hard when you’re dripping sweat and snot (is that too gross?). I looked down at my favorite spot above the floodplain forest–so open and soft and light brown. Only a few patches of snow. Also looked at the river. Blue and beautiful. Running north towards downtown, I listened to the gorge and recited “Auto Lullaby” and “Tell all the truth but tell it slant” a few times. Heard at least one goose honking, some people talking, a few feet shuffling. Stopped just above the Franklin hill and put in my headphones, then headed south. Running under the trestle I heard a beeping, buzzing noise. Was it the alert for an approaching train? I looked around, but couldn’t see any train. Decided not to stop and wait. Anything else I remember? Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker. Felt dreamy and dazed. Glad to forget everything else for 40 minutes.

the woodpecker

Earlier today, walking with Delia the dog, I heard a woodpecker. It might be the same one I heard a few days ago, around the same time and same place. So loud! Almost like a little jackhammer. Usually, any woodpecker pecking is loud, but not this loud. How irritating it must be for the people with houses nearby. When I was 8 or 9 and living in North Carolina in a house with cedar shakes, we had a woodpecker who liked to peck on the cedar. I don’t remember hearing it, I just remember how irritated it made my dad. Did he do anything about it? I don’t remember that either.

After memorizing one Emily Dickinson poem, I want to memorize some more. I’ll start with some shorter ones, like this, which seems appropriate right now:

“Faith” is fine invention (202)/ Emily Dickinson

Faith” is a fine invention
For Gentlemen who see!
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency!

corona virus update

Yesterday all the schools were closed. So were the restaurants and bars. Thankfully, we can still leave our house. I went to bed yesterday accepting that this would probably end by June, woke up to Pence’s announcement that it would last until July. When I mentioned this to Scott, he said he’d read, early fall. It’s definitely going to get a lot worse for the next month at least. Trying to keep Scott’s penchant for worst case scenarios in check, the theme for our house is: “Let’s dial back the Apocalypse.”

added, 18 march 2026: Oh, sweet Sara from 2020, thank goodness you had no idea how long this would last (an entire year of not going into any public buildings, kids doing online school for a year and a half) and that something (I accidentally typed someone first before correcting it, which was not really an accident, although it should have been someones) even worse would be coming in 2026! — But is it worse in 2026? The wanna be fascists in power are scarier, but the push back is stronger. During COVID, I lost my faith in people; during the ICE occupation here in Minnesota, that faith was restored.

march 17/RUN

4.35 miles
minnehaha falls and back
35 degrees
60 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in MN

Decided to turn to the right at the river today. More people on the trail. Lots of moving way over to the right to keep a safe distance. Ran to the falls and stopped to watch it tumble over the cliff, then ran, taking the lower, Winchell Trail when it began just past 44th street.

1

Added one more part of the walking trail today: the steep, uneven trail that dips down right after the double bridge and then rises up again. Up until last year this was an extra spur with the regular walking path up above right next to the biking path, a solid white line separating them. But when they repainted the lines, they added an arrow directing walkers to follow this spur instead of staying above. A mistake by the painters? Possibly. Probably. Initially, I was mad because this spur is steep, narrow, and full of ruts, but I’ve grown to like the challenge of trying to stay upright on it and dipping below the road and into some trees.

2

Oh, the lower trail was beautiful today! Nothing between me and the river but a wrought iron fence and a steep cliff (or ledge? or bluff?). At its edges, the river was brown but in the middle, blue. It looked much warmer than it was.

3

At one point on the lower trail, as it hugged the edge, it looked like if I kept running straight, I could run off the bluff and fly over the water.

4

So much wonderful sun! Lots of dead, yellowed leaves covering the trail. It felt like fall in Virginia, when I was twelve. Will I never not be nostalgic for fall?

5

Said “Good morning Dave” to the Daily Walker. Smiled at a few other runners. Raised my right hand in a wave to a few others. Wasn’t always able to keep a safe 6 feet of distance, but I tried.

march 16/RUN

4.25 miles
top of the franklin hill and back
35 degrees
snow, big fluffy flakes

Feeling a bit better today. Wonderful and strange to be outside, trying to avoid encounters with others while breathing in the beautiful fresh air. Dark and gloomy. It started snowing just after I got outside. At first, very light. Then, big fluffy flakes flying right into my face–I should have worn my baseball cap or visor to block them out. Oh well. The snow didn’t bother me too much although I wondered if it was the best idea to be outside with a cold or sinus infection in this weather. I think it’s fine. It feels important to get out by the gorge as much as I can.

Was able to do all the walking trails, including the one through the tunnel of trees which is not a tunnel right now but a bunch of bare branches and trunks. The floodplain forest was a beautiful, fuzzy brown. I know I glanced at the river but I don’t remember what color it was or how it looked. I think that’s because of all the snow flying in my face. The gorge was a misty, blurry white. Encountered a few walkers, one or two runners, and Dave the Daily Walker, back in uniform! I’m glad he’s feeling better.

I remember admiring the railroad trestle as I ran by it, noticing the river below. Also, glancing at the Winchell Trail, close to Franklin. The trail looked like a muddy mess.

Memorized a new poem for today’s run:

Tell all the truth but tell it slant/ Emily Dickinson

Tell all the truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lie
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightening to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind—

It was fun to recite this over and over again as I ran. I really love Emily Dickinson’s poetry–her phrasing, the rhymes, the rhythm, the ideas. I think (I don’t know that much about Emily Dickinson right now–maybe I should learn?) this is one of her more famous poems, especially the idea of telling the truth slant. I like it because of how it fits with my vision. I read that Dickinson became blind temporarily for a few years and that she wrote about it in her poetry. With my cone dystrophy, I rely much more on my peripheral (sideways, slantways?) vision to see. And, while I need bright light to see and read things, if the light is too bright it makes it almost impossible to see. Also, my unfocused, fuzzy vision is softer and less harsh, which sometimes results in kinder, more gentle visions–things that might look ugly in sharp edges and lines, appear beautiful in the soft, fuzzy, absence of detail (one example: gnarled, bare branches in the winter).

march 14/RUN

2.4 miles
two trails
26 degrees

Colder today. Such wonderful fresh air! Took Delia the dog out for a walk and decided I needed to do a short run too. Beautiful beside the gorge. Here are some highlights:

1

Running south towards the falls, I encountered a group of 10+ male runners. I think they were on a team–not sure if it was high school or college or even older. They were all very fit and lean. Watching their legs strike down and lift off in unison, they looked like horse legs. A trot of runners! Such a strange and cool sight–perhaps it looked stranger and cooler to me, with my dreamy, unfocused vision?

2

The river was a beautiful blue with hints of white. Not gray or grayish blue but blue.

3

I was able to add another path that is closed all winter: the Winchell Trail! Because I didn’t want to run as much today, I decided to do one of my favorite summer routes: the two trails. I ran to the 44th street parking lot, right before the double bridge, and then turned down towards the river to the entrance of the Winchell Trail. Beautiful and clear! Only a few slick spots between Folwell and 38th. Loved running this and imagining it warmer and less pandemic-y. I didn’t encounter anyone else on this trail, not even a dog or a squirrel. Wait–I do remember noticing a big bird flying overhead, not too high off of the ground. An eagle? A hawk? I’m rarely sure.

4

Heard a slow trickle from the first sewer pipe, near some old stone steps that lead up to the 44th street parking lot. Running above it earlier this week, I didn’t notice it.

5

The sun was behind the cloud covered grayish white sky, but I could see it was trying to pierce through. It glowed a dull, muted white in the sky. I was happy to have it hidden and not hurting my eyes.

6

Crowded today. Lots of walkers and runners. I think there was at least one biker. No roller skiers yet.

Still feeling sick and learning to manage the stress of not quite knowing what it is and feeling uncomfortable with the pressure in my head and a tight jaw. Maybe a sinus infection or a strange cold or a bacterial infection? [Googling it.] A sinus infection, I think. Nothing to do now but wait for it to be over. I don’t get sick that often and I’m realizing that I don’t handle it very well–especially sicknesses where I can’t breathe quite as easily because of the pressure in my head and cheeks and jaw and where I feel trapped in my body. This unfortunate truth is getting magnified by a present that is uncertain and a future that will get better but not before it gets worse. Usually, I either try to avoid difficult confrontations (with people, with pain, with situations of suffering) or get out of them as quickly as I can with the power of distraction or avoidance or positive spin. These strategies will not work now. I guess I need to confront it, live through it, and allow myself to be transformed by it. And, what all do I mean by it–maybe I’ll try to shape that into a poem? (note: Normally, I leave these sorts of emotions out of this log–they often seem ridiculous or overwrought or too exposing. But, I’m writing this log for future Saras who will read this tomorrow or next week or next year and I want them to know that I was feeling more than just joy at the beauty of the river and delight at the sight of a group of runners looking as graceful and strong as galloping horses.)

how to count to 20 while washing your hands

I stopped looking at twitter a few days ago, when I couldn’t handle reading about how bad the situation in Italy is and how bad it might get here, but before I stopped I enjoyed seeing the tweets about what to sing while you wash your hands for 20 seconds. I love the creativity–so much better than just counting to 20 or singing Happy Birthday twice! I’ve been experimenting with my own playlist of songs to sing. Only 2 so far. I started with “Eye of the Tiger” and a verse and the first line of the chorus “It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight…” Then, today, I thought about the 1971 Oompa Loompa song for Veruca:

Who do you blame
when your kid is a brat,
pampered and spoiled
like a Siamese cat?

Blaming the kid
is a lie and a shame.
You know exactly
who’s to blame

The Mother and the Father!

Next up is the Mike Teevee version!

What do you get
from a glut of TV–
a pain in the neck
and an IQ of 3?

Why don’t you simply
try reading a book,
or could you just not bear to look?

You’ll get no
You’ll get no
You’ll get no commercials.

Oompa Loompa

march 13/RUN

3.25 miles
trestle turn around
32 degrees

A beautiful day for a run! A cloudless blue sky and a clear path. It feels so important to be outside, breathing fresh air. I’ve been struggling with a minor cold (which is almost definitely not corona virus) and being sick during this pandemic is causing uncomfortable waves of anxiety. A throat that wants to close up, a clenched jaw, the need for deep breaths, a rush of tingling heat on the back of my head, and even more restlessness–lots of pacing around the house yesterday. Running seems to help. I feel okay when I run, relaxed.

Added another clear walking path to my route–my favorite trail that dips below the road and winds above the floodplain forest! I didn’t run it on the way out, only on the way back. So wonderful to have it clear. I’ll have to check my old log entries, but I probably haven’t run this trail since sometime in November (I checked and my last day was Nov 26th).

When I reached the trestle, I took a short break and admired the clear, open river. Oh, the river! So wonderful. Brown, I think. When the sun hit it, it was sparkling silver or was it white gold? Marveled at it several times: above the rowing club, near the double bridge, above the forest. Running south through my favorite trail, the river glowed through the bare trees.

When I finished, I walked to the overlook and breathed it all in: the bare, brown branches, the wide open gorge, the brown river with the wide sparkling stripe of sun. Then I looked down at the ravine, noticing how exposed it was and how slick and icy the trail heading up the hill looked.

