Tag: no headphones

nov 7/RUN

5.75 miles
hidden falls loop
37 degrees / sunny

Almost perfect mid-fall weather! Sun, clear paths, crisp air. I wore running tights, shorts, a long-sleeved purple shirt, orange sweatshirt, cap. Overheated at the halfway point, I took off the sweatshirt and tied it around my waist.

10 Things

  1. my shadow — sharp, solid, in front of me
  2. most of the leaves on the trail on the double bridge and the path below the road were gone — was it wind or a leaf blower? I heard both a few days ago
  3. in the beginning, the sky, especially above the river, was hazy — humidity, I think
  4. so much openness everywhere! limbs are bare so I could see the other side of the river
  5. openness 1: between ford overlook and hidden falls — the idea of the river/valley below, endless air then a the tops of trees, far off
  6. openness 2: running north on the west river road near 44th, a clear view of the curved wall and ravine
  7. the sound of water rushing over a cliff near the ford bridge
  8. a runner in light but BRIGHT orange shorts — the color of a creamsicle
  9. the loud thwack of fast feet striking the ground behind me then beside me then in front of me
  10. the wind pushing from behind, helping me feel fast

overheard: a mom, running, with 2 young kids on bikes

kid: whaaaaaaaaaa!!!!! how much longer?
mom: we have to go to the end of the road (note: another 3+ miles)
kid: (distraught) WE’RE NOT EVEN HALFWAY?!
mom: Get it together Charlie!

For the past week or so, my legs have been sore after runs and for the rest of the day. It’s a dull ache. It could be muscle fatigue, but it feels different than that. I looked up “dull ache, after run, vitamin deficiency” and google AI suggested electrolyte imbalance or dehydration. Yes, it feels like dehydration. I better drink a lot of water today.

time traveling

On Thursday, Scott and I went to hear Carolina Ebeid read at Milkweed/Open Book/the Loft. I have known Carolina since I was in my early 20s — maybe when I was 21? She is the sister of my sister’s ex-husband. Is there a name for that? I have read her beautiful poetry for the past decade, but I had not seen her for almost 20 years. As a poet, she has continued to be a part of my life, as a person, she is part of a past life I rarely have access to. A life when my mom was still alive, when we had family gatherings and holiday parties and book clubs and traditions, when I had a sister of a brother-in-law named Carolina and an aunt named Carolyn.

At the reading, Carolina read “Winternet” and I remember hearing the line,

I play a tape of conversations,
everyone young again

And I thought about the last time I recall seeing and talking to Carolina. Then, both of our mothers were alive, now they’re both dead. In her words and in talking with her, a flash of feeling, a remembering of what it felt like to be in my 20s with a mother still alive and an extended family all still together.

She ended her reading with this poem:

I Can’t Hear You When You’re Screaming/ Carolina Ebeid

line like a piece of twine, line like a piece of dry grass plant,
nail, a finger pointing there, a finger-shush, line like a cut
sewn up, a rupture stitched, like a bicycle cutting snow, a
game of telephone, line like a shift of cord between cans,
mouth-to-ear-to-mouth-to-ear repetitions, a human chain
saving a driver from flash floods (on loop in the gallery), a
barrette, a strand of hair latched in, we are each of us from
somewhere else, aloft for city miles the telephone wire, line
like city avenue traffic, dotted-with-shit avenue where the
horses have been, horses become beautiful noise, line like
string tied to a balloon, string tied to a door handled tied to
a tooth, every time there’s a boundary, we must appoint the
messenger to cross it, line like the space between a camera
and the calamity, line like an x-rayed rib, like a track of
menstrual blood thick down the thigh, parade spectator
line, trombone slide, a column or air inside, a column of air
with its spit trap, I can’t hear you when’re whispering, a
sunwind line, line of hair blown into a camera’s eye

So many versions of line, so many associations, wow!

nov 5/RUN

5.65 miles
almost to the dog park and back
45 degrees / blustery

Windy this morning. Good bye colorful leaves! Lots of yellow, some pale, some a rich gold. A few darting squirrels, an occasional goose honk. A school group arriving at the falls the same time I did — such a cacophony of flailing arms, spinning legs, and screaming voices as the kids were let loose from their bus. I heard a loud rushing sound that I thought was the falls, but it was coming from a sewer drain. The creek was moving fast because of all of the rain the past 4 or 5 days. I wore my BRIGHT yellow 10 mile shirt, my hot dash pull-over with a hood, tights, shorts, a hat. The path was slick from yesterday’s rain, the air above the river was misty.

As I ran, I occasionally recited poems — “Crows”/Marilyn Nelson, “Turkey Vultures”/Ted Kooser, “Invitation”/Mary Oliver. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes….

Right after I finished my run, I remembered to stop and take a picture of the vine on a fence that I admire in the winter when it blooms frost. Today it is covered in deep red leaves, some big, some small.

wooden fence / red leaves on vine / 5 nov 2026

Vision Lost [still] / Vision Lost [grass]

still

As I ran, I thought more about my still poem. Some of my thoughts were about specific word choices — instead of go or run in one of my lines, I’d like to try float or fly. Some of my thoughts were about images — 1. still = the stone-like features of faces that are smudged and stuck/frozen, but that I’ve gotten used to and know that even though I can’t see them, a face/a person continues to exist (they are still there) and 2. stillness as a thickening and slowing, being enveloped and encased in an opaque something

grass

Reading through old entries, I came across a beautiful grass line from Mary Oliver in a log entry from 5 november 2019:

the prayers that are made
out of grass?
(Mindful/ Mary Oliver)

I’d like to write a Vision Lost [grass] poem. How will it relate to my vision loss?

nov 2/RUN

4 miles
north to the trestle, south to R Dow bench
60 degrees
drizzle

It has been raining all day, but when Scott said he was going to go out for a run anyway, I decided I would too. We didn’t run together, but did see each other on the trail not too far from the trestle. A fine run. Early on I stepped in a puddle — squish! I didn’t care. I thought about 2 winters ago and running through puddles so big and numerous that they felt more like a lake. That water, which was melted snow, was much colder than the water today.

The most irritating thing about the run were the squirrels. So many squirrels, darting out in front of me. Why do squirrels do that — wait to cross until you are right in front of them?!

I saw lots of red and orange and yellow, some of it in a soft glow reflecting off of the water on the road. There were on stones stacked on the ancient boulder. The river, high above the south edge of longfellow flats was covered in a thin mist. How muddy is it down there, deep in the gorge? I wondered this as I passed the breaks in the trees where an unofficial trail leads down to the gorge.

The benches were empty. Most of the people I saw carried umbrellas. One walker had his hood cinched tight.

a cracked bowl? a net? what kind of container is the gorge?

Yesterday, I started condensing my manuscript into chapbook size to submit for a contest. I decided to focus on the gorge part of its girl and ghost and gorge. To condense it even more, I’m focusing on the gorge as open (not empty) space that holds the river and all who seek it (from my poem, “West River Parkway”). I’ve picked the poems I want to include, but I’m stuck on a title that ties it together. What is the best metaphor for gorge as container? Almost immediately, I thought of bowl — and Jane Hirshfield’s poem, “The Bowl.” Didn’t I write about rediscovering this poem a few weeks/months ago? Yes, I found it: 9 sept 2026. In this entry, I begin the thread with some of my own, not-yet-used lines, then some AR Ammons, then Hirshfield:

Looking through my notes from an oct 2025 Girl Ghost Gorge document, and I found these lines:

her concern
was the edge
and the making
of a form
out of the
edgelessness
that dwells be-
yond that edge

These lines, written by me, reminded me of some lines from AR Ammons in garbage that I found in another GGG document:

one thinks, slapping down the lines, making time
with eternity, one will thrive beyond the brink but

beyond the brink is no recollection but a wide
giving way into silver that filters farther away

into nothing 

I took these lines and put them into my breathing

beyond the
brink, a
wide giving
way in
to silver
filtered
farther a
way into
nothing 

The edge I am referring to is not the edge of life (death), but the edge of the bluff. And, beyond that edge is not a silvery nothing, but a river, floodplain forests, another edge: a gorge. And, the gorge, I thought as I read the lines, is not a formless nothing, but a container, a bowl. I remembered that Jane Hirshfield wrote a poem about a bowl. 

Maybe I’ll try writing a few lines this late afternoon about edges and bowls that look empty but aren’t.

oct 31/RUN

5.65 miles
hidden falls loop
48 degrees

Wet this morning. Rain a few hours ago. Overcast, dark. The river road was blocked off for the Halloween half marathon. Scott and I wanted to run this race, but when we tried signing up for it, it was full. Bummer. We’re doing a turkey trot in St. Paul next month instead.

Everything was dripping. I listened to the water streaming through the sewer pipes and over the bluff as I ran on the ford bridge, then above Winchell on 44th and 42nd. From high up on the ford bridge, the river surface to the south looked smooth, even as I ran into the wind.

10 Things

  1. a roller skier’s BRIGHT yellow jacket
  2. many of the trees blazing orange and red
  3. the sharp bark of a dog somewhere near hidden falls
  4. puddles in the cracks on the path
  5. soggy leaves — yellow, red — lining the edges of the path that descends from the ford bridge to the locks and dam no. 1 parking lot
  6. the sound of plastic hitting metal at the frisbee golf course in Wabun Park
  7. a kid doing a trick with his skate board at the skate park, being praised by someone — a parent?
  8. cracks everywhere: splitting a boulder in two*, buckling the asphalt, making puddles
  9. a walker wearing full winter gear: a zipped up jacket, a stocking cap — did he have gloves on, too? I can’t remember
  10. more leaves gone = a wider view

*I stopped to take several pictures of the giant boulder. It was at one of the new playgrounds in Highland Bridge.

I’ve never noticed the huge crack in this rock before! I wonder when/how it happened? Was this rock on the grounds of the Ford plant or did they move it here a few years ago? Did they find it with the crack in it, or did the crack happen when they moved it? I think it’s part of this park: Uŋčí Makhá Park

On my walk home, I passed by some favorite ornamental grass in someone’s side yard. I thought about my poem, “Vision Lost [field]” and the grass in it that has been softened by my central vision loss. Currently I describe it as feathering grasses but I’m not sure that’s quite the write words. I studied the grass — touched it, gazed at it, took a few pictures of it. When I looked at it closely, it was all fuzz and out-of-focus like I was holding blur in my hands. How to describe that? The grass looks fuzzy because it is always in motion for me. A flash: I should return to A.R. Ammons and his descriptions of motion in garbage and grass in Grassy Sound.

close-up of purple grass / 31 oct 2026

morning memorizing, a ramble x 2

1– 29 oct

I am writing this bit on Halloween, but I started this entry on the 29th, while refreshing my memory of a poem.

This fall, in the morning, I’ve been refreshing my memory of My 100 (my growing list of poems that will eventually reach 100 that I have memorized and can recite whenever I wish to myself by the gorge, but not to others because no one else wants to hear them). This morning, it’s “Before I got my eye put out.” This line stopped me:

But were it told to me, Today,
That I might have the Sky
For mine, I tell you that my Heart
Would split, for size of me–

my Heart/would split I’m thinking of Mary Oliver’s breaking heart and my poem about the cracked asphalt near the railroad trestle! In “Before”, ED’s heart splitting would be from too much joy at being able to see again. The Meadows–mine–/The Mountains–mine–/All forests, stintless stars/As much of noon as I could take–/Between my finite eyes— To be beside/outside of yourself, in a state of exuberant joy.

And now I’m thinking of more examples of ED’s splitting — the mind, not the heart. I felt a Cleaving in my Mind–/As though my Brain had split and breaking, And then a plank in Reason broke. And I’m thinking of her interest in edges and seams.

I decided to search through my Emily Dickinson entries for “seam.” 18 entries. The one I thought of immediately is, too silver for a seam, from “A bird came down the walk” The next one that came up was near the end of her poem, “Wind”:

On deserts, in the sky,
Had broken rank,
Then knit, and passed
In seamless company.

I started thinking about ED’s love of knitting and stitching and sewing and then an early poem that I had put in my Haunts series about stitches:

Loosen

threads that guide.
Worry

stitches, rip
seams, seek

space unplaced.
A break

in the trees.
Not here —

there. Close to
the rim.

On the edge,
near an

opening,
next to

an exit.
Ever

ready to
ghost it,

to flare and
flicker,

register
only

as shadow,
flashing

as what else
could be

possible.

I feel like the mood of this poem — the I telling You that haunts it — is missing in my latest version. I’d like to bring some of it back in. What if the crack is a way into somewhere else — new understandings? possibilities? ways of noticing, feeling, bearing witness?

I had no idea that the gate I would step through/ to finally enter this world/ would be the space my brother’s body made (“The Gate”/ Marie Howe).

Could I write a poem about the crack that imagined me entering/passing through it and into somewhere else? Here I’m thinking of the fairy-tale feeling in “What Would Root/ Katie Farris.

added on 31 october: I did write a draft of a poem about the crack, then was inspired to write an additional poem about it for my Vision Lost series (a thought: I could turn the vision lost poems into a chapbook — so far, I have three — could I write more? and what if they were almost like fairy-tales? or, ghost stories? — what are some classic “ghost stories”? beyond A Christmas Carol?)

2 — 31 October

Another morning of getting up too early (6:30 on a Saturday!) because my body was too sore or restless of something to get up. Now I’m sitting in the dark with a glowing computer screen, refreshing my memory of past poems memorized. Today’s poem: “Turkey Vultures” by Ted Kooser. I posted it on this log in the thick of the pandemic (April 2020). After reciting it, I started reviewing all of the other poems I’ve re-memorized. I got to W.S. Merwin’s “To the Light of September” and his series of Yous near the end and thought of what I wrote above, about the You that haunts my Haunt manuscript:

you
who fly with them

you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with the blue plums
that have fallen through the night

I was reminded of some other Yous in poems on My 100 list:

I expect you. I thought one night it was you
at the base of the drive, you at the foot of the stairs,

you in a shiver of light,
(Dear One Absent This Long While/ Lisa Olstein)

And, from Mary Oliver’s “Invitation”:

Oh do you have time
   to linger
      for just a while…

 I beg of you,

do not walk by
   without pausing
      to attend to this
         rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
   It could mean everything.
      It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
         You must change your life.

A lot of MO’s poems feature a You. Another MO favorite I’ve memorized, “Wild Geese” has some yous:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Some others: Perhaps you tire of the birds (Donika Kelly) . . . I’m Nobody, who are You? (Emily Dickinson) . . . Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor You (Christina Rosetti) . . . The webs of your eyes are fastened to the flesh and bone of you (Wallace Stevens).

I’ve written about You before. I’ll have to find where on this log (after breakfast and maybe after running?).

after my run, hours later: Found it! This is from my log entry for 27 feb 2020, which is a few weeks before the world went into lockdown for covid:

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.