Greeted Dave the Daily Walker. At first I didn’t recognize him because he wasn’t walking fast and swinging his arm and he was wearing a coat. He said, “I’m not in my uniform today; I have a bad cold and I’m just out here trying to get some fresh air.” I hope he’s okay and doesn’t have the corona virus. Dave is one of my favorite people.

possible exercise: an acrostic poem that casts a spell?

When I searched for “fun spell-like poems” (of course, I didn’t find any), several of the results were about acrostic poems. Yes! Acrostic poems spell words. I wondered, can you create an acrostic poem that casts a spell of some sort? What would that look like? I’m not sure yet, but I wanted to make note of it to try out later today or this week or sometime.

march 12/RUN

4.25 miles
minnehaha falls and back
42 degrees
light drizzle

Didn’t check the weather to see if it was planning to rain before I left the house, but the minute I got outside I could tell it was coming. I went running anyway. Turned right at the river, heading towards the falls. I love the quiet, gray gloom. It would have been even better if there had been fog. Recited the poem “Auto-lullaby” most of the time.

Some Things I Remember

  1. Heard some kids at a school playground, yelling and having fun
  2. Not too much snow at the oak savanna. From the parking lot at 36th street, the hill down to the Winchell Trail looks so bare and exposed
  3. Forgot to check out my favorite spot–where the mesa curves down to reveal the river
  4. I’m not sure when it started raining, but I’m pretty sure it was before I turned around at the falls
  5. Was able to run on at least 2 more walking trails that were no longer covered in snow: the trail that curves around the back of the double bridge parking lot and the small, steep hill, just past the double bridge
  6. the falls were gushing. I saw two other people there, admiring it
  7. minnehaha creek, at the part just before it flows over the edge, was a beautiful gray blue, mostly open with a small shelf of ice and snow
  8. Running under the Ford Bridge I encountered another runner on the other side of the wide trail. He called out something that I couldn’t quite hear. At first I thought he said, “I’m running for the corona virus” then “I’m running with the corona virus.” But after talking to Scott, I’m pretty sure he jokingly said, “I’m running from the corona virus.”
  9. Running north, into the wind and the rain I wondered, is it good to be out here in this? Actually, I didn’t mind it–I like running in the rain. I just don’t want to get sick(er)
  10. No woodpeckers or geese (although I did hear some geese earlier in the morning). No squirrels or bikers or dogs

Yesterday I was thinking about how you cast a shadow and cast a spell and how fun it would be to play around with that and the word cast and then I remembered a poem I read last year.

TO CAST/ Yesenia Montilla

I.
The question is always posed at a party
            If you were a cast away on a deserted island
                        who would  you want to          hold?

& the penny is hurled in the air
we are for eternity torn between a face                       & a tail —

& we fall into one of two categories
            those who cast spells               & those that cast things aside

love may not be discarded       but shipwrecked          yes

& so on —

II.
I’ve only been fly fishing once             it is something quite stunning
            the way the string dances above your head like wild imaginings
the striking of nylon against the pebbled water

the lure with its many colors dangling just above the wake
glistening like booty    & the fish come           if you’re silent

knee deep in Oshun’s river :: rubber against the skin :: lips slack from trying

III.
                        I want to hold              you —
If tomorrow the lush green of an island were my only dress
It’d be                                                  you —

IV.
Every four years I cast a                                  vote
                        & I might die anyway
                                                regardless of the outcome —

1. to throw or hurl, fling :: to throw off or away :: to direct (the eye, a glance, etc), especially in cursory manner :: to cause to fall upon something or in certain directions; send forth :: to draw, as in telling fortunes :: to throw out (a fishing line, net, bait, etc.) :: to fish in (a stream, an area, etc.) :; to throw down or bring to the ground 

I love this line:

& we fall into one of two categories
those who cast spells & those that cast things aside

march 11/RUN

4.25 miles
river road, north/south
36 degrees

Gray and calm outside. Nice to get some fresh air. Almost all the paths are clear. Thought about trying to run on the path that dips below the road and winds through the trees, but decided it would still have too much ice. I was right. Greeted Dave the Daily Walker just after running up the hill from under the lake street bridge. I know I saw the river but I don’t remember what it looked like. Did I ever really look at it? Heard a woodpecker pecking away. I wonder, is it a yellow bellied sapsucker? Listened to some of its sounds, like drum #1 and mew call and drums, and it might be. Later, when I was almost done with my run, I heard another woodpecker, not sure if it was the same kind. Sounded like a small jackhammer, which made me start thinking about my fascination with how machines mimic animals (for example, airplanes always remind me of sharks).

This morning, after I got up, I decided to memorize a poem to make myself feel better. I have a cold or allegories or something and my throat is tightening up, which is making me extra uncomfortable and worried as I read about people testing positive for the corona virus here. It’s amazing how memorizing a poem can make me feel better. Today, I re-memorized one of my classics: Auto-lullaby by Franz Wright.

Auto-lullaby/ Franz Wright

Think of a sheep
knitting a sweater;
think of your life

getting better and better.

Think of your cat
asleep in a tree;
think of that spot
where you once skinned your knee.

Think of a bird
that stands in your palm.
Try to remember
the Twenty-First Psalm.

Think of a big pink horse
galloping south;
think of fly, and
close your mouth.

If you are thirsty, then
drink from a cup.
The birds will keep singing
until they wake up.

Oh, I love this poem. It was a fun (and sometimes challenging) one to recite in my head as a ran. It was interesting to see how the meter worked differently and how I recited it to make it fit with my cadence. It helps to pick poems with rhymes–I have also memorized/recited Shel Silverstein’s “Sick.” How hard would it be to recite a poem with no rhyme or meter? Would I force it into a meter? Maybe I should try that.

possible exercise: reciting while running

Step One || Pick a poem.

Start with an “easier” poem–one that rhymes and isn’t too long, like a kid’s poem. Later, try a “harder’ poem that doesn’t have a meter or rhymes or is longer.

Step Two || Memorize it.

A few hours before running, spend some time memorizing it.

Step Three || Recite it while running.

Once you’ve warmed up, begin reciting the poem in your head (or, if you feel comfortable enough, out loud). At first, just focus on trying to recite it without stopping or without screwing up too much. Later, when you’ve mastered that, start paying attention to how the words do or don’t match up with cadence. If you are trying to sync it up with your steps and breathing, how does this affect the poem–it’s meaning? how it sounds? how it moves (or doesn’t move)?

Step Four || Take notes.

After your run, take some notes about the experience of reciting while running. What effects did reciting have on your running? Running on your reciting?

march 10/RUN

4 miles
minnehaha falls and back
33 degrees

According to my weather app, the wind was 1 mph. Nice! Turned right when I reached the river and was able to run on the walking path the whole way even when it separated from the biking path. I’m trying to finish an audio book (Pachinko) before the loan ends later today, so I listened to that instead of the gorge. Noticed the river. Open and beautiful. Can’t remember if it was sparkling. The falls were gushing. Not too many people on the path. Below me, the Winchell trail looked mostly clear. The oak savanna looked bare and open–they’ve trimmed back and removed a lot of the trees down there. I remember hearing the chainsaws this past fall. Anything else? Feel like I have a slight cold so it was a little more difficult to run.

Feeling slightly stressed out about the corona virus, unsure whether I’m worrying too much or not enough. I’m appreciating Lynda Barry’s instagram posts about it, like this one:

https://www.instagram.com/p/B9hv3n9jDmh/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

And this one:

https://www.instagram.com/p/B9Z9zcyDLAj/

march 9/RUN

5.4 miles
franklin loop
35 degrees

Overcast and cooler today. Gray. Was able to run by the Welcoming Oaks and greet them because the walking path that splits off from the bike path just past the ravine and then winds through the oaks was open! Was grateful to be outside on a clear, dry path and not inside worrying about this week and how bad it might get as COVID-19 hits the US.

Not too many people crowding the path, which was nice. The river was beautiful from the Franklin and Lake Street bridges. Did a lot of triple berry chants, mostly: strawberry, blueberry, blackberry. Thought about how I draw the straw and blue out but don’t do that with black–that’s probably why I like putting it at the end of the chant. The east side of the river, first in Minneapolis, then St. Paul, was clear. Favorite part of that side is right before Meeker Island dam: everything seems more brown and there’s a lovely view of the river through the trees. Today the river was blueish gray. Favorite part on the west side lately: the part of the walking trail that winds above the Minneapolis Rowing Club. What a view! And, it’s nice to be fer away from the road.

Anything else I remember? I greeted Dave the Daily Walker as I was running faster up the final hill. Seeing him approach I wondered how out of breath I might sound when I said hi. It wasn’t too bad.

moment of the day

My moment of the day didn’t happen during my run but while I was walking Delia the dog around the neighborhood. Looking up, I noticed a huge bird circling in the sky. What a wing span! It looked white or light gray to me but that could have been because it was up so high. What kind of bird was it? Most likely a bald eagle, I think. I stopped and looked up for a few minutes, watching it make big loops. At first, the loops were almost above me, but soon they were farther away. I wondered why birds circle like this so I looked it up and discovered that it was because of thermals:

Thermals are updrafts of warm air that rise from the ground into the sky. By flying a spiraling circular path within these columns of rising air, birds are able to “ride” the air currents and climb to higher altitudes while expending very little energy in the process. Solitary birds like eagles and hawks often take advantage of thermals to extend their flight time as they search for food. Social birds that fly in large flocks also use thermals to gain altitude and extend their range during migration. The sight of dozens or hundreds of birds riding a thermal has been said to resemble the water boiling in a kettle, so the terms kettle or boil are sometimes used as a nickname for a flock of birds circling in a thermal updraft. The benefits of thermals are not limited to the animal world either as glider pilots often take advantage of them to gain altitude as well.

I want to see hundreds of birds riding a thermal and looking like water boiling in a kettle! Mostly so I can see them doing it but also so I can write about the boil of birds I just saw.

Thinking about a bird soaring and circling in the sky reminds me of a Mary Oliver (yes, I love Mary Oliver!) poem:

The Real Prayers Are Not the Words,
But the Attention that Comes First/ Mary Oliver

The little hawk leaned sideways and, tilted,
rode the wind. Its eye at this distance looked
like green glass; its feet were the color
of butter. Speed, obviously, was joy. But
then, so was the sudden, slow circle it carved
into the slightly silvery air, and the
squaring of its shoulders, and the pulling into
itself the long, sharp-edged wings, and the
fall into the grass where it tussled a moment,
like a bundle of brown leaves, and then, again,
lifted itself into the air, that butter-color
clenched in order to hold a small, still
body, and it flew off as my mind sang out oh
all that loose, blue rink of sky, where does
it go to, and why?