27 feb 2020

And, a few days earlier, I wrote this:

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.

20 feb 2020

oct 28/RUN

3.25 miles
persistent crack and back
58 degrees / humidity: 90%

Sticky, humid weather is back today. Oh well, at least I didn’t have to wear running tights today. Hooray!

I decided to run to the trestle to study the persistent crack that I’ve been writing about. I was inspired to study it after reviewing an entry from 11 august about Mary Oliver’s heart breaking, especially these parts:

1

Heart break/broken: Something had pestered me so much/I thought my heart would break = being bothered, worried, upset, saddened, agitated overwhelm with grief, undone by a deep pain, beside yourself, out of your mind with worry? Not an actual break, but a feeling of, an almost

heart break = running too fast, swimming too hard, causing your heart to beat too fast and to stop working properly

heart break = a line break in a poem that shifts the meaning; the volta/turn of the poem?

a heart broken . . . open: MO discusses this at the end of her poem, “Lead,” and Maggie Smith does, too, in “Heart”:

And the dead inside you, don’t you
hear them breathing? You must have a hole
they can press their gray lips to. If you open–
when you open–will we find them folded inside?
In what shape? I mean what cut shape is made
whole by opening? I mean beside the heart.

Your heart could break in two, or scattered into a thousand pieces. Could it be that every time I swim my heart breaks open (here, a broken heart is an opened, and not closed (off) heart), then bursts into the little clear bubbles that trail me all over the lake . . . or, the heart is the surface of the water that I’m breaking open with my strokes.

2

I found a few more notes about my swim that I want to add in here. As I swam, I thought about bits of my heart being released from my body, like little bubbles which made me think, leaking and unraveling. A sudden image: Olivia Rodrigo in the music video for “The Cure,” her veins emerging through her skin like red threads unraveling. In the video, this image is intended to be terrible (and maybe terrifying), but as I swam, I thought about those red threads emerging as a body opening up and connecting with the world outside the rigid, closed-off self. In my version, unraveling = loosening the knots that tie us too closely to our Self/the I.

11 aug 2026 log entry

As I ran, I thought about how grass is growing in parts of the crack. So, not a cracked open heart shedding bubbles like in the lake, but planting/spreading seeds. Grass is a wonderful metaphor here.

When I reached the crack, I stopped to study it and take a few pictures. I was delighted to find that, in one spot, the crack had gone straight through the painted image of the person (indicating the walking path) and was literally splitting them in half!

a walker split in two by a persistent crack / 28 oct 2026

Wow — splitting open the head and the heart. After taking this picture, I walked south, closer to the trestle, and took a picture of the grass growing through the track:

a view of the crack with tall grass looking north

I want the split walker and the grass to be the primary images in my crack poem!

As I walked along the crack on the outside of the barricade, peering over to study it, a regular, Daddy Long Legs, passed by. He asked, did you lose something? I explained that I’d been tracking this crack for years and was writing about it. He mentioned how there is a pipe just on the other side of bluff that is being used to do something — what? I can remember. Shore up the hill? Catch the groundwater that spills over the edge? I’ll have to check the pipe out at some point. It was great to get to talk to this regular. We’ve greeted each other for years, but never had a conversation. I should have introduced myself.

Another thing I’d like to remember from today’s run is the knock knock knocking of a woodpecker. Such a pleasing sound, especially when it’s not on a tree or a fence in my yard!

Before I run, I refreshed my memory of Marie Howe’s “The Meadow.” I got stuck on the second line of the second couplet. No matter how many times I recited the lines around it, I couldn’t remember Imperceptibly heaving, although, after several run throughs, I did remember the rest of the line, with old impatience.

Anything else I remember? There was mud and wet leaves and haze just above the river. The sewer vents near the Minneapolis Rowing Club gave off their sour-sweet stink. Benches were empty, squirrels were otherwise occupied. No geese or wild turkeys.

oct 27/RUN

5.7 miles
ford loop
46 degrees
(almost) drizzle

Fall running — I love it! Mostly I felt great running, only my left IT band and my right glute started to ache. I ran into some wind on the lake street bridge at the end of the first mile, but I noticed it for the rest of the run. It rained all day yesterday so everything is wet, slippery, squeaky. When I checked last night, the weather app predicted showers around 10 this morning. At 9:30, around mil 4.5, I looked up at the gray sky and thought, I’ll make it home before it starts! As if to prove me wrong, the clouds opened up and started raining. I had to stop and put my jacket back on. Was it rain or just lots of water collected in the trees and loosened by the wind? I can’t be sure. Wherever it came from, it stopped in a few minutes.

As I ran, I thought about how I’d like to have a better second half in the marathon next year (we already signed up for it!). I decided that one of my big problems this year was mental. On every long run, my approach was: once I’ve made it halfway, I’ve done the hardest part. Whatever happens in the second half doesn’t matter. This approach helped to make big distances seem less intimidating, but it also led to a habit of stopping more in the second half — taking breaks, walking. During the marathon, even as I was more intentional in my running/walk plan, I still took more walk breaks in the second half. This year, I want to give more attention to the second half of runs — going faster, staying stronger, building not falling apart.

To keep myself steady for today’s run, I chanted in triple berries. Strawberry / blueberry / raspberry

10 Things

  1. more reddish pinkish leaves in the neighborhood
  2. almost every tree is orange or yellow, I only remember seeing one that still had green leaves
  3. stretches of sidewalk covered in leaves — they squeaked as I ran over them
  4. ran past the house on the next block and noticed that the guy wasn’t sitting on the steps, thought about how he hasn’t been sitting there the past few times. Even as I’m glad to not breathe in his cigarette smoke, I hoped he was okay
  5. the planters in a neighbor’s boulevard garden near lake street have some ripe tomatoes
  6. the strong smell of tar, rumbling — trucks, people paving a driveway for a fancy house on the river road
  7. wild turkeys — 4 of them, just off the path, grazing in the wet grass
  8. mud on the dirt trail — squelch!
  9. the paved trail on the east side of the river is in bad shape — slanted and cracked
  10. an open view from the ford bridge, looking north — a patch of glowing yellow on the east side, mellow oranges and reds everywhere else

fun fun fun with the IT band

When my IT aches, I like to play with IT. Usually I turn it into an acronym. Today, how many works can I think of in 5 minutes that begin with it?

  1. item
  2. italics
  3. italicized
  4. iterations
  5. Itasca
  6. itch
  7. Ithaca
  8. itinerary
  9. italien
  10. italian
  11. itemized
  12. itchiness
  13. itty-bitty

That was harder than I thought. My favorite today is italicized, as in, the world, italicized, from a favorite Diane Seuss poem, I Look Up from My Book and Out at the World through Reading Glasses. One key word I forgot: itself

And now I’m thinking (again) about it’s and it is and its. Yesterday, I refreshed my memory on Shirley Geok-lin Lim’s poem, “Writing a Poem,” and I was struck by her use of it’s and it is and its. I wondered why she chose it’s and then it is — why not it’s or it is both times? Double-checking the text just now, I noticed something cool:

It’s eating up the hours

as if they were the sweet nectar of day,
which they are. It is impossible 
to think or write. Its buzz takes away
feelings, takes over ears, is drilling a hole

It’s / It is / Its — Fun! I love stuff like this — a fun challenge for the writer, a fun discovery for the reader, a fun way to ensure that I’ll always remember the exact words the poet uses. If I hadn’t memorized this poem, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the echoing of it’s/it is/its — and that opportunity to notice more carefully is a key reason why I love memorizing poems.

added on 28 oct: I’d like to work on a series of poems about echoes and echolocation as it relates to my vision and the gorge and language. Trying something like this — the echoing of the it(i)s could fit here!

oct 25/RUN

5 miles
Veterans bridge and back
48 degrees

This past week, it was warm. So warm that when we (me, Scott, FWA, RJP, and my sister) went out for dinner Friday night, the restaurant had all of the garage doors open. Mid-70s in late October. Yesterday afternoon, the wind picked up, rain moved in, and so did cooler air. 48 and running tights this morning. We are past peak fall now. More open views, more yellow leaves.

My IT band seems to be mostly okay, but some muscle on the inside of my hamstring just below my glute is sore. It aches at night. Looked it up: semimembranosus. Way back in 2017, I wrote a poem about hamstring muscles that included a line about how another one of the hamstring muscles, biceps femoris, should be pronounced feMoris and not FEMoris because feMoris sounded more like a spell from Harry Potter. I’ll have to dig it up. (see below)

My semimembranosus (if that is what is sore) didn’t hurt while I was running, but my right glute started to around mile 4. Other than that, it was a good run. I’ve shifted to running 4 min/ walking 1. I like how easy it is to keep track.

10 Things

  1. the light shifted several times — sun, then overcast, then sun again
  2. the surface of the water viewed through the trees: glowing white
  3. the leaves on the trees on the bluff are thinning, offering a better view
  4. dead, yellowed leaves on the ground, covering the dirt trail
  5. kind pedestrians: on at least two occasions, walkers moved to single file to let me pass easily — thank you! / you’re welcome!
  6. a greeting from a woman walker in subdued orange puffer vest: morning
  7. a crowd admiring the falls at the main overlook
  8. the bells of the light rail ringing out a warning as they exited the 50th street station
  9. the bridge over to the veterans home is completely blocked
  10. already at 10am the Horace Cleveland Overlook parking lot was full

Before the run, I refreshed my memory of “Writing a Poem” by Shirley Geok lim Lin. The air is buzzing./ Someone is operating a giant machine… In the last mile of my run, I heard the buzz of a leaf blower. Boo — death to leaf blowers!

more fun with medical terms

I found my poem about the hamstring muscles (which I refer to as hamstrings in the poem): More Fun with Medical Terms. Here’s the part of it about bicep femoris:

semitendinosus, semimembranosus, biceps femoris
the first two terms
aren’t that hard to figure out how to pronounce
so I’ll focus on the third.
I’d like to say that the femoris in biceps femoris is pronounced: fee moor iss
like some sort of Harry Potter spell.
wave your wand: BICEPS FEEMOORISSSS!
or better yet: BICEPS FEENORMISS! (for really big biceps)
I’d like to say that
but I can’t
because it’s pronounced: femme a ris

semitendinosus, semimembranosus, biceps femoris
wait, you might ask
and I did
and then looked it up,
we have biceps in our hamstrings?
in fact
biceps is a general term for a skeletal muscle with two “heads,”
or points of origin.
when we, and by we I mean me
and anyone else who isn’t a doctor or a medical student or really into anatomy for whatever reason,
think of biceps, we’re thinking of
biceps brachii
pronounced: brackey or, my preference, bracky eye.
looking it up online,
I discovered that biceps bracky eye can actually have more heads!
up to seven “have been reported”!
is that true?
and what causes these extra heads?
do each of these heads have bracky eyes
that stare at you when you’re wearing a sleeveless shirt?

I like it — although I’m not sure how I determined my line breaks, and I think it’s too long. Could I edit/condense it? Possibly. I like the idea of turning these fun with medical term/spells into a chapbook. Fun! Could I put one together soon enough to submit to something in the next month?

oct 22/RUN

5 miles
bottom of franklin hill
56 degrees

Warmer than I expected. Thankfully I knew not to wear tights under my shorts. Beautiful, but humid — a haze in the gorge, above the water. On the way back, stopping at the sliding bench, sweat was dripping down my forehead. As I looked over the bench and down the slope, I realized that it was not quite as close as I had imagined in my poem about it. In that poem, the bench is inches away from the edge, when in reality it is feet. Do I change the poem to be more accurate, or keep it because it feels inches away when I remember it?

I’m glad I ran north and down into the flats. The view of golden tree line on the hill and reflected on the surface of the river was gorgeous. Wow!

10 Things

  1. the view in the tunnel of trees above the floodplain forest is all yellow
  2. running north, past a trashcan and a bench and a rock with a WPA plaque on it almost under the lake street bridge: a small metal table with a single leg in its center and three feet, upside between the bench and the trash can
  3. running back south, past a trashcan and a bench and a rock with a WPA plaque on it almost under the lake street bridge: someone had pulled apart the table and stuffed in the trashcan — the three feet were sticking out of the opening and over the path
  4. the port-a-potty at the 35th parking lot, the only port-a-potty that had remained between the falls and the flats is gone
  5. running above the rowing club, 1: a view, opening, as leaves falls
  6. running above the rowing club, 2: a sour sewer smell
  7. a roller skier, skiing down the franklin hill then back up it, halfway, then down it again
  8. the limestone slabs that had been stacked under the franklin bridge and that looked like someone sitting are gone
  9. the crack north of the trestle is still cracked and blocked off with barricades, part of the crack is growing tall grass, part of it is marked with orange spray paint
  10. 2 stones stacked on the ancient boulder

Last night, Scott signed us up for the marathon next year!

oct 20/RUN

5.45 miles
ford loop
51 degrees

Fall! Such a beautiful morning — sun, cool-ish air, less wind. Ran north through the neighborhood, then over the lake street bridge. Early this morning, my IT band ached, but on the run it was fine. In fact, it seemed to help to run. I ran 4 minutes, walked 1 12 times.

10 Things

  1. running through the neighborhood on the sidewalk, passing the garage of a house, suddenly hearing a robotic voice call out, you are being recorded
  2. a bright reddish orange tree near a public mailbox
  3. the river — scaled and sparkling white in the middle, smooth and pale blue near shore
  4. stopping briefly to listen to water seeping through the limestone below me, near St. Thomas
  5. a pleasant encounter with a biker — you have runner’s calves, they look good
  6. a person walking through the grass to a bench near the edge of the bluff with a clear view of brightly colored leaves on the other shore
  7. running past a break in the trees, seeing sky and the other side of the river, feeling wide openness
  8. a runner who was just slightly slower than me with a big white dog, up ahead on the trail
  9. the desire path I’m writing a poem about: a cluster of three trees, 2 dirt trails, 2 street lamps
  10. the dirt trail on the grassy boulevard used to be wider — in some spots, there’s barely room for one foot

I thought about putting on a playlist, but decided it was too fiddly, so l listened to seeping water, a whining leaf blower, and my foot strikes as I ran. Did I hear any birds? I don’t remember.

to behold / not look away / not take, but give

As part of a submission for a chapbook contest, I need to submit a statement about interests/investments/inspirations in relation to craft. I suddenly thought of a discussion between David Naiman and Ross Gay on the podcast, Between the Covers. I was sure I had posted it on this log before but I couldn’t find it. Here’s a key part from David Naiman:

DN: I’m glad we’re fully in this second meaning of behold, so behold as witness, being beholden, being indebted to. In my conversation with Natalie Diaz, she would often use the word is something extractive or is it reciprocal. Are the stories being told being taken out of the community, and told to others, not for the benefit of the people in the community? Similarly with resources, are we perpetuating systems of domination and exploitation or are we harvesting something truly based on the need? All of the questions of entanglement and extraction feel connected to this second notion that you mentioned with the Fred Moten notion of debt but beholden also to the Earth and just to other people, like we couldn’t even breathe one breath without plants. I was thinking about that when I was thinking about this conversation like, “What parts of my day, in relationship to the Earth, aren’t extractive on a species level versus relational and giving back?” It feels 99 to 1, I don’t know, I don’t want to overstate the power of poetry or the power of looking in this regard versus tangible, ecological, remediation, reciprocity, and actually placing humans back within a system where everything’s not on our terms but I think about how you say “the more you look at something, the more it grows,” I wonder if looking better and looking longer is the beginning of it all? Then not looking away when we see something during that type of looking that we might not want to see because I think we’re partially not looking because of what we might see. If beholding is what will get us beholden again, I mean I wonder about spiritual technologies that we used to use, like in its best form, the Sabbath where you’re not supposed to do anything that moves you forward in the world, you don’t exchange money, you don’t get in a car, you spend time with people you love, you attend to the moment with no sense of the future. It’s supposed to be this recreation of the Garden of Eden once a week but also, along with that, in the Bible, you were supposed to let the land rest every seven years, I don’t know if this is even a question but I guess I wanted to hear more about the beholdeness and debt that we have as  humans.

Ross Gay and David Naiman

What parts of my day, in relationship to the Earth, aren’t extractive on a species level versus relational and giving back?

funnel and sheet webs

For the past month, a sizable spider has been weaving webs on our garage. First, on the garage door, and when that didn’t work, on the side door. I’ve noticed it but not really thought about it until yesterday. I said to Scott, that’s not a classic orb web, it’s some other kind. But what kind? I looked it up and I think it’s a funnel web. Unlike orb webs which are sticky and vertical, a funnel web is a horizontal sheet of web with a funnel. It’s not sticky; the spider hides on the edge of the funnel and waits for its prey to wander in, then it swoops out and bites it. I took a few pictures, but I can’t see the web that well in them. Here’s the best (?) one:

funnel/sheet web on garage

oct 18/RUN

6 miles
hidden falls loop
48 degrees
wind: 30 mph gusts / Beaufort Scale: 3-4*

*a few days ago, Scott showed me how the weather app on our iPhones gives the average wind speed and a description of the Beaufort scale. Not today’s number on the scale; you have to figure that out yourself.

3-4 on the Beaufort scale. Between gentle and moderate breeze. Between Leaves and small twigs in constant motion; light flags extended. Large wavelets on sea and Raises dust and loose paper; small branches moved. Small waves, fairly frequent white horses. Between “Sailing” by Christopher Cross and “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas. Between I am stirred, I’m stir-able, I’m a wind-stirred thing (Carl Phillips) and The rising wind pulls you out of it,/and you look up to see a cloud of leaves/wheeling in sunlight, flickering against the blue/and lifting above the treetops, as if the whole day/were sighing, Let it go, let it go,/for this moment at least, let it all go (Jeffrey Harrison). (see my Beaufort Scales in Song and in Lines of Poetry at the end of this page). Between pulling my hat down (to make it more secure) and taking it off (so it wouldn’t fly over the bridge railing). Between leaves that shimmer and branches that creak and groan.

I ran into the wind at the start of my run, then it ran into me on the bridge. When I turned around, it was at my back.

A good run. I did 4 minutes run, 1 minute walk, but had some difficulty keeping track of the time. The bright sun made it hard to see the numbers of my watch face.

A beautiful, cool morning. I wore running tights and my bright orange sweatshirt, which I took off around mile 3. There are still lots of colorful leaves on the trees, but that won’t last long if we keep having this much wind! I was able to run up the wabun hill, over ford bridge, and to hidden falls. The short stretch of daylighted creek on the part of the trail that passes under the road, was gushing and rushing towards the ledge of hidden falls. A pleasing sound to hear. At the start of the run, the surface of the river was bright, glowing white. On the bridge, corrugated and gray. As I neared the new trail close to the double bridge, I would hear voices — so many voices! Young adults, older adults, kids. Was it a big group? An extended family? Just a lot of random people enjoying the sun and leaves on a Sunday morning? Whichever it was, I was glad I wasn’t down there and that I was able to pass before they emerged from the woods and into the light!

oct 16/RUNWALK

5 miles
around john stevens house and back
46 degrees
wind: 28 mph gusts
AQI: 12!

The air quality is 12?! That’s why I love fall and winter: much better air to breathe! Very windy, which is mostly a bummer because it means more of the red and yellow and orange leaves will fall sooner. But, it’s partly okay; it’s a chance to recite some of my favorite wind lines: I am the wind and the wind is invisible, all the leaves tremble but I am invisible and Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor You, but when the leaves hang trembling the wind is passing through.

A nice run, even if my left leg — my IT band or something else in my hip/hamstring/glute — hurts. I ran 4 minutes and walked 1 and it felt fine. It wasn’t hard or easy, it just was.

10 Things

  1. lots of dead leaves on the paved path — hiding twigs and acorns
  2. the surface of the water, glowing white through the trees
  3. voices below me, on the winchell trail
  4. a neighbor’s sidewalk covered in soft, yellowed pine needles
  5. a parks’ riding lawn mower rumbling behind me — loud and getting closer
  6. the bridge over to veterans home is still blocked off, to cars and pedestrians
  7. a line of people on the edge of the parking lot, waiting to pay for parking
  8. kids voices — loud, ebullient — at the playground
  9. mostly empty benches, but at least one person sitting on one
  10. the flash of lime green: the basket of a lime rental bike parked at the bike rack beside the 38th street steps

The wind was mostly at my back on the way south, and in my face on the way north. As I ran north, I tried to notice the milliseconds when both feet were off the ground and i was flying between beats, but I kept hearing the strong striking of my feet on the ground. I recalled my metronome experiment: listening to a metronome on my phone and syncing my steps up with the beat until I became it. I thought about running chants — my 3 beats then 2 and how they are the form for ghost/not quite tethered Sara — the Sara between beats. Then I thought about Sara the sturdy girl who wants connection and to belong and how her form could be these strong beats: Beat / Beat / Beat / Beat. All stressed, strong beats. Then I turned it into an echo:

I i i
We we we
Us us us
All all all
Here here here
Now now now

I.
Us.
We.
Here.

walk: 40 minutes with Delia
neighborhood / grassy boulevard
51 degrees
wind: 17 mph gusts

Took Delia for a walk on a brisk, yet beautiful afternoon walk. For the first mile, I thought the wind had completely gone, but when we arrived at the grassy boulevard, there it was.

3 favorite images

one: that mid-afternoon light shining through the trees — one tree with yellow leaves in a soft glow

two: movement in a purple flower, black and yellow fuzz, a bumblebee — I think I saw it’s wings opening and closing

three: a small, blob-like shadow, flickering past my feet — I think it was the shadow of a butterfly

Walking through the alley, almost home, I felt a small flare in my calf. I realized suddenly that the flare was in my soleus (that’s the lesser known of the 2 calf muscles). I rarely stretch or work my soleus. I think that that was the calf problem I was having in the marathon. I bet it would help to do some exercises for it!

oct 14/WALKRUN

walk with Delia the Dog
neighborhood / tunnel of trees / grassy boulevard
49 degrees / feels like 44

The heat has broken! 90 degrees on both Saturday and Sunday. Scott told me that, in the recorded history of Minneapolis weather (130ish years), it has only reached 90 in October 6 times. We did 1/3 of that this weekend! I wore 2 shirts and the outer layer of my winter coat and wished I would have worn gloves. Brr. I’m not complaining; I love the cooler air.

5 Walk Things

  1. a few trees are still green
  2. yellow red orange leaves
  3. some trees, including the Welcoming Oaks, are bare
  4. overcast — a bright grayish-white sky
  5. a very strong smell of cigarette smoke near one house — was one of the construction workers smoking?

run: 4.1 miles
monument and back
51 degrees

Even thought my IT band — or is it something else? — still hurts a little, I decided to go out for my first cool fall run. My reasoning: it’s too nice out here to not run, and more importantly, I think running actually helps stretch out my legs (this proved to be true; my IT band felt better on the run, my legs more relaxed). I wore a short-sleeve shirt, my BRIGHT orange sweatshirt, black running tights, and black shorts. I was only a little overheated in the second half and took my sweatshirt off.

5 Run Things

  1. the ravine/gulch above shadow falls was in full color, mostly reds and oranges
  2. the river was scaled and grayish blue and empty
  3. written across one railing on the Lake Street bridge: Free Palestine
  4. a street lamp near the monument: wires gutted, little door housing the wires missing, a date: 1989
  5. crossing over lake street bridge, nearing the Minneapolis side, hearing a woman yell or shriek below — was she okay? Looked again and couldn’t see anyone

As I walked the last few blocks, after finishing my run, I thought about the street lamp and the date. Maybe I could write a poem about this street lamp? Then I thought about how I’ve written about these gutted street lamps before on this log, which led to another idea: what about a poem for my Girl Ghost Gorge collection (tentatively) titled Prints with a series of short images collected from my log entries. Each image would be in a small form — 3/2? — and be brief.

oct 12/RUN!

4.3 miles
minnehaha falls and back
60 degree

My first run after the marathon! It didn’t feel great — my legs were sore, it was humid — but it didn’t feel terrible, and it was beautiful above the gorge. That autumn morning light! Golden, illuminating the trees, some of which were yellow, some still green. One tree near the double bridge was a silvery, pale yellow. Saw two regulars: Santa Claus and Skirt with sandals.

10 Things

  1. 2 wild turkeys near the 44th street parking lot
  2. a biker with an empty trailer, an orange flag at the back — I’m assuming she just dropped a kid off at school
  3. a car alarm beeping beeping beeping beeping then silence
  4. nearing the bridge over the falls, seeing a flash of blue then a person wearing a blue jacket
  5. the creek was almost still, with a flat, smooth surface
  6. heard, not seen: the falls rushing over the limestone ledge
  7. slashes of bright red in the otherwise green (a small red splotch in the band of monochromatic green/ Diane Seuss)
  8. a water bottle on top of the drinking fountain at the edge of the falls
  9. the light rail bells ringing as the train pulled out of (or into?) the 50th street station on the other side of the wall
  10. the strong smell of cigarette smoke somewhere close by — I couldn’t avoid breathing it in for 20 or 30 seconds as I entered the park

the light

There was something about that light this morning. It was golden and glowing and, at times, burning. As I ran, I wondered if it felt brighter and more like it was burning because there were less leaves to soften it? Two October poems discuss October light; I think I’ll study one of them today:

from October/ Louise Glück

The light has changed;
middle C is tuned darker now.
And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed. 

This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring.
The light of autumn: you will not be spared.

The songs have changed; the unspeakable
has entered them.

The songs sound over-rehearsed — I think this might be what I was trying to remember when I was talking with Scott the other day about how a poet described the vegetation in the fall as it became past its prime: over-rehearsed.

Does the unspeakable always have to be bad? Looked it up in Merriam-Webster. “Inexpressibly bad” is one of the definitions, but so is “incapable of being expressed in words.” Unspeakable points to the limits of language, which is something poetry is speaking to and about. And darker has other meanings than worse or more menacing. Darker is less light — I’m thinking of a steps poem and the idea of going deeper in, where there is less light.

Now I’m wondering about middle C being darker. I asked one of the resident music theory experts (we have 2 — Scott and FWA) about what is meant by dark notes and I learned a few things: 1. dark notes have nothing to do with pitch, so the idea of tuning middle C darker doesn’t quite work, 2. darker note = fuller, richer, deeper, 3. the opposite of dark notes are bright notes which are tinny and shrill — Sousa marches have a lot of bright notes.

I’m imagining dark as soft, warm, rich, full/depth of feeling, matured, sustained, slow and bright as sharp, cold, high-pitched, short and explosive, fast, punctuated.

oct 4/MARATHON

26.5 miles*
minneapolis to st. paul
49-63ish degrees

*officially, it was 26.2, but according to my watch, it was 26.5

I’m writing this the morning after because I was too wiped to write it yesterday. I woke up feeling stiff and sore — my quads are sore, my right knee is stiff, the side of my right foot hurts a little. Nothing that terrible. Once I get moving; it gets easier. Going down stairs is one of the most difficult things to do. As I walked down the basement steps to get frozen blueberries out of the freezer, I had to tell my legs what to do: down down down.

Yesterday’s race was a success. I achieved all of my goals, which were modest:

  1. figure out the unfinished business situation so I don’t have to use the port-a-potty 4 times, like in the last marathon. Number of port-a-potties used in this race = 0!
  2. hydrate and fuel better: in 2024, I didn’t drink enough water and was very dehydrated by the end. This year, I carried a bigger water flask and stopped at every water station (well, almost every water station after Scott and I split up). I also started drinking the electrolytes they offered before the water and 6, or was it 7?, Cliff blocks. And, when they offered half bananas around mile 22, I took that too
  3. be more intentional with run/walk breaks when things get harder. Things got hard early on: about 9 miles in. As I ran around Lake Nokomis, I did 90 sec run/ 30 sec walk. For the second half of the race, I did, 1 min run / 1 min walk
  4. finish happy: 2 years ago, as I finished and met up with Scott, I was irritated and hostile. This time, I was chill and happy, even though I was tired and suffered several calf spasms (almost, but not quite, cramps) as I neared the finish line
  5. go faster. I ran 15 minutes faster this time — from 5 hours and 37 minutes in 2024, to 5 hours and 22 minutes in 2026

So, I’m happy with what I did yesterday. I am also not satisfied, which means that sometime in the future, I will run this marathon again. No one and done, or two and through for me!

I wouldn’t say I enjoyed the race, but I’m very glad I did it. From the beginning, it felt difficult. And, it never got any easier. I just kept going for more than 5 hours. Often, runners will talk about having a “bad patch” in a race, and then getting out of it. If you keep going, it will get better. I suppose that happened a little for me; I wasn’t suffering every second of the race. But, I never really felt better. It was always hard. Some part of me always hurt. I was always hoping I could get to the finish line sooner. And, in that state of suffering and exhaustion, I couldn’t spin the experience into anything other than hard. I had to confront something difficult that couldn’t be sugar coated or re-imagined as not hard.

I’m good at finding ways to make things seem not hard. Often, it serves me well. But, there are times when things are just hard and you have to endure them as hard. As I write about enduring, I’m thinking about Marie Howe and Ross Gay and their discussions of not looking away, of being present and aware and witnessing suffering. They are both talking about the suffering of others, but I think it applies to your own suffering too. In this marathon, I couldn’t look away from the difficulty of it, and I didn’t, and I finished. I’m proud of that.