There is no way I could write in such detail about the bird I saw today. It was too far up to see it’s eyes or shoulders or anything it might be carrying. And, even if the bird had been closer, I wouldn’t have been able to see such fine detail anyway.

march 8/RUN

3.25 miles
trestle turn around
50 degrees
15 mph wind/ 31 mph gusts

Sunny and warm today. Been running in the cold for so long now that I forgot what to wear when it gets a little warmer. So windy! Greeted Dave the Daily Walker near the beginning. Ran up the hill from under the lake street bridge, enjoying the sound and feel of the scratching grit. Was able to run on more of the walking path. Saw my shadow. Heard a woodpecker. Marveled at the sparkling water–couldn’t tell if it was blue or gray or brown, it only looked sparkly white. At the halfway point I took off my orange sweatshirt and ran south in a short sleeved shirt. The feeling of spring! Anything else I remember? Lots of runners in shorts.

Favorite part of the run: running south along the rim, above the rowing club. So beautiful hovering above the open water. Seeing a small motorboat speeding below, making the water ripple.

School

A few days ago, waking up in the middle of the night, I thought about Mary Oliver and some poem she had written about the sea as her classroom. What a great idea, I thought, I’ll remember it tomorrow when I get up. Forgot it, of course. But then, while walking with Scott, remembered it again. Was able to find the poem:

Breakage/ Mary Oliver

I go down to the edge of the sea. 
How everything shines in the morning light! 
The cusp of the whelk, 
the broken cupboard of the clam, 
the opened, blue mussels, 
moon snails, pale pink and barnacle scarred— 
and nothing at all whole or shut, but tattered, split, 
dropped by the gulls onto the gray rocks and all the moisture gone. 
It’s like a schoolhouse 
of little words, 
thousands of words. 
First you figure out what each one means by itself, 
the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop 
       full of moonlight. 

Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story.

Love the line, “nothing at all whole or shut, but tattered, split” and “the opened” and “a schoolhouse of little words”. Looked up whelk and it’s a large marine snail.

Thinking about the idea of the gorge as a classroom–if so, who is the teacher?

Here’s another school related poem from Mary Oliver, who hated school as a child. I read in her memoir, Upstream, that the only thing she was good at doing in school was being truant.

Just As The Calendar Began to Say Summer/ Mary Oliver (Long Life)

I went out of the schoolhouse fast
and through the gardens and to the woods,
and spent all summer forgetting what I’d been taught–

two times two, and diligence, and so forth,
how to be modest and useful, and how to succeed and so forth,
machines and oil and plastic and money and so forth.

By fall I had healed somewhat, but was summoned back
to the chalky rooms and the desks, to sit and remember

the way the river kept rolling its pebbles,
the way the wild wrens sang though they hadn’t a penny in the bank,
the way the flowers were dressed in nothing but light.

I love this idea of spending all summer trying to forget the lessons taught in school and the rest of the year trying to remember the river! It reminds me of my process of undisciplining/unmaking and remaking myself.

And, one more:

Mindful/mary oliver

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light. 
It is what I was born for–
to look, to listen, 

to lose myself
inside this soft world–
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy, 
and acclamation.
nor am I talking
about the exceptional, 

the fearful, 
the very extravagant–
but of the ordinary, 
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar, 
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these–
the untrimmable light,

the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

Oh good scholar! Love this line and love the idea of being a student out by the gorge and a teacher who instructs myself.

march 6/RUN

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?

march 5/RUN

3.25 miles
ford bridge and back
37 degrees
sleet/rain mix

Today my mom would have turned 78. She died over ten years ago in 2009. When I headed out for my run, I wasn’t thinking about this fact or wishing she were on the run with me. I was thinking about how beautiful the gorge looked in the gloomy gray–so calm and wet and exposed. Even though it was windy and drizzling, I knew I needed to be out there beside it. Then, after I finished, feeling flushed and happy, I remembered that it was her birthday and I began to believe that getting me outside to the gorge, able to see all the way to other side of the river, to smell the smoke from some distant fire, to absorb the brown tree trunks and blue water, to breathe in the coming spring, to feel joy and delight and astonishment at the beauty surrounding me, was a present from her. She taught me to love being outside, to notice and wonder about the natural world, and to make life sacred through honoring daily routines. (I’m not sure I’m saying this quite right, maybe I’ll spend some more time today trying to figure it out?)

I looked back in this log, and I did runs on her birthday in 2017 and 2019–why not 2018? I looked at the entries near the 5th in 2018; it was snowing that day and my right kneecap was sliding around a lot.

I liked today’s run. The path was clear with only a few puddles. The gorge and the river were totally exposed. I could see all the hills and ravines and trails that are usually hidden by leaves or too much snow. I liked glancing down at my jacket and watching as little snowflakes bounced off the shiny black fabric. I could tell it was snowing and raining but I couldn’t feel it. Sleeves covered my arms, a baseball cap my face.

I encountered an annoying pedestrian who refused to move as I ran towards him. As I neared, I noticed he was wearing a surgical mask. Not sure what to say about this; just wanted to make a note of it. How strange and stressful and overwhelming it all is–between terrible presidents and failed parties and hoarding toilet paper and melting glaciers and possible pandemics.

After my run, walking home, I thought about how difficult it is to be (and stay) joyful in the face of so much fear and hate and fucked-up values. It is hard work you must do daily. In my own way, I’m trying to do that work through running by the gorge and writing about it. These thoughts were partly inspired by this twitter thread I read this morning.

Before leaving for my run, I recorded myself reciting 2 slightly different versions of the latest draft of my January Joy poem. Here’s my preferred one. It’s a lot different than the first draft I posted a few days ago. It is still not finished, I think.

January Joy/ Sara Lynne Puotinen

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, opening, able to hold multitudes

To be nothing next to the river!
The ancient river!
Small and new and insignificant

To be the space above the river
floating over the river
between tree top and sky, illuminated by sun!

The sun!
Glowing up the gray gloom!
Warming my cold face!
Flashing through tall, thin 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,
white and woodsy and blueish gray.

march 4/RUN

5.5 miles
franklin loop
36 degrees

Felt warmer than 36 degrees this morning. So warm that I was surprised to encounter ice on the path near the Welcoming Oaks. Sunny. Not too windy, but windier than I thought it would be.

I yelled at a biker as I crossed 46th, a block from the river. They didn’t stop at the stop sign and weaved around barely missing running into me. I thought I heard them yell something but realized too late it was a voice from the radio they were blasting. I yelled, “you have a stop sign!” I stewed over my outburst for a few minutes, feeling hostile towards everyone I encountered–the other runners approaching me, not wanting to move over and make room for me until the last minute, the clueless walker who didn’t move at all. I worked hard to remember how wonderful it is to be outside by the river with a clear path. Then I encountered another runner, who was thoughtfully on the other side, and smiled.

Every time I started to think about my irritation and regret over yelling, I forced the thoughts out of my head. I looked at the river, open and flowing. I listened to the shuffling grit under my feet. I felt the strength in my legs. Then I saw the shadow of a bird above me and I thought about how I love shadows and the strange feeling of something being there but only in shadow form–like a ghost or a trace or something else. And, as I was finding delight in this I realized that this quick flash was it, my moment for the day. Such a small moment, but enough for me. Why? Not sure if I can put it into words yet.

Some other things I remember:

  1. Slowly catching up to and passing a runner just before the franklin bridge. Their gait was slow and relaxed.
  2. Thinking about the january joy poem I’m working on and how wonderful poetry is for giving me a reason to spend more time with the river.
  3. Dodging and hurtling over slabs of frozen earth on the walking path, probably unearthed by the plows last month.
  4. Wondering if any of the cars would drive through a puddle and soak me (they didn’t).
  5. Noticing that the Meeker Island dog park was open.
  6. Seeing a few people standing at the top of the stairs leading up to the marshall/lake street bridge and wondering why they were there.
  7. Hearing water rushing through the sewer on the street.
  8. Thinking about how much taller the trestle is on the east side of the river.
  9. Running on the bridge and hearing someone approaching from behind. It took them forever to pass! Is that how the runner I passed earlier in the run felt?
  10. Hearing my zipper pull banging against my chest, sometimes thinking the sound was another runner approaching (it wasn’t).

As I made the above list, I suddenly remembered another moment of delight, equally as mundane and strange as my bird shadow. Running near Meeker Island on the St. Paul side, everything became brown. No snow, no green grass, no leaves. Just a rich brown, made deeper by the sun. Mostly mulched leaves and bare tree trunks, a little ground. It made me think of my childhood and exploring wooded trails in Virginia. It made me think of driving through the Keweenaw Peninsula in late fall. It made me think of spring coming. It made me feel a deep, warm, glowing joy.

Before I started my run, I recorded myself reciting Heather Christle’s poem, The Spider (posted on jan 6), and Susan Stewart’s, Pine (posted on jan 18). Then I listened to them in my headphones just before I started my run. I didn’t think about Christle’s poem but I do think Stewart and the different ways she played with the word pine, inspired my thoughts about loving poetry and its invitation to spend time experimenting with words and ideas and images .

feb 29/RUN

5 miles
to stone arch bridge
27 degrees
90% clear path

Was able to do a one way run to the Stone Arch bridge today. Felt warm and relaxed and strong. Walked for about 30 seconds on the final big hill. Did a lot of counting to four. Greeted Dave the Daily Walker at the beginning. Encountered several runners, some walkers, and three bikers biking up the franklin hill as I was running down it. Saw my shadow in front of me. Heard some honking geese flying overhead; tried to spot them but couldn’t. Saw some big bird flying high up in the sky and then the shadow of a bird fly over me–was it the same bird? An eagle? A turkey vulture? The river was open–was it brown or blue? I can’t remember. Noticed the ice on the limestone cliffs in the flats. Heard the gushing of the water at the bottom, between Annie Young Meadows and the turnoff for the U. Just before I reached the Washington bridge, the light rail rumbled overhead. Anything else I remember? I was overdressed and very warm. One too many shirts. I’m sure I thought about something but I left it on the trail, probably on the last hill. Ended on the bridge–so breezy. Glad I wasn’t running into that wind the whole time!

What a beautiful poem! I found it through Ours Poetica and Ashley C. Ford’s reading of it.

Unwished For/ Shira Erlichman

I’m standing in my town’s ice cream shop when I notice them: the white couple smiling at me. Blonde woman standing beside a mailbox, waiting patiently for news, husband reassuringly placing a hand on her shoulder. The flyer they’re on is pink: international color of positivity in the face of infertility. They are having a hard time, my couple. That’s why they’re here in my ice cream shop. But they have faith, they’re trying, haven’t quit wanting what they want, in spite of it all.

             Could you be the one?

I lick the crest of my cone slowly, examine their bullet-pointed criteria.

             21 to 42 years

It’s not conscious, but somewhere inside a voice says: “Check.”

             No criminal record.                                       “Check.”

            No history of mental illness.

I say, out loud to the paper, not caring if the teenager behind me churning into an icy chunk with a steady fist hears, I say: “I know this is different, Susan, Jim, but I would never wish Frida to not have been hit by that trolley. I would never look her in the face and say, ‘I choose to unmake you and your paintings and your horroring heart. I rob the woods of your little deer.’”

“It’s different,” Susan says, “you’re not Frida.”

“Plus,” adds Jim, “that was physical. A freak accident. Try another argument.”