26 Things

  1. very crowded in the beginning, difficult to run a full stride, lots of cracks and holes in the downtown streets. After just a block or two, a woman fell and was able to get up and continue
  2. a line at the port-a-potties, about a mile in, near the Walker Art Center
  3. more cracks as we ran toward lake of the isles — it had rained recently, and water had collected in the cracks, making them easier to spot
  4. another runner, (perhaps too) enthusiastically, jumping up and down and side to side as they ran
  5. song, heard at least twice: Rihanna’s “Umbrella”
  6. song, heard once: Whitney Houston’s “I wanna dance with Somebody”
  7. the song that started the race: Doobie Brothers “Taking it to the Streets”
  8. no bells today ringing out from the basilica this year — they’re being repaired
  9. Justice Page playing his tuba somewhere near Lake of the Isles
  10. overhearing another runner saying, I’m not even paying attention to the lakes! I wasn’t either
  11. a spectator to a runner: I love your vest! I have no idea why they loved it, or what it said, but the runner called out, I am NEVER doing this again!
  12. a man on a microphone: remember any finishing time is finishing! we were at Lake Nokomis, just past the halfway point. It was not inspirational to me, instead, it seemed to be reminding us that we were all running slow
  13. people handing out pickle juice a few minutes later — it’s good for muscle cramps
  14. seeing RJP just before mile 15, giving her a sweaty hug, first saying to her, this is hard! then telling her about what the guy said
  15. a daughter in her 20s with her dad who seemed to have an injury and needed to take it slow — he was very enthusiastic: he called after me as I powered up a hill (which was a mistake) that’s how you do it! then later, hearing some taiko drums, raising his hand and yelling, taiko drums! yes!
  16. running by the house near the trestle with the bleachers that blasts music every year: last year it was “the impossible dream,” this year some old country song about “fresh cool water”
  17. this year, my name was on my bib — it was so encouraging to hear dozens of people call out, Go Sara! You can do this Sara!
  18. before the race started, waiting in the port-a-potty line beside a tall, 20-something guy in a bright pink breast cancer awareness shirt — we were in corral 3 (slowest), he was in corral (1) — he was so kind and soft-spoken — I wonder how fast he went. I heard him say to the guys ahead of us, this is my first and my last marathon!
  19. near the Walker, a guy spoke into his watch, hey siri, call bill
  20. peeling 1/2 of a banana, dropping it on the ground, picking it up and eating it anyway, feeling some grit on my teeth
  21. hearing, and not believing: this is the last bit of the hill — it’s all downhill after that! dear reader, it was not the last bit of the hill and it was not all downhill after it!
  22. nearing the finish line, cramping up, noticing what I think was a spray of puke off to the side
  23. some stretch between franklin and summit — a series of dark shadows on the concrete — birds flying overhead, then a bigger shadow softening the sun — a plane!
  24. song: Lean on Me, at least I think that was the song?, thinking about my mom, then almost crying until I felt a calf spasm — I think this was the first spasm — mile 20
  25. a woman pulling out her phone, telling someone, go the truck and get the cold beer and bring it to the finish line!
  26. as I walked and struggled near the end, a woman touched my back gently and said, you can do this! And I decided I could — I ran faster down the hill, feeling great, until my calf started to knot up and I didn’t — I tried to run it off, but had to step 25 feet from the finish line and walk it in
  27. (26.1) a dog barking near the course, sounding like the perfect form of a dog bark, I said to Scott, that’s classic dog or something like that
  28. (26.2) many intense, unpleasant smells from bodies working too hard: too sour, too sweet, musky / other, better smells: doughnuts, the faint hint of bubble-gummy perfume, which I normally strongly dislike, but not today

I don’t remember noticing the river or any wild turkeys. No fun Halloween decorations, barely a view of the lake. Many of the familiar paths/roads seemed strange.

The organizers did a wonderful job with everything (but, the number of port-a-potties, according to Scott. Thankfully, I wouldn’t know about that!). The entertainment on the course — a brass band, a community band, taiko drums, xylophones — was great. The water/electrolyte stops were abundant, and the volunteers handing out fluids were incredibly supportive — you’ve got this Sara! Unlike two years ago, there were lots of people out on the course cheering us slower runners on. And, the food hadn’t been packed up before I finished. Once I was done (Scott finished 25 minutes ahead of me), we sat on the grass for almost an hour — that hour felt like 5 minutes. Running for more than 5 hours, makes time and place strange.

It’s now the afternoon, and I’ve finally had a chance to finish this entry. My thighs and knee feel less sore; only my right foot is still sore. I might have more to write about the marathon, but I’ll save it for another day.

oct 1/RUN

4 miles
over ford bridge and back
57 degrees
wind: 9 mph / gusts: 19 mph

This might be my last run before the marathon on Sunday, although I might run a mile or two on Saturday. My feet and form felt very strange for the first mile. It might be all the foam in my shoes; I wish stacked shoes and more foam weren’t the trend in running shoes. I prefer feeling the ground. Since I’m complaining, another problem with my shoes for the past few years: the laces always loosen and my feet slide around. I had to stop less than 2 minutes into the run to tighten the laces. Something positive: I have done enough running for 3 minutes, walking for 1, that it feels like a habit now, something I’ll be able to do during the race, almost automatically, when things get harder.

Today’s beautiful color: more bright red leaves on several of the trees closes to the edge of the trail. Also: the feeling of changing leaves as I ran across the ford bridge. I write feeling, because I’m not sure I was actually seeing anything more than the slightest hint of reds and oranges and golds in the trees, but it felt like change was about the happen or, already happening but very slowly.

10 Things

  1. after the double bridge: brown and red leaves covering the paved path
  2. the sound of a frisbee hitting the chain as a man threw it in at the frisbee golf course in Wabun
  3. some sort of wake on the water: a thin trail, not too far from shore
  4. overheard, one biker to another: everyone has their subjective experience
  5. passing by a walker in a BRIGHT yellow jacket — I was heading up the hill to wabun, they were heading down
  6. the buzz of chainsaws in the oak savanna
  7. passing by a parks maintenance vehicle, parked on the path with their BRIGHT lights and very LOUD engine
  8. my shadow, faint, ghostly, off to the side of me
  9. empty benches
  10. the orange spray paint marking off the part of the path with a big crack looked even more orange-y today — I wonder when they’re planning to fix it?

Recited the poem I re-memorized this morning, “Rhyme for Halloween,” as I walked back to my house. I thought about its dark whimsy and wondered if I’ve managed to achieve any of that in my Haunt poems. I’d like to.

On my walk, I also noticed tons of wild mushrooms in yards and decided the next poem to re-memorize is Sylvia Plath’s “The Mushrooms.” Decided, too, that I should memorize Emily Dickinson’s mushroom poem: The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants — (1350)/ Emily Dickinson

sept 29/RUN

5 miles
minnehaha falls and back
62 degrees / humidity: 80%

Overcast with thick air, humid. Wore shorts and a tank top. I’m ready for cooler, crisper weather. It’s coming. More leaves are changing — deep reds, some yellow, orange. Still more green than not. 5 or so wild turkeys hanging out at the edge of the falls parking lot. Running closer to the light rail station, I could hear the bells — they were out of sync, maybe one train coming into the station with their bells at a different rate than another train leaving?

Before heading out for my run, I refreshed my memory on another poem I’ve memorized before: “I heard a Fly buzz when I died” by Emily Dickinson. Love the last lines: And then a Window shut/ And then I could not see to see.

Listened to the steady line of cars, the rush of falling water, the wind through the trees, the out of sync train bells, a leaf blower on the way there. Listened to my “Hello Goodbye” playlist on the way back.

from Wintergreen Ridge/ Lorine niedecker

Nobody, nothing
ever gave me
greater thing
than time
unless light
and silence
which if intense
makes sound

sept 27/RUN

10 miles
east on Summit / west on Summit
60 degrees / 91% humidity
dew point: 59

A week from today, right now, at almost noon, I’ll be deep into the marathon. For my last long (ish) run before the race, I decided to run miles 20.5 – 25.75 of the course. The first half was almost all uphill — not steep, but steady. I didn’t mind it today, but I bet I’ll be feeling it next Sunday. It’s a beautiful and painful way to run the last 10k of a marathon.

I had two memorable animal encounters. The first one occurred about 2 miles in. Standing at a stoplight, waiting for the light to change, something fell on the bill of my hat. Was it drips from a big tree? I looked up to see. No tree, but a utility pole and on the wire, a single bird. Gross! I started running for about a minute and then thought, I better check to see if there’s bird poop all over my hat. Yep. Luckily the grass was wet and I could use it to “clean” off the poop.

The second encounter happened a few miles later. With no warning, a squirrel ran out from the trees on the edge of the sidewalk and ran straight into my ankle bone, then kept running. My feet banged into each other, but I didn’t need to do any stutter steps. The ankle bone burned for a few minutes, but I think I’m okay.

After this second encounter I thought about how bad things happen in threes and I wondered what my third thing would be. Thankfully, it never happened.

10 Things

  1. thick, foggy air
  2. wet leaves, in oranges and reds and yellows, squeaking under my feet
  3. the smell of cigarette smoke — passing a woman, watching her lift a cigarette to her mouth, then a puff of smoke
  4. bright pink and yellow flowers at the front gate of a fancy house
  5. crossing Ayd Mill Road, noticing a new bike path below
  6. passing the governor’s mansion, running beside the fence, orange cones in front, on the edge of the road
  7. the bells of St. Thomas ringing
  8. more splotches of yellow and red and orange in the trees — fall is here!
  9. having to wait through 2 cycles of lights at Lexington before I got a walk sign, hearing the recorded voice calling out, wait wait wait wait wait
  10. shadow falls creek was flowing steadily, the falls were falling

Crossing back over the bridge, a favorite image of the run: rowers! 6 or 7 single shells spread across the river, the strange, whiteish gray light, making the front end of each shell glow in silvery white. Wow!

Here’s an excerpt of poem that is the poem-of-the-day at Poetry Daily. I like the easy way the story unfolds:

July 19/ Lisa Fishman

Here on a rock I see the loon
does not perceive me
as a threat. She ate her lunch
looning around
in circles, going under
& coming back, always within
12 feet of me
but in water if I approach
she goes under
& disappears                    
disliking
boat’s vibration
in her element

But on the ground a mother grouse
and 2 young freely walk
around the cabin—they’re not afraid
of people, said Gillian
that’s why they get hunted
but we don’t hunt them she said, &
I brought you some eggs                 
pullet eggs
and these purple flowers clustered               
on spindly stems—fresh thyme
or is it
oregano

sept 25/RUN

3 miles
trestle turn around
60 degrees / humidity: 89%

Back to sticky running this morning. Overcast, but humid and wet from an early morning rain. I wore my BRIGHT orange YWCA Tri shirt from 2013 and my BRIGHT yellow running shoes. I wonder, did I brighten the otherwise gloomy gorge for anyone? I’m continuing to do my 3/1 method. The first 3 felt good, the second 3 did not, then after that, they all felt about the same: not hard, but not effortless either. Lots of sweating. After climbing up from under the lake street bridge I saw my first “road closed for an event on oct 4” sign. That’s for the marathon! For the next mile, I had a big grin on my face. It’s coming!

Two days ago, I came across WS Merwin’s “The Light of September” in an log post and I decided I wanted to re-memorize it (I memorized it a few years ago). Then yesterday, I decided to re-memorize Diane Seuss’ “I Look Up From My Book at the World Through Reading Glasses.” Today, it was Jorie Graham’s “Still Life with Window and Fish.” As I ran, I recited the lines in my head: Down here this morning in my white kitchen along the slim body of the light . . . Such a wonderful poem that has so much to say about vision and light. As I was memorizing DS’s poem yesterday, I thought about how brilliant it is in describing my experience of seeing the world sometimes — the world, italicized/Douglas fir blurs into archetype. . .Then I thought about a new project: picking some of the favorite vision poems I’ve gathered by others and writing about how and why they resonate for me. Seuss and Graham would definitely be on that list, along with several Emily Dickinson poems.

10 Things

  1. a small pack of shirtless runners — I heard the loud slapping of their feet first, then saw them as they flew past me
  2. scuff scuff scuff — a runner in a BRIGHT yellow shirt, scuffing his feet on the path with every step — he was slow but had a fast cadence, so there were a lot of scuff noises
  3. a few more slashes of yellow, red — I think a few orange too
  4. the squeaky whirr of wheels on an orange motorized something — not a bike, not a scooter — it was orange and had 3 wheels and the old guy in an orange jacket riding it was moving fast
  5. the sliding bench was empty
  6. any view of the river, forgotten — was I able to see it, or was it blocked by leaves?
  7. a white sky
  8. no geese, no blue jays, no chickadees, one cheeseburger from a carolina wren
  9. cars driving on the river road in bursts — a line-up, then no cars, then a line-up again
  10. waving to Daddy Long Legs who was over on the bike path while I was on the walking path

haunt / overlook

Today, since I’m writing about the overlook — the ones by the gorge, the act of ignoring or passing by without noticing or forgetting — I decided to search for “overlook” on Poetry Daily (poems.com). Jackpot! A great poem by the wonderful Maggie Smith:

In Geologic Time, It Happened Just Seconds Ago/ Maggie Smith

Our honeymoon was a strand             
of scenic overlooks. I first wrote                            
strange—a strange of scenic

overlooks—my mistake, and strange             
enough was the desert penned                           
in red ink. The scene

was either Sedona or Mars. They say             
the iron in the rocks calls                           
to the iron in our blood,

so it tugs on us. It tugged. We stayed             
on Airport Mesa, where we called                           
the crowds drawn to sanguine

sunsets “tourists,” as if we weren’t,             
and where, each night, the Milky Way                           
made a mess of the sky.

Was I the only one who wanted             

to wipe its white smudge away,                           
to polish the night

black again? Our honeymoon             
was a stranded scene I overlooked.                           
We posed for photographs
\

we never took. I remember the moon             
framed above the landscape, looking                           
silvery as a tintype

taken in a modern-day ghost town.             
The last day, we reached the canyon                           
and saw where the river

had over millions of years chewed it down             
to bone, clear to the canyon’s                           
strange marrow, riven

into red, copper, and purple—bands             
like sunsets compressed and recorded                           
in rock. That view

remains. Our honeymoon was a strand,             
a strangeness, a look ahead. I wrote                           
only what I could see.

1 — look / scene (seen) / tourists (gawkers) / a blocked view (Milky Way) / photographs (staged looks) / a view (of the moon) framed / landscape (visible feature of an area of land) / looking like / saw / view remains / look ahead / could see

What a variety of uses of view/see/look here, related to vision! I’d like to try this out in my overlook poem — or, maybe the same approach (gathering and using a wide range of descriptions related to a concept) on my dirt path poem, which has two sections: desire and abandon

2 — overlook as view / overlook as not seeing

3 — geologic time / iron in rock connected to iron in body — references to Lorine Niedecker and “Lake Superior”?