What they don’t want of me lives. It sees through my eyes that they would prefer it dead. It knows better than to whimper, or show defeat. What they don’t want of me breathes.

“Eugenicists,” it says

The woman gasps, hand to chest.

It continues: “You want to spare yourselves. That’s not love.”

“We don’t want her to suffer,” they chime in unison. Oh—her? It was decided: A girl. Claire. Or, Vanessa. Or, Claire. She’d have red curls, love olives, sing in her sleep.

“She doesn’t want to suffer either,” I peel the words open slowly, “but she’d rather be alive, than not suffer.”

I am not talking to a piece of paper in Herrell’s Ice Cream Shop. I am not invoking Frida. I am not naming an unloved ghost Claire. I’m licking my wrist of a smudge of strawberry cream, listening to the terrible Top 40 hit blaring overhead. I’m staring at the words No history of mental illness, trying to move my feet, and leave the world where this is taped up, natural as the moon.

Will the Normal Rockwell of our time paint me standing here before it? In my jean cutoffs, finishing what’s left of a soggy cone, drugs in my blood, unwished for by strangers.

Oh this poem and Ford’s reading of it! I love how she imagines and then makes real with her words this painful encounter between the wishers and the unwished for in such a mundane, every day setting. And I love how she conjures up Claire with red curls, who sings herself to sleep and loves olives. Wow.

feb 27/RUN

3.2 miles
trestle turn around
26 degrees
100% clear!

Windy today. Not too crowded. Sunny. My legs felt weird for a mile or so–like they weren’t quite working. Heavy, plodding. Listened to a New Yorker poetry podcast with a poet I just discovered (Craig Morgan Teicher) and felt like I was in a dream. Barely on the path, floating, cocooned in layers, unable to hear birds or trickling water or striking feet. The river was open. Stopped and admired it by the trestle. Then turned on my new playlist. No Daily Walker but a few others walkers, at least one biker. Felt fast in the second half as I flew down the hill by the lake street bridge. Sprinted up the final hill. Don’t remember much from the run. What a wonderful thing it is to lose myself for 30 minutes!

Before I ran, I had a great morning. Started by listening to part of an episode with Victoria Change on Commonplace. At one point, they discuss their shifts in writing in first and third person which got me thinking about my own choice, in my latest project, to write in second person. Why am I using you? Who is you? Found some very interesting essays on second person online: Stuck on You: an ode the second person and the intimacy of writing in the second person in a bar. Then I started thinking about how Mary Oliver uses you, like in Wild Geese (You do not have to be good/you do not have to walk on your knees…). Finally I thought about who the I and the You are in my project. One answer: I = Teacher self and You = Student Self.

After all of that excellent thinking, I checked out twitter and found these lines from the poem Tomorrow and Tomorrow Again/Craig Morgan Teicher:

One cannot lock eyes with a bird,
its eyes vacant as ball bearings, but
mustn’t there be some recognition
in everything?

eyes vacant as black ball bearings? What a great line that reminds me of my own about not being able to see people’s pupils: “soul less black balls”. I looked Teicher up and found his poem, “Eye Contact”. I wondered, does he have macular degeneration or some other vision problem? Couldn’t find anything, but he sure does like referencing blindness. His poetry collection from 2012 is titled, To Keep Love Blurry and check out the titles he gave his NPR end of the year poetry reviews: “Keeping the Dark at Bay” and “In the Dark, The Eye Begins to See.” Hmm…I need to study his writing more. At this point, early on, I can’t decide what he’s doing with these references to blindness–is it signaling his own experiences/preoccupations with blindness or is it serving as metaphor, where blind = dark = bad = shame = grief = loss = death?

Tomorrow and Tomorrow Again/ Craig Morgan Teicher

Of course I don’t know what
happens to us: if we survive in the
hands of love; if Cal, if Simone
and all the trembling answers
those questions entail; whether
by time or by disease or by
an atom bomb right in the eye. Is it
possible death could be thrilling
and fun? And after could there be
something somewhere and what
will we do if we see each other
there? Will the same songs stay stuck
in our heads? Will medicine
succeed in making life so long
we will beg for medicine to end it?
One cannot lock eyes with a bird,
its eyes vacant as ball bearings, but
mustn’t there be some recognition
in everything? Some fury, some
questioning? If one phrase could echo
throughout eternity, would the ear
on the other side return
a word? But what am I asking?
Will I ever see a whale, and will his size
compared to mine be a true
form of knowledge? Loneliness
has depths writing fails to fathom.
I could be clearer, say more, but
it wouldn’t mean as much. Mother
will I ever find you again? Is fear
of spiders fair? Is a power
above minding the scales, be it
science or gods or the weather,
and can they be tipped toward
balance from here? Is beauty more
than another form of pleasure?
What, which, when, how is better?

Eye Contact/ Craig Morgan Teicher

As if bees are known for their pride.
But what’s so great about horses? They’re stuck 
on the earth except when they jump,

but even then they’re not bees.
But is there anything we value so highly 
as streetlights, which, unlike bees,

watch over us with their swan-like
necks and open their eyes at the right time 
every night? The answer is lonely

and whoever among us is brave enough 
to find it will come home to a family 
that won’t even look us in the eyes.


2

But what’s so great about eye contact? 
As if a horse knows a newspaper 
when he sees it. Streetlights don’t live

in hives; they’re not more afraid
of us than we are, fortified by stingers and swarms. 
Bees don’t brighten the alleyways

in which we commit our most heinous crimes 
to keep things moving and fill 
the papers with news. Why don’t we have

a holiday to recognize the alleyways?
The answer is lonely and whoever
among us is brave will have nowhere to jump.


3

Why don’t we sing a song that makes 
the bees proud? What’s so great 
about desolate meadows? The answer

is lonely. Why don’t we come home 
and look at our family? Why don’t we 
designate an hour to brag about news?

What’s so great about the way the papers 
blow through alleyways in the evening 
like deflated rats? As if pride could

brighten the meadows at night. Whoever 
among us is brave enough to forgive
a family gets to make eyes with a lonely horse.


4

As if the answer is flowers. As if 
we could gather streetlights
in a bouquet from the alleyways

and brighten family after 
beekeeping family. But what’s so 
great about seeing the truth?

Beneath every meadow is the earth’s 
molten core, red and hot as an evil eye. 
Why don’t we blow through the streets

at night? The answer is lonely, even 
if a horse knows the way home. 
What’s so great about being brave?

freeze-thaw, a different perspective

added in a few hours after I first posted this entry: Scrolling through my twitter feed, I encountered this very helpful, perspective-shifting idea from Paul Huttner on MPR Weather:

Temperatures over the next week look perfect for gradually reducing snowpack across the Upper Midwest. Days above the thawing point will melt snow. Nights below freezing mean that snowmelt will gradually be released into area rivers.

This gradual release helps mitigate the early-spring threat of flooding. Wow! All this time, I’ve been cranking about how much I hate these freeze-thaw cycles. I’m glad to read that they’re helpful. I still might not like how dangerous they make the path, but now I can get over myself and think about how they help the river. What a nice opportunity to shift my perspective. And, as a bonus: it will be warmer during the day next week!

feb 24/RUN

5.5 miles
franklin hill turn around
39 degrees
5% slick ice covered

Waited a little longer to go out running this morning. Needed to let the thin sheets of ice covering the puddles melt. A nice day for a run! Not too much wind, not too many people. Sun. Clear paths. I got my layers right today: 1 shirt, 1 vest, 1 pair of running tights, 1 headband, 1 pair of gloves, 1 pair of socks. It was warm enough today to smell the earth thawing–why does it smell like dog poop? I think I like the smell of death in the fall–the musty, mulching leaves–over the smell of life in the almost spring.

David Lee Roth is in town with KISS for a concert tonight. Scott read somewhere that he always brings his bike to Minneapolis and loves biking along the river. Today, I kept looking for him, hoping he’d bike by. No luck. Bummer.

Glanced down at the river a few times. Enjoyed hearing the sibilant sounds of my striking feet on the grit covered path. Ran hard up the hill, then stopped to a walk for a few minutes when I reached the bridge. Thought about the body that was found just north of this bridge early yesterday morning. Managed to mostly avoid the secret slippery spots where the water on the path was still frozen. Also managed to avoid getting soaked by cars rushing through big puddles on the road.

With less than a mile left, I had an idea about my current project and decided, even though I was running well, enjoying going faster, to stop and record my thoughts.

Uh oh.

Just tried to find and transcribe my voice memo, but it wasn’t there. I must have hit the wrong button when I was trying to record it. Here’s what I remember. For a few minutes before stopping, I was chanting. How to be/periphery, How to be/periphery. Then I realized: I need a (big) project to focus on, a project that involves structure and daily practice. A concrete project. This is the project I think I’m working on–and in many ways, it is what I’m working on–but, I’m also working on something else, off to the side, at the periphery, which is the real work I need/want to do. What a bummer. I feel like I can’t remember a key to my thought that helped it make sense. It connects with the article I read about how to be a procrastinator a few years ago, and with the idea of not approaching projects/thoughts/goals head on, but slant or sideways or sneakily (tricking your brain). Argh! I wish I hadn’t screwed up the recording.

My Weather/ Jane Hirshfield

Wakeful, sleepy, hungry, anxious,
restless, stunned, relieved.

Does a tree also?
A mountain?

A cup holds 
sugar, flour, three large rabbit-breaths of air.

I hold these.

What do I hold? Ever since I encountered the phrase, “inner and outer weather” (from a Frost poem about a tree at the window, via Edward Hirsch), I have been thinking about weather as metaphor for one’s mood/emotions/feelings. Love this poem and how it plays with this idea. And I love imagining how much air is 3 large rabbit-breaths worth. How big is this rabbit? And, in general, how big are rabbit breaths?

feb 23/RUN

3.1 miles
locks and dam #1 turn around
45 degrees
50% ice and puddle covered

note: no dictation today. Just as I started, Delia the dog ran in, barking and making lots of noise, which was fine because I wasn’t really feeling it anyway.

Today it was sunny and warm and sloppy and not as much fun. I do not regret going out for this run–well maybe my wet socks and shoes do!–but I would rank these conditions as some of the worst. Overcrowded paths, narrow strips of dry pavement in-between little lakes of cold, sometimes icy water. Very slick. Instead of feeling open and joyful and generous to everyone I encountered, I felt hostile and threatened–would they push me off into a puddle or a slick spot? I do not like feeling this way and I do not want to give too much space to my grumpy thoughts. So I won’t. Instead, here’s something very cool that I saw on my run today:

The river was still mostly white but at one spot, I think it was between 38th and 42nd somewhere, I noticed a path of open water winding across from the minneapolis to the st. paul side. It reminded me of a slithering snake. I love the strange patterns that open water makes when the ice cracks open. And I love the contrast between the frozen white and the darker water–black on cloudy days, brown on sunny ones.

Another thing I saw today that I liked: my shadow! She ran in front of me on my way back from the locks and dam.

I liked wearing less layers: only one pair of running tights, one neon yellow shirt, one vest.

I liked the squish squish squish my shoes made after I ran straight through the deep puddle on the double bridge.