4 — a beautiful description of the carving out of a canyon, both literal and figurative as what happened to a marriage years after the honeymoon

5 — so it tugs on us. It tugged. Love it!

sept 23/RUN

5.6 miles
above locks and dam / ford bridge / under lake street
54 degrees

The first mile was rough. My feet were sore. Mile 2 wasn’t that great either. But, by mile 3, I started to feel better. And by mile 4, I decided that instead of stopping at a certain distance, I’d stop at a certain time: an hour. This run gives me confidence for the marathon. I can remind myself that even if it feels hard in the first few miles, it starts to feel better around mile 4. Better = a little easier, more relaxed, my legs and lungs and arms in sync.

One of the goals for my run today was to visit a few overlooks that I might use in a poem tentatively titled, overlook. On my way back from the ford bridge, I stopped at Horace Cleveland Overlook and took some video. As I ran from there above the river, I started thinking about unofficial overlooks — like above the ravine or above the floodplain forest in the tunnel of trees. Suddenly it hit me: these unofficial overlooks are often overlooked because people aren’t giving them enough attention as they move through the gorge, or because they are hidden from our “normal” ways of looking — the river, the floodplain forest, the steps that wind down to the flats. I decided this poem should have both meanings of overlook — or, maybe even other meanings too, similar to one of Jane Hirshfield’s assays. I need to revisit some of her assay poems to figure out if they fit with what I’m trying to do.

10 Things

  1. a squirrel who had no fucks to give — didn’t even bother to be startled as i ran by
  2. white heat on the river’s surface — the sun bouncing off the scaled surface
  3. a group of bikers meeting up at the locks and dam no. 1 parking lot
  4. a red bag, under a tree, just below the ford bridge
  5. the river near the eastern edge, just off of the ford bridge, was a pale greenish blue
  6. the view of the east bank from the ford bridge: hints of reds and oranges in the trees
  7. a tall guy, running fast in bursts — doing strides? the first time I saw him stop, I heard him wheezing from his hard effort
  8. almost all of the floodplain forest is still green
  9. some little purple flowers on the edge of the trail — Siberian Squill? — so upright and softly colored, looking like little bouquets spread out along the trail
  10. while most of the benches were empty, more than usual were filled — mostly by a single person, but at one, two women were sitting and talking
Horace Cleveland Overlook / 23 sept 2026

Looked through past entries and found a definition for assay from 11 jan 2024:

definition of an assay

Assays began with a poem written after I’d reread Edgar Allan Poe’s stories while writing an essay on how hiddenness works in poems. Some of the qualities of essay exploration and prose step lingered in its music and mode of thinking. At the time, I was regularly seeing the journal Science. On the back would often be advertisements for half-million-dollar machines for performing assays. That word—close to essay and sharing its root in the idea of an attempt, a try—refers to discovering a thing’s nature by breaking it into its elemental parts. The poem became ‘Poe: An Assay.’ That approach to writing, of testing a subject for its discoverable parts, imaginative and factual, caught. I began writing others. ‘Judgment: An Assay.’ ‘Tears: An Assay.’ ‘And: An Assay.’” Jane Hirshfield

assay (def): the testing of a metal or ore to determine its ingredients and quality

Does this fit with what I’m trying to do? Not quite.

sept 20/RUN

20 miles
lake harriet and back
55 degrees
humidity: 91%

20 miles. For the first 10 miles, I listened to creek water and foot strikes and the rush of traffic — so many cars out there on a Sunday morning! For the second 10 miles, I put in a new playlist that I made yesterday, called 20 miler. I created it by looking through Apple Music playlists for the 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s, and 10s. I put it on shuffle. I recall that Tribe Called Quest and Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” helped me get through my tough moments.

I’m proud of myself for what I just accomplished. Not because it was particularly fast, although it was 16+ minutes faster than my 20 miles from 2024, but because I did it at all. When I woke up this morning, my left hip/IT band was sore. I decided I’d run to lake nokomis and around it, then do the franklin and ford loops for the rest of the distance. If, at some point, my hip felt too sore, I would be closer to home so if I cut some of the distance, I could get home easily. Maybe this plan would have worked, but I imagine it would have been too easy to decide my hip hurt too much and to stop.

This was the plan, but when I got to the creek, which had been almost completely dried up in my past runs, and saw (and heard!) that it was full because of recent rains, I decided I wanted to keep following the creek to see what it looked and sounded like on the way to lake harriet.

A little bit later, I might have turned around before reaching lake harriet, but when I got to the part of the trail that had been closed, it was open. So I decided to keep going. From there, I just kept going until I reached 10 miles, which was deep into the lake harriet trail. Then I took a short break and turned around and headed back.

On the way back, my knees were stiff and sore and my feet hurt. I wondered if I was pushing it too much and should stop — a brief thought: I could call FWA and have him pick me up. Then I wondered if I should just walk the rest of it, or at least the next mile. Instead, I switched to running for 90 seconds, walking for 30. And I just kept going.

When I got to mile 18, I thought I would have to run beyond the turn off to my house to get the full 20 miles. A flash — it’s okay if you only run 19; that’s good enough. But, I didn’t stop at 19. I kept moving, 90/30, until I reached 20.

Lots of fortitude practiced today, which makes me happy because building up my fortitude — not giving up when it’s hard, pushing past what I think I can do, just putting one foot in front of the other even when I think it’s impossible — is one of my top reasons I wanted to train for and run another marathon.

20 Things

  1. leaves: mostly green, but a scattering of yellow and red, some orange too
  2. crossing over the duck bridge and seeing all the water in the creek — no dirt bars or aquatic plants, just water
  3. the part of nokomis avenue that was closed off for road work is open again
  4. the giant images of monarch butterflies are still on the fence of the pickleball court
  5. a full house of pickleballers — a mixture of loud thwacks with cheering
  6. a spot on the trail, just past lake nokomis, that I’ve made note of before: wind rushing through leaves almost sounding like falling water
  7. stretch of the trail that follows the other side of the creek and goes under chicago was open again — hooray!
  8. part of the path and certain slats on the small wooden bridges were slick from friday’s and yesterday’s rain
  9. running under the freeway bridge, wondering if there were any bats up there today — a sudden flurry of movement, something too big to be a bat and gray swooping down and landing — a pigeon?
  10. the bronze bunny did not have a scarf or a garland or any decoration on it
  11. another section of the path is closed — the detour requires you to climb a steep hill then descend it a few minutes later — I walked up it, then ran down it
  12. crossing a bridge, looking down at the creek water as it rushed over a row of small boulders
  13. reaching lake harriet: crowded paths, mostly pedestrians several people wide
  14. a beautiful beach — the buoys are still in! — calm, blue water, an unbroken surface
  15. shshshshsh the feel and sound of feet running on loose dirt on the side of the trail
  16. running into wind on the way back
  17. as part of the detour, had to run on a section of the bike path where bikers can’t see well and often bike very fast — on the way back, noticed a dirt trail cutting through some grass on the hill — took it to avoid fast bikers
  18. darkish sky with wind, then bright sun, then dark sky again
  19. groups of people hiking on dirt trails beside the creek, between chicago and bloomington
  20. 2 dogs encountering each other near the mustache bridge — one of them big and excited, the dog’s owner, a guy who was big and looked strong, struggled to hold the dog back

It is now a few hours after I finished my run. I’m wiped out and sore, and relieved to be done. Time to taper! As they (pro runners) like to say: the hay is in the barn.

sept 17/RUN

7 miles
ford loop+
61 degrees / dew point: 59
drizzle, off and on

Moist. Humid air mixed with sweat mixed with rain-soaked bushes mixed with occasional drizzle. Overcast. Encountered several walkers with umbrellas or rain jackets. Ran past some geese, a few wild turkeys. Heard the bells of St. Thomas.

10 Wet Things

  1. my upper arm after brushing against wet leaves
  2. the sidewalk — a little slick
  3. puddles on the path, making visible cracks I might not have seen otherwise
  4. the surface of the river, crossing the ford bridge: scaled, gray
  5. shadow falls was falling vigorously
  6. the big fountain in front of a fancy house on the river road, bubbling
  7. my shirt, soaked at the top
  8. stopped at the water fountain near the skate park
  9. my pony-tail, dripping
  10. they’re doing work at the old steam plant/ Ford Area C — an orange something looking like a thick lane line in the water near shore, a big crane, yellow-vested workers all around

While working on a poem about Ford Area C and the abandoned power plant yesterday, I read about how Ford, which still owns this building/land, had to submit a plan for cleaning up the toxic dump that has been there for more than 80 years — is that what they’re doing down there, cleaning up? Something else they’ve already done is remove a small building up on the bluff, just off of the trail. Today I made that my turn around point (note to future Sara, if you’re planning to run 7 miles, this is about 1/2 mile short). I walked out near the edge and took a few pictures of the open view to the plant below, including this one:

above the power plant / 17 sept

Friends of the Mississippi River (FMR) put together a helpful timeline of Ford Area C. Here are a few key dates:

1945-1966 — Ford dumps waste solvents over the bluff and deposits barrels of paint waste onto the Mississippi River floodplain, creating what is eventually named “Area C.” (The primary manufacturing campus includes parcels “A” and “B.”)

1965-66 — Ford deposits large amounts of construction debris on top of the hazardous waste at Area C.

1979 — The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, with Ford’s permission, adds construction debris to the top of the Area C dump during nearby lock and dam reconstruction, making removal of the hazardous waste underneath more difficult. Ford is paid by the yard for the disposed-of waste.

Fall 2025 — Ford has submitted a draft cleanup plan (feasibility study) to the MPCA. The MPCA will hold a community meeting and seek public comments in January 2026 before selecting a cleanup alternative with Ford.

In January of 2026, the MPCA held public meetings to discuss Area C clean-up plans. I haven’t found much more information. Looking at the MPCA site for Ford Area C, I found a timeline that claims 2027 is when the clean-up will happen.

Returning to the MPCA site and their description of Ford Area C:

From approximately 1945 through the mid-1960s, Ford disposed of paint sludge and solvents used in automobile painting operations at the base of the bluff. Although the specific disposal practices are not known, it appears that liquid solvents may have been dumped over the edge of the bluff, while barrels of paint sludge were buried. Disposal of industrial waste stopped in about 1966. Ford also disposed of construction rubble, contaminated soil, scrap metal, and other types of debris at Area C.

During the reconstruction of Lock & Dam No. 1 in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers disposed of a large volume of construction rubble and sand on top of and surrounding the industrial waste. In the mid-1980s, Ford covered the top of the construction rubble pile with a paved parking lot. The city of Saint Paul placed additional rubble at Area C during reconstruction of Mississippi River Boulevard in the late 1980s.

Dumped over the edge of the bluff, buried in the ground, covered with rubble, sand, a parking lot.

sept 16/RUN

3.1 miles
2 trails+
61 degrees / humidity: 73%

I thought about doing my 10 mile run today but I wondered if it might be too much for my sore hip since I ran 5 miles yesterday. I decided to run a 5k instead, and, to make it more relaxed, to stop at the benches I’m writing about for my poem, “Haunt: the benches.”

It was a beautiful morning. Sun, light wind, good air quality, a few more red trees. Just before I started, I listened to the sharp thud of acorns hitting the asphalt. At the end of the next block, city workers were repairing the sewer: lots of orange vests and loud talking and trucks beeping and banging.

Running south, I stayed above on the paved trail near the road. At the Horace Cleveland Overlook, I turned down and entered the southern entrance of the Winchell Trail. The river was sparkling, the sewer pipes in the ravines were dripping, the cars were steadily heading north. Near 42nd street, I noticed that they had patched all the cracks on the trail that had been marked with orange paint last week — strips that looked like toilet paper criss-crossed the path, covering the patches.

the benches

1 — the bench made out of an ancient boulder

This was not one of the benches I was planning to write about, but as I ran near it, I realized I wanted to. The bench made by time and pressure. How long did it take to make it, I wonder. And, what type of rock is this dark gray/black boulder? Is it taconite (imported from up north) or limestone or what?

boulder as bench / above the oak savanna

2 — the WWDD bench (what would dow do — rachel dow)

The view in front of this bench is blocked by small trees, one of them a memorial tree for Rachel Dow. The bench is made from wooden slats, quite worn, and concrete studded with gravel.

3 — the bench at the edge of the world

In an early draft this morning, I wrote about standing beside this bench to look down at the trail below and out at the river, but that’s not quite true: I’m not standing beside it, I’m standing several feet in front of it. Running under this bench, on the edge of the world, I wondered if I should add an additional verse — I mention fall and winter; I could bring in spring or summer, too.

Yesterday, reading the latest issue of The Paris Review thanks to my local library, I discovered this wonderful poem by one of my favorite poets, Diane Seuss:

She is good at curving/ Diane Seuss

against the constellation
of lilies

of the valley, and good
at making a nest

where the watercress
meets the skirt

of the stream and hems
it, and in the green

where the deer dream.
They say she’s playing

dead but
she’s not playing or

if she’s playing she’s playing
living or something in between.

Oh, so good! The line breaks, the quiet rhymes, the idea of someone not playing dead but living.

added a few hours later: I almost forgot about something I wanted the mention — last night, during community band rehearsal, as we did a warm-up exercise with staccatoed quarter notes, the director told us to stop thinking about the notes and just thinking about the space in-between the notes. It reminded me of my poem, “Between Beats” and when I think about the space between foot strikes during my run, when I’m flying.

sept 15/RUN

5 miles
bottom of franklin hill and back
61 degrees / humidity: 73%

Warmer today, which meant more sweating and a little more effort. This week is the big one: 5, 10, and 20 milers. Mostly, I felt good. No kneecap slips today. At the beginning of the run, I noticed the wind rushing through the trees. In my head I recited, I am the wind and the wind is invisible. All the leaves tremble but I am invisible. Later I chanted, life is but life is but life is but life is but death is but death is but death is but death is but bliss is but bliss is but bliss is but bliss is but breath is but breath is but breath is but breath / life life life death death death bliss bliss bliss breath breath breath.

10 Things

  1. fall is here, 1: streaks of red in the trees on the edge of the trail
  2. fall is here, 2: a stretch of grass carpeted with red and yellow and brown leaves
  3. a woman near the road down to minneapolis rowing club in a bright yellow vest
  4. cheeseburger cheeseburger — carolina wren
  5. wet and slightly slippery trails, caused by yesterday’s rain
  6. just north of the big crack by the trestle, more cracks returning, widening, spreading
  7. a startled squirrel — it was about to dart out, then decided so abruptly to reverse course that it jumped up to the side and did a frantic spin
  8. empty benches, including the sliding bench
  9. no more stacked slabs of stone looking like a sitting person under the franklin bridge
  10. I think I heard some rowers on the river, but didn’t see them

Listened to the cars and the birds as I ran north. Put in my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist for the last mile.

September is the month when 3 out of our 4 parents died: Scott’s dad on 1 sept 2023; Scott’s mom on 29 sept 2022; and my mom on 30 sept 2009. So, it’s fitting to post this beautiful poem halfway through September:

Not the Bread Machine, but the Space It Takes / Sara Rosenberg

For years it rested beneath the pantry’s
floating shelves, sap-sticky with spills:

hot honey and rice slipped from the bag.
Then, behind the giant soup pot I used only once,

to brine a turkey the way my mother used to
on my first Thanksgiving without her—Prussian blue

and dented, speckled like a bird egg. Later, I wedged it
beside the pasta maker and its many attachments,

another thing I never knew I wanted
until she gave it to me, as if to say I was worthy

of time-saving, of a homemade dough I didn’t have to knead.
For weeks, it sat in the box of waiting donations,

where each time I bent down to haul it away, a stone
fell down the back of my throat.

Crusted with the bread I cultivated, crumb
of wheat, of banana, of oatmeal, from when I lived

alone in the rat house behind the landlord’s five-bedroom,
pretending his black creek was my black creek,

that his chimney’s columns of smoke
were my columns of smoke. She showed up

at my door with a box of new cutlery, knives so clean
I saw my face in them, with new dish cloths I had never

thought to need. She set the appliance on the green
tile countertop like a bouquet of roses.

I heard it whir, warm with promise, loud as rain.
A memory so delicate it flakes in my hand.

So vivid in its conjuring, and that title! Wow.

sept 13/RUN

13.75 miles
franklin / ford / the confluence
53 degrees
cloudy, some drizzle

The weather was wonderfully cool, which made a big difference. Everything felt easier, and I felt stronger. My 3/1 plan was working well. It was great until my kneecap skipped (or slipped? or stuttered?) around mile 8. It didn’t slide out so far that I had to pop it back into my place (with my hand, or by walking up stairs), but it was enough to make my tendons angry and to shake my confidence. I stopped to walk briefly, then started again. Another stutter. For 2 or 3 seconds I panicked, then I started running, this time more deliberately, lifting my knees. No more stutters — at least, I think there were no more stutters. For the rest of the run, I was weary and distracted. But, I still did it, and I’m choosing to believe that the kneecap skips were an aberration, and I’m choosing to remember how good (relaxed, strong, steady, fast enough) I felt for the first half of the run.

I have two ideas about how to prevent the skips from happening again:

  • more stretching and warm-up before I begin, especially exercises to get my glutes firing
  • wear my compression socks

My route involved a figure 8 with the lake street, franklin, and ford bridges, then a (mostly) straight shot to the confluence and back. In the first hour, I saw (and heard the oars of) rowers on the river. Also encountered some sort of bike event — not a race, but a fun ride around the city. I wanted to ask someone what it was, but I didn’t want to stop. Just looked it up: St. Paul Classic Bike Tour. My route was part of the bike tour route — well, not exactly — I was on the path, they were on the road.

a few things overheard by bikers:

  1. one biker: look at the Halloween decorations! another: Halloween? Too soon!
  2. I forgot you went to River Falls (University of Wisconsin, River Falls)
  3. and she was completely naked, except for the towel!
  4. one biker: did you finish all of your projects at the cabin? another biker: nope
  5. I think I just tasted some rain drops! / the weatherman was wrong!
  6. oh, it’s so beautiful here (one biker to another, on the trail between hidden falls and the confluence)

13+ Things

  1. about a dozen wild turkeys spread out over the lawns of some big houses
  2. a dark sky, bright white bike lights cutting through
  3. cheers from people leaning over the franklin bridge for the rowers below — a race? not that I could find online
  4. cheeseburger cheeseburger — a carolina wren
  5. the sound of water falling fast out of a crack in the limestone
  6. stopping to fill my water at the monument — waiting in a short, fast line behind 2 other runners
  7. more fall color on the trees — red and yellow on the trees just above the railing near marshall
  8. at least one roller skier — click clack click clack of their poles
  9. the bike tour had a pit stop at the parking lot and overlook closest to the ford bridge — port a potties, dozens of bikers, music — as I passed by, one biker called out: have a great run! / thank you! have a great bike ride!
  10. a small building on the edge of the trail, part of the ford power plant, is gone — where and when did it go? a gap and a view that hadn’t been there before
  11. the voices of kids playing at a house across the road, hidden by big fir trees
  12. a short drizzle, both refreshing and chilly
  13. studying the river’s surface from the ford bridge: flat, smooth, a thin sliver of bright blue cutting through grayish-blue reflecting the clouds and the small bit of blue sky trying to peek through
  14. a woman emerging from the woods with a dog, her dog running hard into her knee, the woman staggering and calling out in pain — me: are you okay? her: yes, my dog ran into me

For most of the run (the first 12 miles), I listened to the bikers and the birds. For the last 2 miles, I put in my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist.

sept 10/RUN

8.75 miles
the confluence and back
59 degrees / humidity: 86%
100% sun

Cooler, but still warm because of humidity and sun. Only a few minutes in, my face was dripping with sweat and the top of my shirt was soaked. I need some new running shirts that aren’t light green or any other light color that so easily shows sweat. The first mile wasn’t easy — my feet/stride felt awkward and my legs were sore — but I reminded myself that it would get easier once I warmed up and that I could run almost 9 miles. It worked! I just kept going — 3 minutes of running, 1 minute of walking — and, at some point, it wasn’t as hard.

I tried something new: miles 1-4 — 3/1, miles 5-7 — 2 m/45 s, mile 7 — 90s/30s, mile 8+ — 3/1. I was curious which of these ratios might work best (best = easiest or fastest or lowest heart rate). The verdict: 3/1 was the best. 2/45 was too hard to keep track of and 90/30 elevated my heart rate the most.

For the first half of the run, I listened to the cars and the falls and the birds. For the second half, my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist.

10 Things

  1. middle schoolers walking to school, 1: scuff scuff scuff — a boy in shorts, socks, and slides scuffing his feet as he walked towards me
  2. middle schoolers walking to school, 2: 3 girls, dressed almost identically in white t-shirts and sweatpants — very polite, moving over to give me space — after they passed, a cloud of a scent — sweet, artificial, a perfume that reminded me of pink bubble-gum
  3. car after car after car passing beside me on the river road
  4. empty parking lots at the overlooks
  5. the sound of a frisbee hitting a chainlink net — someone playing frisbee golf in wabun
  6. ford bridge view, south: calm, flat water in several versions of blue
  7. hidden falls falling softly, steadily
  8. a new water fountain at the confluence that fills water bottles fast!
  9. empty benches — no one sitting at my new favorite bench just above the dog park
  10. ford bridge view, north: a small motor boat heading south to the lock and dam — a few seconds later I think I heard the bell at the lock that signaled it was being filled up with water so the boat could enter

A good run. I ran marathon race pace. My left knee was sore afterwards, but otherwise, I felt like I could keep running.

Sometime during the run, I started thinking about my Girl Ghost Gorge manuscript. First, I thought about one of the poems I’m working on, Here, We Speak Void, and how the form for it should be small stanzas surrounded by lots of space — maybe the different stanzas, which are different understandings/examples of Void, would be on different pages. This thought led to more thoughts about the whole collection. In addition to being about a girl, a ghost, a gorge, it’s about rock and river and air. Air = lots of empty or open space on the page, Water = words flowing freely, steadily.

we speak in Void

I found these thoughts yesterday and want to condense them into part of my poem. Today’s task, I think.

Gabbert suggests that the frustration of incoherence, mystery, not being able to make sense of something is alluring, erotic. It’s why many are drawn to poetry — to slow down, notice, get the chance to dwell in the unknown. My perspective is slightly different. I don’t need to be encouraged to slow down or given the chance to embrace incoherence, resist common sense. Because of failing vision and my overworked brain, I am already slow. Much of what I see is incoherent — or never quite coherent. Common sense ideas of how we see or how to be in the world have already been upended for me. I see poetry, and its way of navigating or negotiating or communicating/finding meaning not as desirable, but as necessary, practical, useful, a way to be that speaks to where I already am.

log entry from 29 march 2023

Something similar to, not familiar language made strange, but strange language made familiar. I like the word, familiar — a meaning for knowing to put beside, or replace, mastering or (fully) understanding. And now I’m thinking about becoming accustomed — We grow accustomed to the Dark (ED).

sept 7/RUN

18 miles
lake harriet bandshell and back
67 degrees / humidity: 92%

That was hard. Like most of the runs in this marathon build, hot and humid. Lots of sweating. Near the end of hour 2, I looked down and noticed that my shirt was drenched. The first half felt mostly good: 3 minutes of running, 1 minute of walking, over and over. The second half was more difficult. I switched to 90 seconds of running and 30 seconds of walking and did 10 sets before I took a slightly longer walk break.

18 Things

  1. past lake nokomis, on the creek path, the wind passing through the trees, sounding like water — no specific memory, but a reminder of the farm and how I would often hear that sound there
  2. cracked asphalt on the creek path — marked with orange paint, some of the paint was zigzagged and some of it was loops, looking almost like flower petals
  3. signs on the pickle ball fence: 2 giant monarch butterflies for the monarch butterfly festival — is that today? no, I checked, it’s 12 sept
  4. a real monarch butterfly, fluttering through the trees next to the path
  5. just after mile 1: a shirtless runner, pushing a strollers and holding onto a dog’s leash — talking to the kid he was pushing and/or someone on the phone — at one point he called out, GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE! did he see a turkey, or were he and his kid just remembering another time when they saw/heard a turkey
  6. the dog was a beautiful golden retriever — not light golden fur, but dark, like copper — and was also very graceful and relaxed as they ran
  7. an e-bike blasting “Let it Be” from their radio — the voices were clear until the bike passed, then distorted from the doppler effect
  8. the creek continues to be very low, a lot more mud and dirt showing than normal
  9. a mom on one bike, her very young daughter on another, carefully crossing the road and passing by an older man in a recumbent bike — he greeted them and called out to the girl with an encouraging, hey!
  10. reaching the bandshell at lake harriet, looking for a water fountain, encountering about 50 people doing yoga on yoga mats, facing the lake — what an image! I think I heard to woman leading them say something about gratitude — wow, I looked it up and they had free yoga EVERY DAY this summer at lake harriet! today was the last day — I wish I would have known; I would have gone at least once
  11. windy at lake harriet, I watched/listened to the water lapping the shore — I briefly thought about taking a 5 or 10 minute break to sit on the beach and be with the water, but decided it might be too hard to start up again
  12. what a crowded path at harriet! too many people taking up too much space, making it hard for me to run easily
  13. a group of adults gathered around a little girl, laughing (not at, but with the girl) and calling out, oh, her face, look at that face! not sure what was happening
  14. 2 bikers, one of them explaining to the other that they were redoing a bridge — it’s going to be really cool!
  15. slowing down to let a faster runner pass me — good morning! / good morning!
  16. a few honks, up in the air, geese far off somewhere
  17. stopping at the back of the nokomis rec center to refill my water bottle with the jet-powered bottler filler, noticing a group of 6 or so older people standing around — from what I heard, I think they were about to rehearse a song they were planning to sing — I left before they started
  18. two school gardens, one at Hiawatha, one at Howe, spread over several big planters, looking abundant and desperate for water

That run was not easy. My quads and hips and, occasionally my knees, hurt, so did my left ankle. And everything was sore by the end. I was slow and walked way too much for the last 4 miles. But, I did it. I was out there moving for 18 miles, and I was able to be on a trail that I’m rarely on these days. And I got to run all the way to lake harriet. I didn’t have to go to the bathroom. I didn’t have any terrible cramps. And, any negative thoughts I had (this is too hard or how will I be able to run a marathon in 4 weeks) didn’t last long. Victory!

For the first 14 miles, I listened to water and wind through trees and cars moving and dogs barking and some dad yelling out, gobble gobble gobble. For the last 4 miles, I put in headphones and listened to my “Remember to Forget” playlist.

sept 3/RUN

4.25 miles
minnehaha falls and back
78 degrees / dew point: 71

A recent refrain: hot, hot, so hot! I thought about running 10 miles, but when I couldn’t start my run until after 9, I decided 4+ miles would be enough. Tomorrow I’ll run to my new favorite bench which is about 7 miles there and back, so my total for this week of marathon prep will be fine. (5 on tues, 4.25 on thurs, 7+ on fri, 18 on sun). Yesterday, Scott and I spent about 8 hours at the fair — lots of time on feet. Can I count that as marathon training?

10 Things

  1. Morning Sara! / Oh, hi! good morning Dave!
  2. running beside a monarch for a few seconds — a splotch of beautiful orange at eye level — I thought about mom and how much she loved monarchs
  3. sun, then clouds, then sun again
  4. brittle, brown grass
  5. a few more red leaves, a yellowed tree — were the leaves on it changing for fall or dead?
  6. minnehaha creek above the falls looked still
  7. the creek water falling over the ledge, subdued and diminished
  8. the water at the water fountain on the edge of the park was unpleasantly warm
  9. one roller skier — click clack click clack
  10. the water at the fountain at the 36th parking lot was cool

Before I got too hot, I thought about looping around the falls an extra time or two to add distance. I made note of the distance: .7 miles. I can imagine a run where I do 1/2 mile run/.2 mile walk loops.

For the first half of my run, I didn’t listen to music, for the second half, I put in my headphones and listened to an old playlist, augustrun — “9 to 5”; “Misery Business”: “I’m Still Standing”; and “Can’t Touch This”.

Back to the fair: As we do every year, Scott and I waled around the fine arts building. And, as always, it was inspiring. There are some amazing artists in Minnesota. Scott took pictures of 2 textile/fiber art pieces that I particularly liked. One is inspiring for my HOLE project, the other for my gathering of plastic:

1 — Fireweed and Sky / Therese Zemlin / hand-cut and hand-woven digital prints o on paper (see also the description in her Instagram post)

fireweed and sky / a weaving of thin strips of paper with words printed on them

I love this idea of weaving words! It looks like something fun to try. I looked up the artist, Theresa Zemlin, and jackpot! She has a wonderful site and many more inspiring pieces in her gallery! The piece at the fair is part of a larger collection she has titled, Woven Works:

My work has evolved from weaving fabric on floor looms, to Eva Hesse-inspired mixed-media, to welding life-size steel and paper pulp sculptures, to the physical manipulation of photo-based inkjet prints on paper. Inspiration for my work has always been rooted in the tactile, the language of materials and process, and finding my way to something compelling through trial, error, and investigation. Combining photo-based inkjet prints, text from naturalists and philosophers, and traditional weaving drafts has resulted in modes of thinking, responding, and assembling that are new and familiar in terms of chance juxtapositions and relationships between pattern, structure, text, and image.