I liked talking to the couple after my run who asked me how I could run on the ice. I’ve been asked this several times and I always say: “It’s easier to run on it then to walk on it. It’s when I stop running that I slip!”

Yesterday, I posted May Sarton’s poem, The Work of Happiness. In her first stanza, she writes:

But is creation itself like the growth of a tree.
No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark
Another circle is growing in the expanding ring.

Here are a few things that her tree ring/circle made me think about:

1

Reflecting on how she always feels like she’s 11, even though she’s 64, Sandra Cisneros tells Krista Tippett:

You know how you look at a tree, and there are some rings that had a lot of rain, and it gets really bigger, and they shrink? Well, we can think about our own years and what defined us or what happened to us in those years.

2

In her poem, “Can You Imagine?”, Mary Oliver imagines a tree’s irritation with the slow, soundless, boring passing of time represented in the thickening of the rings:

Can You Imagine?/ Mary Oliver

For example, what the trees do
Not only in lightening storms
or in the watery dark of a summer night
or the white nets of winter
but now, and now, and now–whenever
we’re not looking. Surely you can’t imagine
they just stand there, looking like they look
when we’re looking; surely you can’t imagine
they don’t dance, from the root up, wishing
to travel a little, not cramped so much as wanting
a better view, or more sun, or just as avidly
more shade—surely you can’t imagine they just
stand there loving every
minute of it, the birds or the emptiness, the dark rings
of the years slowly and without a sound
thickening, and nothing different unless the wind,
and then only in it’s own mood, comes
to visit, surely you can’t imagine
patience, and happiness, like that.

3

Did you know the modern science of tree-ring study is called dendrochronology? I didn’t, until I read this essay, Shared Dendrochronologies: Andrew Schelling on poetry, translation, & the aliveness of wor(l)ds.

4

And that the original dendrochronologist, William E. Douglass, created it to track how trees record climate change through their rings?

What a wonderful log entry this is! Through the process of writing it, I feel better–joyful and delighted with my run today.

feb 22/RUN

5 miles
franklin hill turn around
32 degrees
20% snow and ice covered

Recorded my self on the voice memo app today a few hours after my run.

Log, 2/22/20

Here is the transcript:

Today I ran 5 miles. It was sunny and above freezing. It felt warm and there were puddles and barely ice patches on the path. I saw my shadow in front of me as I was running towards Franklin. I ran down the Franklin hill and then turned around and ran up until I got to the bridge. Then I stopped and walked for a couple of minutes. I encountered a lot of runners. I was able to greet Dave the Daily Walker. He was in short sleeves and no coat–of course. I saw some fat tires and a vee of geese at some point. The sky was blue. I didn’t notice any clouds. Around the time I started, the river all looked white to me but by the time I got to the Franklin bridge it was brown and open. I heard some kids down by the ravine, probably playing in the ice cave. I slipped several times on the ice but didn’t fall. I heard some crunching. I saw some salt stains on the path. I didn’t think about much. I remember counting to four. I remember feeling strong and relaxed and thinking I wasn’t going that fast, which was good, I was trying to go slow. And I don’t remember that much else about the run. I sprinted up the final hill and it was hard. But I thought that if I sprinted up this hill and I could do this and keep going when it was hard, that when I’m in a race, when I’m getting to the very end, if I can keep going and even pick it up and know that I will survive. Did I think about anything else? I don’t remember smelling much. I think there were a lot of cars. There were groups of walkers, usually in pairs, and sometimes that was frustrating to try and navigate that. I didn’t hear a train. I didn’t do any triple berry chants. I think I heard a woodpecker and I think I saw a bird up in the sky but I’m not sure. I don’t remember looking down to my favorite part of the path, looking down to the floodplain forest. I think that’s all I remember. It was a good run.

It is definitely harder to speak than to write. It feels like my details are a bit boring and I’m having trouble remembering quickly as I try to speak without out umms or ands. Will this get better, or is this a bad approach to remembering the details of my run? I’ll try it a few more times before I decide.

One other think I forgot to mention in my recording was all the runners I encountered running the Franklin hill. At least 5 or 6 seemed to doing hill work–running up it until reaching the bridge, then turning around and running back down it again. I would like to try this sometime. Maybe a slow, easy run to the hill, then a few times running up and down it–a goal for spring.

The Work of Happiness/ May Sarton

I thought of happiness, how it is woven
Out of the silence in the empty house each day
And how it is not sudden and it is not given
But is creation itself like the growth of a tree.
No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark
Another circle is growing in the expanding ring.
No one has heard the root go deeper in the dark,
But the tree is lifted by this inward work
And its plumes shine, and its leaves are glittering.

So happiness is woven out of the peace of hours
And strikes its roots deep in the house alone:
The old chest in the corner, cool waxed floors,
White curtains softly and continually blown
As the free air moves quietly about the room;
A shelf of books, a table, and the white-washed wall—
These are the dear familiar gods of home,
And here the work of faith can best be done,
The growing tree is green and musical.

For what is happiness but growth in peace,
The timeless sense of time when furniture
Has stood a life’s span in a single place,
And as the air moves, so the old dreams stir
The shining leaves of present happiness?
No one has heard thought or listened to a mind,
But where people have lived in inwardness
The air is charged with blessing and does bless;
Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind.

Something about the idea of inwardness and the stable, single place of the thinking/deepening self as a house reminded me of another poem (Ash/ Tracy K. Smith) I heard last year on a podcast. These are very different poems, but I’d like to put them beside each other and think about them for a while.

Ash/ Tracy K. Smith

Strange house we must keep and fill.

House that eats and pleads and kills.

House on legs. House on fire. House infested

With desire. Haunted house. Lonely house.

House of trick and suck and shrug.

Give-it-to-me house. I-need-you-baby house.

House whose rooms are pooled with blood.

House with hands. House of guilt. House

That other houses built. House of lies

And pride and bone. House afraid to be alone.

House like an engine that churns and stalls.

House with skin and hair for walls.

House the seasons singe and douse.

House that believes it is not a house.

I found the podcast with Smith’s poem–On Being with Krista Tippett–and read the transcript where Smith talks about the poem and how her understanding of it has been transformed by how others have read it:

I wrote that poem thinking about the body, thinking about what it means to be alive in this human form and how strange it is that it’s temporary, that we are not just the body, but something else. That’s the way I’ve read it the first many times that I read it, or, at least, what I heard myself saying. But there’s a lot of ambiguity in the poem, and so people have questions about it. Someone has told me it feels like a poem that, more than just being in the body, is about being a woman and that sense of vulnerability and also sheltering something. Then, because a lot of these poems in this book are thinking about nationhood and American history, I was really excited to hear it described as a poem that is about the country as a house, and taking us back even to Abraham Lincoln in the sense of “a house divided against itself.” I love that active readers can give you a good enough argument to re-hear and see what you’ve made yourself.

So many ways to think about the inner, inwardness, the self, the body.

feb 20/RUN

4.2 miles
minnehaha falls and back
5 degrees/ feels like -5
10% snow and ice covered

Another dictation entry. I tried to more deliberate in my speaking today, but it’s still harder to speak these then to write them.

Ran south towards the Falls this morning. It is very cold. The path is clear, although there was some ice that was slippery. I paid attention to my favorite spot right after the Mesa curves down and opens up into the river. I noticed that the path was stained with salt. The river was mostly frozen over with a few gaps of open water. I ran towards the falls thinking that they would be completely frozen over by now but when I got to the park, I heard some water rushing and when I reach the falls, I noticed a bit of water falling over the edge. There were a few people there.

I don’t think I saw any other runners. The first person I encountered on my run was somebody on a fat tire and I remember thinking how cold they must be.

When I got to the Falls I stopped for a minute to take off my hood and to look at the water. Then I started again. I noticed as I was running that my shadow was right in front of me. So clear and sharp and fully present! Then I had a revelation: my shadow is who is writing my workbook. My shadow is talking to me and giving me advice on what to do. In my exercises, my shadow is the implied I and I am the you she’s talking to. Very exciting to figure this out.

On the run back, I was hot and sweating. I noticed how beautiful the ravine near the double bridge is at this time of year when all the leaves are off the trees and you can really see everything.

After I was done and had walked home, I took a recording right outside my front door of the birds. Speaking of birds, about 3 miles into my run, heading north, I heard a mourning dove crying out, sounding like the one in this recording:

Discovered this wonderful essay over at Poetry Foundation by Edward Hirsch on poetic language. Here are a few of my favorite bits:

Poetry charts the changes in language, but it never merely reproduces or recapitulates what it finds. The lyric poem defamiliarizes words, it wrenches them from familiar or habitual contexts, it puts a spell on them. 

As the eighteenth-century English poet Christopher Smart put it, freely translating from Horace’s Art of Poetry:

It is exceedingly well
To give a common word the spell
To greet you as intirely new.

The lyric poem separates and uproots words from the daily flux and flow of living speech but it also delivers them back—spelled, changed, charmed—to the domain of other people

feb 19/RUN

4.2 miles
trestle turn around plus extra
5° feels like 4 below
50% snow and ice covered

A only slightly edited transcript of my notes about the run, dictated into my notes app on my phone.

A lot of slippery spots. Very sunny this morning. It felt really cold. About a mile in greeted Dave the daily walker. Almost yelled out to him, “it’s cold today!” He is hard-core–no coat again but some gloves. Running right before I got to the trestle I heard a beep beep beep beep beep beep beep sound. I wondered if it was the train and then after I crossed under the trestle and was still heading towards downtown, I heard the rumbling of a train. It lasted a long time. I thought about turning around and running back so I could see the train but I decided against it because I wanted to keep going north. I listened to the rumble and I couldn’t quite tell if it was coming from Saint Paul over to Minneapolis or from Minneapolis over to Saint Paul. I experimented with chanting in threes when I turned around and headed south again. Uppercut/ bowling ball/ sweaty brow Then I started chanting in triple berries: raspberry/ blueberry/ red berry/ green berry pink berry/ orange berry/ blueberry/ raspberry/ gooseberry/ mulberry I chanted them over and over again to try and keep a steady rhythm. I saw a couple other runners, a few walkers. I thought I heard some kids yelling in the gorge but then I realized it was geese honking.

thoughts about dictating running notes

  • Not sure if I like the notes app for this. It was a bit awkward and I think (at least I hope) it added in some random words.
  • I write much better than I speak.
  • I need to stop feeling so self conscious doing this. I also need to be more deliberate and thoughtful in what I say.
  • I still have to add in periods and capitals, which is irritating.
  • This is a good exercise for me. I need to get used to doing something that someday might be necessary.

The Blink Reflex/ Rick Barot

I have this notion that if you live long enough,
there are three or four great stories that you will have in your life.

A story of a journey or a transformation.
A story of love, which will likely mean the loss of love, a story

of loss. And a story of spiritual illumination,
which, for many, will probably be the moment of death itself,

the story untellable, its beginning and middle
and end collapsing with its teller into a disappearing conclusion.