Woven Works/ Theresa Zemlin

Oh, I’m excited to give more time to her work and play around with some of the ideas!

further exploration: Listen to this podcast with Theresa Zemlin

2 — Once There Were Green Fields / Erik Jon Olson / quilted plastic waste

Once There Were Green Fields
once there were green fields, close-up

Erik Jon Olson has a wonderful website, too. Here’s what he writes on his artist statement:

My art practice exists at the intersection of material experimentation, environmental critique, and contemporary craft. Working primarily with single-use plastic waste that I layer, quilt, reconstruct and then stitch into large-scale compositions, I transform one of the main pollutants of our time into an expressive visual language. My work extends beyond the simple repurposing of found materials; it functions as an investigation into the cultural, ecological, and psychological consequences of contemporary consumption.
… The visual seduction of my compositions—their vibrant color, intricate patterning, and tactile surfaces—creates an intentional tension between attraction and repulsion. From a distance, the works evoke traditions of abstraction, quilting, and graphic design; upon closer examination, viewers encounter the unsettling reality of consumer waste embedded within the aesthetic experience. This dynamic compels viewers to confront uncomfortable truths through the language of visual pleasure.

Erik Jon Olson Artist Statement

I looked at his list of exhibits and he has a solo show going on right now at a church a few miles from my house. Nice!

David Bowie!

While writing this entry, I’ve been listening to David Bowie’s album, The Man Who Sold the World. I was struck by these lyrics from “All the Madmen”:

Day after day
They send my friends away
To mansions cold and grey
To the far side of town
Where the thin men stalk the streets
While the saints stay underground.

Wow, this song! Mansions cold and gray, the saints underground. Listening to another song on the album, “After All,” I looked it up and saw a reference to Nietzsche’s influence on Bowie, which led me to a review of a new book about Bowie and 6 key philosophers, including Nietszche: We’re Nobody’s Children. So far, I haven’t had any luck finding this book at a local library, or any samples of it online, but I’ll keep looking.

aug 30/RUN

16 miles
lake harriet and back
68 degrees
humidity: 90%

16 miles! It was warm. That humidity! As I’ve heard several pro runners (on youtube or podcasts) say, humidity is the poor man’s altitude, which means I could expect to go slower — in fact, I should go slower — to account for the extra effort that hot and humid air demands. Before I started, I reminded myself that this run would be harder because of the humidity so I should take it easy. A mantra: if you’re not going slower, you’re going too fast. I also told myself that I only needed to worry about the first 8 miles to lake harriet because once I did that I was halfway and would have to run and/or walk another 8 miles back. Keeping my expectations low and being kind to myself helped.

I drank a lot of water, chewed on 6 or 7 Cliff blocks and sweat a lot. Somewhere between miles 10 and 12 I realized that my shirt was completely soaked and sticking to me. It was so wet that I was almost able to wring it out. Other than the humidity, the thing that made the run the hardest was my sore legs, especially my knees. I think that was partly due to all of the walking at the state fair we did 2 days ago. My knees felt stiff and sore even before I started!

3 things I did well: 1. even though I know I had unfinished business, it wasn’t a problem at all — no cramps, no need to stop at a port-a-potty!; 2. a steady pace for the first half + never totally going off the rails for the second half; and 3. believed I could do it the whole time and never gave into negative thoughts.

3 things to work on: 1. eat a bigger breakfast + drink more water before; 2. keep a steady pace with consistent run/walk sets when it gets tough — instead of taking a walk break, do easier run/walk sets, like 1 min run/ 1 min walk; and 3. try drinking electrolytes, and not just water, during the run.

16 Things

  1. rowers on the river! I could hear the coxswain barking out instructions at the start of my run
  2. minnehaha creek was so low, pt 1: near the duck bridge, there has hardly any water, but lots of green aquatic plants
  3. minnehaha creek was so low, pt 2: under the echo bridge, a huge sandbar (or, dirtbar?) in the middle of the creek
  4. a biker, biking slowly, and singing to herself, I am so tired
  5. minnehaha creek was so low, pt 3: mostly, the creek was quiet and still, with only the occasional whisper/babble
  6. running under the freeway, where the walking path is on the other side of the creek, I could hear something hissing and squeaking above me — bats?!
  7. thud thud –– the steady feet of a fast runner behind me, then beside me, then in front of me, then gone
  8. thwack thwack thwack pickle balls being hit hard on the pickle ball court near lake nokomis
  9. the strong gust of water coming out of the water bottle refill fountain — nice!
  10. reaching lake harriet to an empty beach with inviting water — I briefly thought about cooling off for a few minutes, but decided against it — too much sand in my shoes on the run back!
  11. lake harriet trails were crowded — lots of runners and bikers and walkers (and talkers!)
  12. a BIG peloton (30 or more riders) on the road
  13. mostly cloudy, every so often, sun
  14. orang spray paint, painted in zigzags over cracks and craters and bumps on the path that need to be fixed — there was a lot of it near the Rosie and Fletcher bridges
  15. people packing up after a church service at the falls
  16. one roller blader spotted near the beginning — I can’t remember if I heard their poles clicking, I just remember that they passed me on the trail

For the first 12 miles of the run, I listened to the world around me: hissing bats, rushing cars, a crying baby, laughter from kids somewhere beyond what I could see; moving water. For the last 4 miles, I put in my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist.

During the first few miles, I thought about part of a poem I’m working on. It begins with a quote from a PBS video about echolocation:

There’s sound and

there’s a lack
of sound, and
a lack of
sound still makes
noise. We call
it a sound
shadow.

As I ran, I thought about this pair sound/lack of sound and other pairs I encounter at the gorge, like space/lack of space, or ground/lack of ground (gap/gorge). Sound shadows are also called acoustic shadows. I looked them up and found an article about bats, accoustic shadows, and echolocation: Acoustic shadows help gleaning bats find prey

“We propose that bats perceive a change in depth profile and an ‘acoustic shadow’ cast by prey. The shadow is more salient than prey echoes and particularly strong on smooth surfaces.” Wow, I’m just thinking about how there are echoes, and there are acoustic shadows, but I’m still not sure I understand acoustic shadows.

Here’s the wikipedia definition:

“An acoustic shadow or sound shadow is an area through which sound waves fail to propagate, due to topographical obstructions or disruption of the waves via phenomena such as wind currents, buildings, or sound barriers” (source).

The deeper I dig into this, the more I think it is for a future project that explores echolocation more broadly.

Found this poem in the July/August issue of Poetry:

Not the Almost-Right Word / Jack Kirby

For Jack Gilbert

A friend tells me he was holding
his mother’s hand as she lay dying.
At the end, her final words were,
“I’ll find Dad and tell him you said hello.”
“Find,” she said. Not “I’ll see him”
or “we’ll be together again”
but “I’ll find Dad.” How astonishing
that language almost means
then frightens us when it doesn’t—
love, we say, God, we write,
and the words fall short. We dream
of  lost vocabularies, and from nowhere,
a word is worth a thousand pictures.
What you say doesn’t have to be true.
It only has to be imaginable.
Where is my friend’s father?
In the kitchen of that big house making coffee, say,
or sorting nails in the workshop.
Or in the yard, unlearning
the constellations so he can see the stars.

Notes: 
This poem includes lines from Jack Gilbert’s “The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart” and “Tear It Down.”

—

I like this idea of putting in two lines from these Gilbert poems for a few reasons: he doesn’t italicize which lines and it’s an invitation to find and read 2 more poems and put them into conversation with his poem. I want to try this out for my poems — the ones I’ve already written using others’ lines + the ones I’d like to write using those lines.

the bells: another meaning: the bell announcing the final lap of a track race

One of my favorite runners said the following in an interview after winning UTMB’s OCC (50k) race this past week:

The most played out race strategy of all time in the 1500. It’s like the bell rings and everybody goes with 400 to go.

I’m like this is such a predictable strategy. Everyone knows this is going to happen. But it’s kind of like what happened yesterday where it’s like something about crossing over that bridge and hitting the town and that’s like the bell ringing and something changes and your adrenaline spikes and you can actually like will the last bit of yourself.

Lauren Gregory

I wanted to archive this quotation as another meaning for bells. And here’s what she’s talking about in the race:

aug 27/RUN

9 miles
the confluence
63 degrees / humidity: 84%

9 miles! Still not easy, but I felt strong and relaxed and steady. For most of it, I ran 3 min, then walked 1. For 2 of the miles, I ran 90 sec, walked 30. Those miles were about 40 seconds faster, which might have been too fast; I think they made me more tired and increased my heart rate. When I hit mile 8, I thought, on Sunday, this will only be the halfway point of my run, but before I could dwell on it and wonder how I could run that much more on Sunday, I thought about something else, or I stopped thinking altogether.

When I was in the shade, which was about half the time, I felt cool-ish, but when I was in the sun, I was hot. So much sweat! I hope it cools down in September.

I wasn’t sure which route I would take this morning — to Lake Nokomis and back or the Confluence. I told Scott, I’m going to run south on the river road and let my body decide which one — either I’ll turn at Locks and Dam no. 1, or I’ll keep going past the falls. I’m not sure when I decided but, by the time I got to the locks and dam, there was no doubt I was turning.

11 Things

  1. looking down from the ford bridge, the water was smooth and still — I think I saw some sandbars just beneath the surface
  2. the river water was also low — I could see a long stretch of green (grass, I think) where there has been water in past years
  3. the gate that K and I had to squeeze through because it was locked a few weeks ago was open today
  4. hidden falls was quietly falling
  5. a tall man sitting on a bench, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, talking on the phone — I remember that I hear what he said, but I don’t remember what it was
  6. the click of a bikers shoes clicking into their pedals
  7. uneven brick — not broken but raised by (un) settling ground
  8. stopping at my favorite bench, which was in the shade, reading the plaque beside it as sweat dripped off of my face
  9. a lone skateboarder at the skateboard park — saw them in flash, heard the scuffing of the wheels
  10. more filled benches than empty ones
  11. almost forgot this one: everything was dry — the grass, the dirt that trickled down the bluff almost like water, the leaves, which sounded very loud in the quiet morning
Diana’s kindness warms us, her humor makes us smile, and her zest for life keeps us going.

I’ve decided to leave my shoes in the picture because I like the color of them. I just received an email that my new pair or Saucony Rides are arriving today — they are navy with aquamarine.

Looking up her name online, I found this short video that offers more images of where I was when I took this picture:

Diana Jean Jezewski was 20 when she died of cancer in 1999. So young! She was born 5 years after me. She graduated from Highland Park High School and had been captain of the volleyball team. What type of cancer did she have?

Looking at the poems-of-the-day, I found this fitting one on poets.org:

ghost ranch / kristin lueke

once again i’ve brought my dead dog to the party.
not the box of ashes, but the pen-drawn sketch
my friend lenny made six days after she died.

or five. i saw it coming, the way mimsy went. 
the hard part was saying it, so i wrote it down: 
something small i love is leaving me.

now it’s late morning in abiquiu & i’m alone 
in the courtyard, rolling around on the flagstone
breathing, a drawing of mimsy in the shade,

a mug cooling at her side. i said i don’t drink coffee
or need a week to myself but look at me now, trying 
not to lie. so i listen: a shrill of pinyon jays

in a juniper trills me from ghost to cobalt sky. all winter 
i didn’t see them, not a single thrill of murmuration 
& though it’s a hideous sound—a jay’s call, like a

small computer dying slow—to live, to move like that:
seven siblings at my side, six at each of theirs, my god! 
not thinking where’s the threat but being

more than one, not less than any . . .
the nearly-noon shadows recede & soon 
mimsy’s in full sun, where i leave her, the light

too bright to stay, the shrill too clear. i say yes,
i’ve seen a rock wren & no, that is a fishless osprey circling
the steppe & tomorrow i might make a cairn of quartz

just to knock it down, slip a stone into my pocket, 
put nine postcards in the mail, or begin another poem 
for lenny i’ll try to finish when i’m home—

                         you had a friend once.
                         now she’s different.
                         we remember what we need.

Much to think about and love in this poem. A question: does a bluejay really sound like a computer dying slowly? I guess I don’t know what a computer dying slowly sounds like. What I know is that a bluejay screech is grating and terrible — I recall thinking it sounded like (or, maybe felt like?) a dull knife hacking the silence until it ripped open.

aug 25/RUN

4 miles
trestle+ turn around
81 degrees
dew point: 67

It was overcast when I started, which made 81 degrees more manageable, but about 2.5 miles in, the clouds were gone and it was HOT. I ran a mile without stopping, then: 4 x 90s run with 30s walk in-between / 3 min walk / 3 x 90s run with 30s walk / 2 minutes walk / 5 x 90s run with 30s walk. For the runs, I ran fast-ish. It wasn’t easy, but it felt good to move faster.

For the first mile, I ran without headphones. There was a constant buzz of cars and bugs and planes, but no memorable or interesting sounds. For the sets, I put in my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist.

I don’t remember being swarmed by gnats or hearing the rowers or looking at the river. No roller skiers, but a few runners, strollers, bikers. Most of the benches were occupied. The most memorable thing: the crack north of the trestle. Approaching it from the north, which I did after turning around and heading back, the crack seemed deeper and more menacing — a maw ready to open even wider and swallow everything above it without warning. I suddenly wondered, is this why they have it barricaded off, because they are concerned it might turn into a sinkhole? Probably not. Most likely, they don’t want people tripping on it.

aug 23/RUN

14 miles
franklin / ford / almost confluence
56 degrees

14 miles! For my route, I ran north on the river road, over the lake street bridge to north on the east river road. Took the franklin bridge back over to the west side and then south on west river road. When I reached the lake street bridge, I crossed it again and headed south on east river road until I almost but not quite reached the confluence. On the way back, I crossed over the ford bridge, ran through Wabun park, down Godrey, back under the ford bridge, down and back up the road to locks and dam no. 1, then north on the river road. The route was a variation on the franklin-ford loop — instead of a loop, a figure eight — combined with the confluence loop. Mostly, I ran 3 min, then walked 1. When it got harder, in the last few miles, I switched to 90 seconds of running, 30 seconds of walking.

For the first hour, I listened to the quiet — hardly any cars, early on a Sunday morning! — and the rowers and water seeping out of the limestone. For the rest of the run, I listened to my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist. The thing I remember most, was 867-5309 and this lyric with a double meaning:

Jenny, Jenny, you’re the girl for me
Oh, you don’t know me, but you make me so happy
I tried to call you before, but I lost my nerve
I tried my imagination, but I was disturbed.