I have believed long enough in my notion
to know that it is a romantic notion, that it erodes each time

I realize that the shard and not the whole
comprises a life, the image and not the narrative. Otherwise,

there’s no reason why all I remember of the airplane
I took as a child from one country to another

is the moist towelette packet we were given with our meal,
the wonder and absurdity of it. Or that, in love,

high in a tree in the dark, and high, he and I sat in the rain-damp
branches and ate 7-Eleven donuts. Or this, this piece

of a story that isn’t even mine, that isn’t even a story
but a glance of an experience, of the friend who held the stray

dog after it was struck by a car. Not knowing whether the dog
was dead, my friend called a friend

who worked for a vet. Poke the dog in the eye, this friend said.
Because if the animal no longer has a blink reflex,

it probably means the animal is dead. Decades after
college, when you could do such a thing, I typed his name

into a search engine to find out what became of the 18-year-old
boy from the tree. Like dozens of old keys

in a drawer, so many of the wrong people with the right name.
The child dead from leukemia, with a school gym

named for him. The wrestler who had a perfectly square jaw,
like a cartoon police detective in a fedora.

When I arrived at a page that was certainly
about him, I no longer knew the face, but I recognized the life

that he had had. He had transferred to
another college, gone to film school, and become a producer

of TV documentaries. A film about fishermen, the harsh fishing
season in Alaska. A film about Abraham Lincoln

and a film about the last days of Adolf Hitler.
A film about the Sherpas who go up and down the Himalayas.

What a beautiful poem. I love the title and the way the stories/fragments are woven together and the sweet, soft rhyme of “and high, he and I” and the playing with the romantic notion that we each only have 3 or 4 great stories.

feb 17/RUN

4 miles
trestle turn around
33°
85% clear 15% ice covered

Note: Today, I’m trying something new. Usually I type up these log entries directly into wordpress. Today I tried dictating the entry into my notes app, then editing it slightly. It was difficult to speak my thoughts, partly because I felt self-conscious with other people in the house and partly because I find it easier to write my thoughts. But I need to learn how to do this because looking at a computer screen is getting more difficult and more tiring on my eyes. Maybe I’ll always be able to use the computer and see the letters, but I’d like to experiment with different ways to speak and write and think that don’t rely on vision. I was thinking of trying this dictation method for a month–maybe even trying to dictate the notes directly after my run, at the gorge.

This entry was slightly edited, with extra words and redundant phrases taken out.

The wind was coming from the south which meant that as I was running north it was at my back. Much easier running towards the trestle. I knew that it would be hard on the way back and it was. It was slightly sunny but not super sunny and at one point I saw my shadow. Not clear like it usually was; it looked more like a ghost, faint. I heard some kids down in the gorge. Probably by the ravine, maybe hiking around the exposed sewer pipe or the ice cave that is created in the winter by the seeps and the dripping water. Felt fast running north. I didn’t feel the wind at my back but knew that it was easier. Encountered a few runners, some walkers. One walker, an older white man, wore a fluorescent yellow vest. I saw him twice. I heard the grit under my feet. I don’t think I heard any geese but I did hear some crows cawing as I started. The river was partly frozen over but mostly open and it looked beautiful and still and desolate. The run back was difficult, the wind right in my face. I sprinted up the final hill and felt very tired and hot and sweaty. Overdressed. I chanted triplets. I started with Sycamore Cottonwood one lone Oak but that didn’t do it for me so then I chanted Gooseberry Mulberry raspberry raspberry mulberry goose berry raspberry blueberry blackberry raspberry blueberry blackberry and that helped me keep a steady pace.

lateral malleolus = all a sell out realm

On Saturday, I slightly rolled my ankle as I was moving down from the walking to the biking path. It is a little sore, but not painful. I am pretty sure it will be fine but I’ve been reading up on the ankle and foot to prepare myself. New fact/word: the bony knob on the outside of your ankle is called the medial malleolus. The knob on the inside is called the lateral malleolus. Tried turning lateral malleolus into an anagram. The first phrase that I could come up with that sort of made sense: All a sell out realm

feb 16/RUN

3.35 miles
river road, south/north
19 degrees/feels like 11
15% ice-covered

Ahhhhhh!! Winter running! Not too cold but cold enough to be able to breathe in fresh, cold, crisp air. A mostly clear path. Not too much wind. Not too many people. Everything quiet, still. Saw at least three people walking their dogs down on the Winchell trail. Encountered a fat tire biking alongside a runner. A few pairs of walkers. One or two other runners. Don’t remember hearing any birds cawing or chirping or honking. Not much traffic noise. Thought I heard some sloshing or dripping water at one point. Marveled at my new favorite view just past the oak savanna. One problem: I don’t remember there being so many bare trunks here between me and the river. Am I remembering the wrong spot? I love how the flat hill at the savanna–we call it the mesa–curves down to reveal the river.

triple berry chants

Did some triplet chants again: all berries. Without thinking, briefly chanted blueberry/ blackberry/ red berry. Then wondered why a raspberry is called a raspberry and not a red berry and why blueberries are called blueberries and not something else. Found a buzzfeed article that was a little helpful: The Delicious Origins of Summer Fruit Names

Here’s what is written about raspberries:

Like the strawberry, the raspberry isn’t a true berry in the biological sense of the word. And also like the word strawberry, we don’t know what its rasp- is about.

The word raspberry is found relatively late in English, attested in the early 1600s. An earlier form, raspis-berry, might give clues to its origins. In Middle English, raspise was a sweet, pink wine, possibly from the Anglo-Latin vinum raspeys. But this raspeys remains unexplained. Suggestions include the French rasper, “to scrape,” referring to the fruit’s rough appearance, and an Old Walloon word for “thicket.”

The listicle also mentions gooseberries and mulberries. And further down, it happens to mention the tree, sycamore. Another satisfying triplet. Maybe I’ll chant: gooseberry/raspberry/mulberry and then some trees: sycamore/cottonwood/? Need to think more about a third triplet tree.

to float, to haunt

At some point, thought about the article I read earlier this morning about the biomechanics of the run and the “double float” phase, which is when both feet are off of the ground. I usually think of this as flying but is also cool to think of it as a floating. What else floats: clouds, hot air balloons, ghosts, bodies in water, buoys, bubbles. I like the idea of being a ghost, floating and haunting the trail that I’ve traveled so many times in the last five years. Haunt is such a wonderfully rich word: to frequent, visit often; to continually seek the company of; to trouble; to reappear continually in; to visit or inhabit as a ghost; to stay around or persist, to linger; a place habitually frequented

feb 15/RUN

4 miles
river road, north/south
32 degrees
99% clear path

I forgot to save my log entry before clicking out of it and lost it. Bummer. Here’s the abbreviated version: Greeted Dave the Daily Walker on the run and he called out, “What a beautiful day!” Yes, it is. Warmer. Some sun. Clear path. Strong legs. A mostly frozen river. Wind in my face heading north, wind at my back returning south. Final sprint up the hill. Encountered dogs, walkers, runners, fat tires. Don’t remember any smells or sharp sounds. Felt very warm with a flushed cheeks and a sweaty forehead.

feb 12/RUN

3.2 miles
ford bridge turn around
32 degrees
10% snow-covered

A gray day. A little wind. Warmer weather. Decided to turn right at the river instead of left. Wanting to see my new favorite view: the spot at the edge of the oak savanna when the river is revealed. This view is not possible in the spring and summer, when the leaves are back on the trees. Today, I barely saw it because of the 3 or 4 walkers passing by right at the same time I was approaching it. Boo. The run felt hard on sore legs. Did my triplet chant again: raspberry/ blueberry/ blackberry. Passed a hiker climbing out of the gorge near 42nd street. Heard another one still down on the lower trail. Saw a dog or two. At least one other runner. No fat tires.

I have been thinking about erosion for the past few days as I’ve been wondering about openness and openings and the gorge and its many seeps and leaks and fissures and cracks. Yesterday I wrote in my notes: erosion creates more room/ wearing down faulty foundations/ carving out new spaces I’m trying to figure out what to do with the idea of erosion and its positive and negative connections with unlearning/ becoming undone. Scrolling through my twitter feed, I found out about Terry Tempest Williams’ new book, Erosion: Essays of Undoing. Yes! I must check this out.

While reading an interview with Williams, I encountered this quotation by David Orr from his commencement speech, “What is an Education For?“:

The plain fact is that the planet does not need more “successful” people. But it does desperately need more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every shape and form. It needs people who live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these needs have little to do with success as our culture has defined it.

feb 11/RUN

5 miles
stone arch bridge, one way
25 degrees
50% snow-covered

After noticing how pretty it looked in the (bohemian) flats yesterday afternoon, decided to run north on the river road to stone arch bridge today. Scott had a meeting downtown, so he could drive me home. One way runs are great. Yesterday afternoon the path looked clear and dry but it must have snowed a little last night because a lot of it was covered in soft, slippery, energy sapping snow. And, there was a blustery wind too. Still a great run. Still very glad to have done it.

Greeted Dave the Daily Walker as I ran up from under the lake street bridge. Admired the curved wall and fence on the Winchell Trail between the trestle and franklin bridge. Noticed the river flowing quickly. Not looking slush slow today. Reaching the bottom of the hill, running past Annie Young Meadow, I heard water gushing through the limestone cliff, close to where a mudslide had closed the road for almost 2 years. At the top of the hill near the turn off to Wilson Library at the U, the sun came out and so did my shadow. Hello friend! Then I noticed the river was no longer brown but blue. Not steel blue but blustery blue. Beautiful. Attempted to run up the steep hill with the I-35 bridge. Made it about halfway, then walked a few minutes. Ran again all the way to the stone arch bridge and watched the roaring, choppy, churning water of St. Anthony Falls.

Had some thoughts about my How to Be project and the ways running fits into it but cannot remember them now. Right before heading outside for the run, I thought about the importance of surrender. Paying attention by letting go. Not trying to control but to breathe.

Speaking of breathing, I just remembered something about my run. To regulate my pace and breathing, I chanted. Strawberry/ Blueberry/ Raspberry. Over and over again. One foot strike for every syllable. As I ran down the franklin hill I decided that blackberry fit better than strawberry and chanted that: Raspberry/ Blueberry/ Blackberry. I chanted this mostly in my head. A few times, I mouthed it and at least once, I whispered it. Very helpful in keeping me steady and in a dream-like state. Considered switching in other 3 syllable words but never did.

Triplet Words/Rhythms/Dactyl Meter

  • Beautiful
  • Terrible
  • Wonderful
  • Mystery
  • Decadent
  • Diffident
  • Dental Care
  • Vision Quest
  • Telephone
  • Underwear
  • Prototype
  • Punching bag
  • Summer time
  • Radical
  • Reticent
  • Waterfall
  • Avalanche
  • Certainly
  • Understood
  • Icy cold
  • Ignorant
  • Buttercream
  • Factual

Interesting note found in my research about dactyls: “Strawberry (as the word is pronounced in East Tennessee—elsewhere it’s two longs and a short).” So East Tennesseans say it the British way, I think. Speaking of East Tennessee, I was just listening to an episode of Dolly Parton’s America and learned that East Tennessee was originally a part of the Union during the Civil War. Maybe I knew that at one point, but I had forgotten.

feb 10/RUN

5.5 miles
Annie Young Meadow and back
17 degrees/ feels like 7
99% snow-covered

It snowed 5 or 6 inches yesterday so that path was covered in mostly packed snow. A beautiful morning for a run. Bright sun. Not too much wind. Blue sky. White everywhere. Saw someone walking down near my favorite part of the path, just above the forest on the rim of the gorge. Heading towards the franklin bridge I took deep breaths of the cold, pure air and tried to stay open and relaxed. Heading down the hill, I marveled at the clouds high in the light blue sky. I’m not good at identifying clouds. Possibly cirrus because they were so feathery but also maybe cirrostratus because they were thin and covered the whole sky. Regardless of what you would call them, they were beautiful. Faint, barely white. It looked like someone had raked their fingers through fluff. The river was slush thick and moving. Cold. After climbing back up the hill, and stopping for a short walk break, I looked up and saw the beautiful wingspan of a big bird, circling high in the sky. An eagle? A hawk? A turkey vulture?

A Jane Fonda Workout for beginners from the 1980s popped up on my youtube feed this morning. Wow. So much bouncing. Thinking of trying to get my 13 year old daughter to try it out with me. If this is beginning level, I’m scared to see intermediate.

Speaking of Jane Fonda, she was featured in the most recent podcast of Dolly Parton’s America that I listened to: Dollitics. Wow, I am loving listening to these episodes.

feb 6/RUN

4 miles
river road, north/south
27 degrees
100% clear

1

Sun! Sun! Sun! Didn’t realize how much I was missing the sun until it came back and I was able to see shadows everywhere.

2

Heard the birds as I was heading to the river and thought about how clichéd it seems to mention chirping birds and then that I still like mentioning them and then how I wish I could identify birds better or had better words for describing their sound and then that the simple word, “bird” and the sound description “chirp” still give me a thrill so I’m fine not searching for fancier words right now. I’ll spend my time enjoying the sound of birds chirping. Of course, now that I have made this declaration I had to look up synonyms for chirp: cheep, peep, trill, warble, and purl. Purl fascinates me. So many definitions and room for synonyms! I always thought of it in terms of knitting, but it also can be defined as:

  1. a purling, swirling stream or rill (a gentle brook)
  2. a gentle murmur or movement (purling water)
  3. to make the soft, murmuring sound like that of a purling stream

3

Greeted Dave the Daily Walker. Admired the floodplain forest. No snow on the trees today, just carpeting the floor. The river had a few ice floes but was mostly open. Ran into the wind. It felt hard. Heard my breathing and my feet shuffling on the grit. Stopped for a almost a minute to put my headphones in at the turn around. Ran back a little faster. Sprinted up the final hill. Did I look foolish to the drivers? Why do I care? Forgot to look down at the ravine at the end of my run.

4

Trying to remember some deep and helpful thought I had as I was starting out. I remember thinking, “Oh, that’s good. I should remember that.” Now I can’t remember it.

5

Last night, driving on the river road in the winter dark of early evening, I noticed runners on the path, some running in packs, others alone. Some with headlamps, others with super bright reflective shirts. I said to Scott and my daughter, “I always say I would never want to run at night, that it would be miserable, but I also used to say that about cold winter running and I love it now. Maybe if I tried running at night, I’d love it too?” Then, Scott said, “But how can you run in the dark with your vision?” And my daughter added, “and because you’re a woman?” Sigh. A sad truth. My failing vision is a bummer, but I see my fear as a woman running in the dark by herself as much more of a burden/hindrance.

6

Randomly found this poem and I love it. I was drawn to the title, wondering what the hell it meant. Then the first stanza sucked me in.

I Heart Your Dog’s Head/ Erin Belieu

I’m watching football, which is odd as
I hate football
in a hyperbolic and clinically revealing way,
but I hate Bill Parcells more,
because he is the illuminated manuscript
of cruel, successful men, those with the slitty eyes of ancient reptiles,
who wear their smugness like a tight white turtleneck,
and revel in their lack of empathy
for any living thing.
So I’m watching football, staying up late to watch football,
hoping to witness (as I think of it)
The Humiliation of the Tuna
(as he is called),
which is rightly Parcells’s first time back in the Meadowlands
since taking up with the Cowboys,
who are, as we all know,
thugs, even by the NFL’s standards. The reasons

I hate football are clear and complicated and were born,
as I was, in Nebraska,
where football is to life what sleep deprivation is
to Amnesty International, that is,
the best researched and most effective method
of breaking a soul. Yes,
there’s the glorification of violence, the weird nexus
knitting the homo, both phobic and erotic,
but also, and worse, my parents in 1971, drunk as
Australian parrots in a bottlebush, screeching
WE’RE #1, WE’RE #1!
when the Huskers finally clinched the Orange Bowl,
the two of them
bouncing up and down crazily on the couch, their index
fingers jutting holes through the ubiquitous trail of smoke rings
that was the weather in our house,
until the whole deranged mess that was them,
my parents, the couch, their lit cigarettes,
flipped over backward onto my brother and me. My husband
thinks that’s a funny story and, in an effort to be a “good sport,”
I say I think it is, too.

Which leads me to recall the three Chihuahuas
who’ve spent the fullness of their agitated lives penned
in the back of my neighbor’s yard.
Today they barked continuously for 12 minutes (I timed it) as
the UPS guy made his daily round.
They bark so piercingly, they tremble with such exquisite outrage,
that I’ve begun to root for them, though it’s fashionable
to hate them and increasingly dark threats
against their tiny persons move between the houses on our block.
But isn’t that what’s wrong with this version of America:
the jittering, small-skulled, inbred-by-no-choice-
of-their-own are despised? And Bill Parcells—
the truth is he’ll win
this game. I know it and you know it and, sadly,
did it ever seem there was another possible outcome?

It’s a small deposit,
but I’m putting my faith in reincarnation. I need to believe
in the sweetness of one righteous image,
in Bill Parcells trapped in the body of a teacup poodle,
as any despised thing,
forced to yap away his next life staked to
a clothesline pole or doing hard time on a rich old matron’s lap,
dyed lilac to match her outfit.

I love the way the final stanza brings it all together. And I love the small deposit of faith and “doing hard time on a rich old matron’s lap, dyed lilac to match her outfit” and “But isn’t that what’s wrong with this version of America:/ jittering, small-mulled, inbred-by-no-choice-/ of-their-own are despised?”

feb 4/RUN

4 miles
trestle turn around
10 degrees/ feels like 3
100% clear path!

Sun. Some wind. A clear path. Hardly anyone out in the cold, which is how I like it. The river was brown. The path was partly white, stained from salt. The sky, blue. I saw my shadow running ahead of me. Greeted Dave the Daily Walker twice. Felt a bit sluggish in the first half–my legs are tired and sore from last night’s run. Heard some crows, a skein of geese, some other type of chirping spring-sounding bird. Don’t remember counting my breaths or chanting any fun, random phrases. Thought a trashcan was an approaching walker. Not just in a quick mistaken glance, but for several minutes as I slowly approached the object.

Happy to be out by the gorge unclenching my jaw from a slightly stressful morning of waiting to get a girl to go to school. No big problems getting her to go, just delay and irritation. So glad running helps.

Read through my old doctoral exams and thought about redefining and reclaiming space and time. bell hooks and radical openness on the margins, Trinh T. Minh-ha and storytelling time as not linear but cyclical and not shaped by past, present, and future. I’m thinking about how these ideas are influencing how I understand and experience my beside/s space by the gorge and my running time. The gorge on the edge of “wilderness”/the river/ city limits between St. Paul and Minneapolis/ threshold between forest and neighborhood + running time as not easily measured, not a line from beginning to end but a dripping present (if that makes sense?).

Speaking of influences, I wrote another one of my exams on feminist theory and writing style, including difficult writing style as a way to force people to not easily consume ideas–when you can’t easily or quickly understand what you are reading, you are forced to stop and think more about it which might lead to being more critical of what you are merely supposed to accept and believe. I have always like the idea of rumination and ideas that are “chewy bagels” (must be chewed up, can’t quickly be swallowed and accepted). The main goal? Slow down. Read carefully. Really think about what the author is saying and how it makes you feel. Queer feminist thinkers like Judith Butler have framed this in terms of using languages to forcibly disrupt–we are no longer able to make sense of what we are reading, it is too complicated and confusing. Today, I read an interview with Arthur Sze and I like how he describes how poetry enables us to slow down, not by force but by helping/encouraging us to listen to the sounds of words, the rhythm of language. It’s a invitation, not a demand. Does this make sense? Not sure. I’m trying to figure out why poetry matters to me.

Interview with Arthur Sze

Poetry has a crucial role to play in our lives, society, and the world. It helps us slow down, hear clearly, see deeply, and envision what matters most in our lives. When one reads a poem, one has to pay attention to the sounds of words, to the rhythm of language, experience the dance and tension between sound and silence. A good poem communicates viscerally in the body before it’s fully understood in the mind, and, in that experience, complexities of feeling and thought can sometimes only be conveyed through poetry. I forget which Zen monk wrote,

what comes from brightness, I strike with brightness;
what comes from darkness, I strike with darkness

but here’s an example of emotional and imaginative insight, and how to proceed in the world, compressed into a few words, where each word matters. [The quote comes from 9th century Chinese master Linji Yixuan (Jp. Rinzai).] Prose can explain and lengthily articulate the meaning in those two lines, but only poetry, I think, can capture and embody the experience.

Our world today is built on various assumptions—“time is money,” for example—and we live in an age that although globally connected is not necessarily humanly connected. People work endless hours buying and selling stocks and bonds—“buy silk, sell steel”—for instance. Poetry stands in resistance to this commercial culture. It is not about acquiring material wealth; instead, it’s about human insight, genuine human connectivity, and promotes mindfulness and awakening. In that way, poetry is priceless. And, in that way, I have devoted my life to poetry for over 50 years. Poetry, for me, is about discovery, renewal, awakening, and affirming a way of living that is profound, humbling, and meaningful.

feb 3/RUN

3.3 miles
trestle turn around
32 degrees

Yesterday it was sunny and 42 degrees. I do not like winter days like these. The snow melts and puddles on the path, then refreezes at night and becomes an icy mess the next day. Not sure if I’d call it an icy mess this morning but it was treacherous. Super slick, barely frozen sheets of ice all over the path. I slipped several times but never fell.

Still had a good run. Greeted the Daily Walker. Noticed the river, brown and flowing. Heard some honking geese then watched them fly across the gray sky. Sprinted up the final hill. Worked on trying to drive my left hip higher.

2.5 miles
us bank stadium

Only a few more stadium run opportunities left. Ran tonight with Scott–well, not with him but at the same time and in the same place. The concrete concourse is so hard on my legs! Felt awkward running the first mile, then my legs ached for hours after. Happy to get to run in warm, dry, ice-free conditions, but not happy to run on hard concrete.

Brian Age Seven/ Mark Doty

Grateful for their tour
of the pharmacy,
the first-grade class
has drawn these pictures,
each self-portrait taped
to the window-glass,
faces wide to the street,
round and available,
with parallel lines for hair.

I like this one best: Brian,
whose attenuated name
fills a quarter of the frame,
stretched beside impossible
legs descending from the ball
of his torso, two long arms
springing from that same
central sphere. He breathes here,

on his page. It isn’t craft
that makes this figure come alive;
Brian draws just balls and lines,
in wobbly crayon strokes.
Why do some marks
seem to thrill with life,
possess a portion
of the nervous energy
in their maker’s hand?

That big curve of a smile
reaches nearly to the rim
of his face; he holds
a towering ice cream,
brown spheres teetering
on their cone,
a soda fountain gift
half the length of him
—as if it were the flag

of his own country held high
by the unadorned black line
of his arm. Such naked support
for so much delight! Artless boy,
he’s found a system of beauty:
he shows us pleasure
and what pleasure resists.
The ice cream is delicious.
He’s frail beside his relentless standard.

feb 1/RUN

3.2 miles
trestle turn around
33 degrees
some icy sidewalks, clear path

Sun! Saw my shadow and waved to her. Hello friend! Haven’t seen you in a month. Scott told me that January 2020 was the grayest, most sunless, cloudiest month in recorded history (since 1963) in Minneapolis. Wow. Did it bother me, having so much gray? Not sure, I don’t think so. Still, I’m glad to have my shadow back and the sun. I only looked at the river once–through the trees in the floodplain forest. At that point, it just looked brown. If I had looked at it somewhere else, would I have noticed it sparkling? Probably. Now I wish I would have crossed the bridge and admired it from the overlook at the midway point.

Do I remember anything else about the run? Encountered some walkers and runners, a few fat tires, some dogs. Heard some geese and chanted in my head, “geese are honking/geese are honking.” No squirrels. No cross country skiers. No Daily Walker. Heard some people by the old stone steps, either about to climb out of the floodplain forest, or descend into it. A few minutes later, 3 runners were stopped in the middle of the path, talking. One said, “Congratulations” to the others. For what, I wonder? Did they recently win a race, get engaged, find a new job? About to run under the lake street bridge, I heard a kid laughing or crying out in delight or complaining or something. Where were they? On the bridge? Down by the water? I couldn’t tell.

Successfully composed a blurb for my new creative project. I’m thinking I might want to start by making it into a workbook with exercises/activities. Here’s the blurb:

Currently, I am gathering tools, methods, theories, and ideas from my intellectual past and experimenting with putting them beside my creative writing, running, and losing my central vision present. Tentatively, I am calling this project, whose form has yet to be fully determined, How to Be. It is a project in the unmaking and remaking of the Self.

One exercise I thought about this morning could be called, What Do You Think About When…? and would be about paying attention to your thoughts when you run or walk or bike or swim and then analyzing and experimenting with the different ways you think when you move differently. Still thinking about it…

Lost/ David Wagoner

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

jan 30/RUN

4.2 miles
minnehaha falls and back
21 degrees
100% clear path

Turned right instead of left today. Ran towards the falls. Love how the river looks like a giant empty crater right after the oak savanna. Overcast, no shadow. Heard lots of things today. Felt cold, but warmed up quickly, except for my index fingers. It took almost 2 miles for them to warm up. Annoying. Also, my right foot felt cold for the first mile.

Sounds

  1. the banging of my zipper pull against my jacket
  2. my breathing
  3. the scratch scratch scratching of the sandy grit on the clear path
  4. kids yelling on the school playground
  5. the low, steady hum of traffic on the far away freeway
  6. chirping birds
  7. clanging and banging of something against metal–I think it was the chain/rope against the flagpole at the school?
  8. A truck whooshing by on the Ford Bridge as I ran under it
  9. A kid possibly freaking out at the falls
  10. the buzzing of an airplane
  11. did I hear the falls rushing? I can’t remember–I do remember seeing it gush. So cool
  12. more clanging
  13. some disembodied voices hovering near the parkway
  14. 2 people deep in conversation

Other things I remember:

  1. the cracked asphalt above the oak savanna, just south of a split rail fence and the big boulder that looks like an armchair, was easy to spot because its crater was filled in with ice
  2. a guy looking up at a tree on the Winchell Trail near 42nd–what was he doing?
  3. the stump of a tree in the tree graveyard–where the tree with teeth used to be, across from locks and dam #1–looked like a person sleeping or a person who had fallen or a person who was acting strangely. Had to stare at it for a long time to figure out what it was: just a tree stump
  4. without any leaves it was easy to see the short hill that leads up to the ford bridge–in the summer, it is completely hidden
  5. the view of the river from the bluff heading south is beautiful and big and breathtaking
  6. thought about my form and how the right side of my body seems to lean slightly forward more than the left–is this why it always looks like I’m swinging by left arm farther back?

Natural Forces/ Vicente Huidobro

One glance
to shoot down the albatross

Two glances
to hold back the landscape
at the river´s edge

Three glances
to turn the girl
into a kite

Four glances
to hold down the train
that falls into the abyss

Five glances
to relight the stars
blown out by the hurricane

Six glances
to prevent the birth
of the aquatic child

Seven glances
to prolong the life
of the bride

Eight glances
to turn the sea
into sky

Nine glances
to make the trees of the wood
dance

Ten glances
to see the beauty that shows up
between a dream and a catastrophe

Such power with these glances! I read a little something about Huidobro and his belief in creacionismo and man as god/godlike and “a space where the poet could assume a role as the divine”. Wow, oftentimes because of my vision I feel the opposite with my glances: I’m unmaking the world. Oh–I want to think about this some more! Here’s some info about this poet from a google doodle on his 127th birthday.

Copied the poem into my notebook and wrote: The power of the poet! The power of one who notices, who pays attention! Love this idea of paying attention as a way to imagine/create a world. Is it possible to disentangle this making of a world from hubris and pride and power over?

jan 29/RUN

5.5 miles
Franklin Hill turn around
18 degrees/ snow flurries
100% clear path!

Another day with a clear path and not too cold weather and hardly any wind. Yes! Greeted Dave the Daily Walker twice–once at the beginning and then again at the end. The river was beautiful. Dark grayish brown with a few chunks of ice, moving slowly. The walls of the gorge were white and the air above it was misty with snow flurries. The sun was out, then gone, then out again. Not enough sun to see my shadow. The floodplain forest below my favorite spot was winter-perfect. White and woodsy and blueish gray. Heading south, right by the trestle, I heard a woodpecker pecking away. So loud. It echoed across the gorge. Encountered a few walkers and fat tires. Any other runners? I can’t remember.

Started my run with a sense of unspecified unease. It lingered for a few miles but got lost as I ran up the hill. By the time I reached the top, I felt better. I always feel better after I’ve run. Usually during it too.

Lines for Winter/ DAVE LUCAS

Poor muse, north wind, or any god   
who blusters bleak across the lake   
and sows the earth earth-deep with ice.   
A hoar of fur stung across the vines:   
here the leaves in full flush, here   
abandoned to four and farther winds.   
Bless us, any god who crabs the apples   
and seeds the leaf and needle evergreen.   
What whispered catastrophe, winter.   
What a long night, beyond the lamplight,   
the windows and the frost-ferned glass.   
Bless the traveler and the hearth he travels to.   
Bless our rough hands, wind-scabbed lips,   
bless this our miscreant psalm.

This is not how I feel about winter, especially today when it’s sunny and clear and not too cold, but I still like this poem. “Bless us, any god who crabs the apples”–Love this line! And “blusters bleak” and “frost-ferned glass” and “miscreant psalm”!

jan 28/RUN

5.5 miles
franklin loop
18 degrees
5% snow-covered

A clear path! The Franklin loop! Hardly any wind! Yes! Loved my run today. Even the big dog that lunged at me and whacked my elbow with their skull making a loud cracking sound that echoed in my head for minutes didn’t bother me. Okay, it bothered me more than it should but not enough to make me mad about my run. Starting out, it felt cold. My index fingers were freezing and my face was burning. By the time I reached the Franklin bridge, 2.5 miles in, I was warm. The river looked cold and gray and thick. Running on the east side, I noticed how big the boulder between the walking and biking path is. Wow–I can’t imagine that thing ever moving.

I felt like I was in a dream for this run. Time wasn’t moving or dripping or doing anything. Strange and wonderful to just be for almost an hour. No thoughts–except for about the irritating dog–and no concerns. Just moving and breathing and feeling free.

excerpt from Ode to a Blizzard/ TOM DISCH

O! wonderful for weight and whiteness! 
Ideolog whose absolutes 
Are always proven right 
By white and then 
More white and white again, 
Winning the same argument year 
After year by making the opposition 
Disappear! 

jan 27/RUN

4.25 miles
river road, north/south
26 degrees
25% snow-covered

The path was much clearer then I expected. Shouldn’t have worn my yaktrax. Oh well. A great run. So wonderful to be outside again! It wasn’t cold or too windy but I felt my cheeks burning as I headed north. Noticed the river was half covered in a light blue sheet of ice, the rest was dark brownish gray. The light blue part almost looked like clouds or a mountain being reflected in the water, which was a cool effect. The path that winds through the tunnel of trees was so buried in snow that I began to doubt its existence. Encountered a few bikers, some runners, at least 2 or 3 big dogs and their owners. As I neared the trestle, I hoped a train might pass above (it didn’t). Turning around and heading south, I kept hearing a vicious bark in the gorge on the east side. As I encountered more runners and tried to steer clear of them, I thought about my lack of depth perception and how it makes me feel like people are much closer than they are. This misperception makes me uncomfortable, I’m always feeling crowded. Running near the Lake Street bridge I could smell some seriously stinky pot. Looked around, but couldn’t see anyone. No Daily Walker today.

I’m working on poem about Saras, inspired by this one:

Some Waynes/ WAYNE HOLLOWAY-SMITH

Magic Wayne with flowers; Wanye West; Box-of-Tricks Wayne; Wayne sad on Facebook, proving he loves his daughter; the sporty Wayne — loves himself skinny; Bald Wayne, head like a rocking chair; Amy Waynehouse; Wayne the ironic; Fat Wayne — tits pushed beneath a Fred Perry Wayne; Wayne from near Slough; Ugly Wayne — the unlikely mess of his wife Wayne — canned laughter; Wayne who renamed another Wayne Fleabag; Track-suited Wayne — your hubcaps, his pockets; Home and A-Wayne; Randy Wayne; Wayne, fountains of him, every drop snug to someone’s mum; Wayne, boyfriend of Stacey; Wayne-ker; Wayne the rap star, gold teeth, grime; Wayne the Superhero, Wayne the Cowboy; Dancing Wayne — in tights; It’s-Wayning-Men; a cavalcade of Waynes fucking each other up in a Geoff Hattersley poem — in a pub, in Barnsley; Purple Wayne; Wayne’s World Wayne; Wayne “Sleng Teng” Smith; A-Wayne in a Manger; all of them have stopped what they’re doing, all of them divided in two rows and facing each other, all of them, arms raised, they are linking fingers, all of them: an architrave through which I celebrate, marching like I am the bridegroom, grinning like I am the bride