I heard disturbed meaning 2 things at once: the more popular, interrupted, but also, unhinged. Was this double-meaning intended? Not sure, but that’s how I heard it, and I liked the multiplicity of it.

the rowers! As I crossed over the lake street bridge for the first time, I saw them. A speck, a streak, then 3 shells approaching from the south. The first coxswain had a deep voice and was explaining the order to the rowers: male single shells and female single shells together. A few minutes later a coxswain with a higher voice tried to pump up the rowers. A few times, the words became distorted as the voice got louder and more excited. I did hear something about starting at the trestle. I could see the rowers for most of my run north towards the franklin bridge. Oh — I almost forgot — when I first noticed the rowers, it was quiet enough that I could hear their oars slapping the water awkwardly. I could also hear the oars creaking as the rowers lifted them out of the water.

14 Other Things

  1. a carolina wren — cheeseburger cheese burger
  2. the gate at the entrance to the no longer used for power plant was locked again
  3. a shimmering sound — water leaking out of the limestone below me
  4. the crack in the sidewalk just north of the trestle is getting worse — tall plants are growing out of it at one end, while it grows deeper on the other*
  5. click clack click clack — a roller skier hitting, then scraping their poles
  6. the sliding bench — shaded, surrounded by green
  7. on 2 different occasions — a tall man, walking alone, talking very loudly on a phone — their voice echoing
  8. no tent near ford bridge today, but someone sitting on a tall chair, facing the road, an umbrella giving them shade
  9. click click click click a walker approaching me, striking the asphalt rhythmically with her hiking poles
  10. the sky was blue and a little hazy — was it humidity burning off or my bad vision?
  11. I stopped at a bench above hidden falls to tighten my shoe laces: it was in the sun and empty
  12. a single red leaf on an otherwise green tree — fall is coming
  13. the flat, smooth surface of the river as seen from above on the ford bridge
  14. the reflection of the bridge on the surface of the river as seen from below the ford bridge

Just remembered something else about the surface of the river below the ford bridge: it was an unnatural green on the closest edge, It reminded me of the color of algae blooms. It looked oily and smelled strange. What spilled/was spilled into the river here?

That run wasn’t easy and I am tired. My calf and knees started to hurt around mile 11. But, I did it and, an hour later, I’m already feeling better. I will be able to run 16 miles next week.

I’m not putting this in my 10 things, but I could. The grass is not really green, but brown. In some spots in the strips along the river, it is so dry, it’s yellow. I remembered these images of grass, when I read poets.org’s poem of the day by Carl Sandburg. I like his poetry — whimsical and weird.

Summer Grass/ Carl Sandburg

Summer grass aches and whispers.
It wants something; it calls and sings; it pours
       out wishes to the overhead stars.

The rain hears; the rain answers; the rain is slow 
        coming; the rain wets the face of the grass.

*Running beside the crack in the path, I decided to stop and take a few pictures of it. I wonder, are they planning to fix it, or accept defeat and reroute the walking path here?

crack north of the trestle / 23 aug 2026
split open / 23 aug 2026

aug 20/RUNSWIM

9 miles
the confluence
62 degrees

9 miles, and it’s not even my long run for the week. I’m deep in the marathon training. For the first half, I ran 3 minutes, then walked 1. When I reached the Confluence, I took a 3 or 4 minutes walk break, then I did 4 sets of 90sec r/30 sec w, then a mix of 2 or 3 mins of running with 1 min of walking. Finally, I ended strong, with the help of a few upbeat songs, to run/walk my fastest mile of the run. Nice!

Early on in the run, I started thinking about my poetry manuscript. In particular, I thought about the series of poems, sprinkled throughout, that feature a specific location (a few possible titles: You Are Here, Echo Locations). The current form for each of them is: a brief description of location in 3 beat lines or 3 / 2 beat lines, then ending with a rhyming verse, roughly formal, but not in any specific form. I like the rhymes, but I’m not satisfied with them. Are they too rhyme-y? As I ran, I thought about taking the feeling that the rhyme creates, but getting rid of the rhyme — could we call this an echo? — Condensing the idea, eliminating excess words. I thought about my Tunnel of Trees poem. Here’s the verse:

Oh, where is the sky?
And where is the ground?
Neither can be seen.
Moving feet strike only air,
and eyes see only green.

What about this instead:

sky ground gone
only green
green green green

Well, this is what I thought as I ran, but I don’t think it quite works. The idea that feet feel air, eyes see green is missing. I’ll work on it some more. Other related thoughts: should I make this haibun-esque, with a prose poem description poem and the condensed haiku at the end? I’ll try it. I like the condensed version of the rhyme part, because it feels more accurate to how I chant when I run — not in rhyming verses, but in single words repeated and ringing out.

I also thought about a poem I’m writing about the spot, on the edge of Wabun park and above the Locks and Dam no. 1. From it, you can see across to the abandoned ford power plant. My thought: perhaps I should add in some more details about that plant now that I’ve hiked among its ruins?

11 Things

  1. passed a regular: skirt with sandals
  2. view of river, ford bridge: a flat, smooth surface reflecting pale clouds and abruptly ending at the edge of the dam, looking like an infinity pool
  3. a tent set up on the grassy hill next to the ford bridge — a wheelchair in front of the tent’s entrance — the tent wasn’t hidden, but it was mostly sheltered and obscured by its position on the hill
  4. a VW van, almost looking like the Mystery Machine: green! A guy sitting in it, taking out some stuff — parked near the tent — is he sleeping in the tent?
  5. one skate boarder at the skate park — he was skilled — as I ran by, I admired his grace as he went up a ramp
  6. the gate that was closed and that trapped me and my friend 2 weeks ago, was wide open today — I wondered if it’s usually open on weekdays and closed only on weekends? I’ll try to remember to check next time I run by it
  7. the soft falling of water at Hidden Falls1
  8. my new favorite bench: empty and in the shade
  9. just before I reached my bench, I heard a dog bark at the off-leash park on the other side of the river
  10. there were no stones stacked on the top of the ancient boulder, but little pebbles piled in several indentations on the boulder’s side
  11. walking through the alley, almost home, I could hear acorns hitting garage roofs and see little leaves falling — fall is coming

see footnote below: I thought I had written about the history of Shadow Falls before on this log, but I can’t find anything. So, I googled it. First, I found this, about a nearby and now gone falls:

Kavanagh Falls were a cascade over several steps of rough limestone ledges named after the former owner of the land these falls were once on, the land today is now in the grounds of the Town and Country Club. In an 1891 article, a columnist wrote of Kavanagh Falls, “The plateau falls abruptly away to a picturesque glen or gorge, through which a brook purls to the level of the lawn, and then leaps laughingly to the river below. To make travel in the area easier, a bridge once spanned the Kavanagh Gorge. The spring that once fed Kavanagh falls remains on the grounds of the Town and Country Club. However, the bridge and gorge that these falls once tumbled into has since been filled to provide additional parking spaces for the Town and Country Club members. 

The Cascades of Minneapolis and St. Paul

Then I found another source, Equatorial Minnesota, which I’m pretty sure I read before. Among other interesting things, including a reference to “goat trails on the bluff”!?, they refer to Shadow Falls Creek. They also write this, “Today if you stop by, though, there is a panel of information detailing its history and geology (source).” I’ve never seen this info! I wonder if it’s at the entrance at the top of Summit Hill? I’ll have to look next time I run there! I’ll have to return to this blog; it’s a great resource.

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
48 minutes
79 degrees

The final open swim, and I was able to do it! Sara-from-a-week-ago would have liked to swim for the full 2 hours, but after my congestions or bacterial infection or whatever it was, I am very excited that I was able to swim 2 loops. The water was some of the choppiest I’ve ever swum in, which was fun. Only a few waves crashing directly into me, mostly water pushing me around and rocking me back and forth. I liked it!

Only 3 buoys today, so had to swim straight across and back. I think that swimming to the little beach and back is actually longer than the typical 5 buoy triangle. How is that possible? I’m not quite sure. But, this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed it.

Oh, how can open swim be over already? In a better world, I’d be able to swim every day of the year, or at least more than just 10 weeks in the lake. Will I join the Y this winter? Wouldn’t that be wonderful.

lifeguards on kayaks / 2 buoys

Sitting at Painted Turtle and drinking a beer after I was done, Scott took a picture of the lake. He had to zoom in a lot. It’s funny how the water doesn’t look nearly as choppy as it felt.

  1. As I listened to Hidden Falls Creek fall over the ledge, I wondered if the water at Shadow Falls, which is the subject of one of the poems I was thinking about, was called Shadow Falls creek. I’ve looked it up before, but I can’t remember; I’ll have to find the entry in which I wrote about it….I looked, but couldn’t find anything. Did I write about the history? ↩︎

aug 16/RUN

12 miles
confluence + falls
66 degrees / humidity: 86%

12 miles! I’m running today instead of swimming because I am sick or have a sinus infection or my allergies are acting up because of the lake water (the e coli is very high at lake nokomis — over 1000). Since Friday, I’ve felt out of it. It started with a sore throat in the morning. I hoped it was just because I slept with the window open, but it wasn’t going away and I started feeling sinus pressure and stuffiness. Saturday was unpleasant (not quite miserable, but close, and I was whiny about it). I really dislike when my sinuses close up and I can’t breathe through my nose. Not being able to breathe is one of my big fears. If the stuffiness is due to the lake water, I might have to end my season early. If it’s because I’m sick, I might be able to swim again next week. As much as I love swimming, I hate being stuffed up and having a lot of trouble breathing. I’ll be bummed if I have to stop swimming already, but not too bummed: I’ve swum a lot this summer, and I need to prioritize marathon training.

But, back to today. 12 miles! I knew I would do 12 miles but, because I’m still stuffed up, I wondered how much of it would be walking. I surprised myself by feeling pretty good for a lot of it. I took one 5 minute walk break in the middle, but otherwise I mostly stuck to a plan: 3 mins run / 1 min walk. I wonder if I would go slower or faster if I switched up the ration to 90 sec run/ 30 sec walk. I’ll have to try that in this upcoming week.

Even though I made a playlist — Hello, Goodbye — for the entire run, I didn’t begin listening to it until my 5 minute walk break after the confluence. Before that, I listened to my key jingling in my pocket, a souped-up car going too fast on the east river road, blue jays screeching, hidden water falling, the clicking and clacking of roller skier’s poles. When I finally put in the playlist, I remember feeling nostalgic while listening to Lionel Richie’s “Hello” — oh, 10 year old Sara watching the video with the blind girl and the creepy, stalker professor! 1984 and 85 were some wonderful years for watching movies and music videos. I also remember feeling tender when Adele sang, “Hello from the other side.” I thought about my mom. She’s been dead for almost 17 years. How is that possible? Running by the falls, the telephone section of the playlist started. I got a boost with Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe” and ran too fast for a few minutes. Down by the locks and dam no. 1, I heard Lady Gaga sing, “Out in the club and I’m sipping that bubb” in her song “Telephone” — I’m assuming she means bubbly/champagne?

10 Things

  1. running over the lake street bridge, looking down at the river — blue, scaled, the wake of some small boat streaked across the surface
  2. the steps on the lake street bridge that lead down to the trail: clothes were strewn all over the steps — what happened? I decided to take the road over to the trail instead
  3. running parallel to another runner — first on opposite sides of the trail then, when she crossed the road, opposite sides of the road — I think I was slightly faster than her, so I was creeping up. If I wasn’t running 12 miles, I might have sped up to pass her faster, but I think that would have burned too many matches (or spent too many pennies) and I would have suffered later in the run because of it
  4. noticing all of the dirt trails leading up from the river on the way to hidden falls, remembering my hike with my college friend last week, wondering if we could have taken any of them
  5. a new regular? a short (4.5 feet tall, maybe) older woman who I also saw here last time. She was walking, I was running. Both times she was wearing shorts. should I call her short shorts?
  6. the view from the confluence overlook: a parking lot below — will the view be better once the leaves are off of the trees?
  7. stopping at a “good” water fountain near the skate park, where good = designed for water bottles, so it’s easy to fill them up — most of the water fountains are old school and curves, making it almost impossible to fill up a water bottle
  8. hearing the roar of the water rushing over the concrete dam at locks and dam no. 1
  9. waving a thanks to a guy who moved out of the way as I ran by the parking kiosk
  10. my new favorite bench — somewhere between the 2 entrances to Hidden Falls park, perched on a stretch of the bluff that’s wide open, with a beautiful view of the river below — was empty1

It was supposed to be partly or mostly cloudy today, but I don’t recall see any clouds. So much bright sun! I didn’t hear any rowers or chiming bells, no fragments of conversation. No geese or turkeys.

Memorable haunts I encountered: lake street bridge; above shadow falls; the monument; the ford overlook; hidden falls; my new favorite bench; the confluence; ford bridge; wabun disc golf course; the falls; the bottom of locks and dam no. 1, then the top; the double bridge; the oak savanna; the ancient boulder; the welcoming oaks; the tunnel of trees.

  1. I’d like to do a run that turns around at this bench. I’m thinking it would be between 7 and 8 miles long ↩︎

aug 12/RUNSWIM

8.5 miles
franklin + ford loop
70 degrees / humidity: 70%

That was hard! I had barely started and I already felt too hot, my legs too sore. By the time I reached 3 miles, I abandoned my system of run 3 mins, walk 1 min and the doubt started creeping in — how can I possibly run a marathon in less than 2 months? The pressure and worry too — I have to run more this week or I’ll get too off track!

a brief flash: this run is a failure / you can’t do the marathon

The flash passed and I simply kept going. I walked when I needed to — which seemed often — and ran when I could. I drank water and ate an energy chew. And I kept going. One foot in front of the other. A step then another step then another. Sometimes running, often walking.

heart broken: I noticed the gentle and labored whirr of a bike wheel — deep, quiet, singular — and thought about how, in my state of struggle, I was tender and open to the world and its different sounds. Every sensation — a man’s disembodied voice high on a hill, a bird calling from the gorge, a cool-ish breeze on my sweat-soaked face, the strong smell of weed near the overlook — was clear, acute. Not irritating or overwhelming, like sensations can be when I’m anxious, but calling to me, like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –over and over announcing my place
in the family of things.

10 Things

  1. a carolina wren calling out cheeseburger cheeseburger cheeseburger
  2. a loud sound — is that a radio on a bike? no, a kid shrieking in a bike trailer, then the adult biking calling out sternly, what’s going on back there?
  3. a single canoe on the river with at least 3 people in it, hugging the west side of the shore
  4. a coxswain’s voice, giving instructions, his voice distorted by a bullhorn
  5. Mr. Morning! — morning! / good morning!
  6. a spring gushing through the rock on the east side of the river — not seen, only heard
  7. footsteps behind me, never gaining, just hovering in the air
  8. playing chicken with a woman walking with ski poles on the bridge — I won because I wasn’t going to move and I was on the proper side
  9. a man in the grass, near the locks and dam no. 1 parking lot lifting one heavy barbell — squatting and thrusting with it — his movement reminded me of a shot putter preparing to hurl the shotput
  10. more than half a dozen roller skiers, going fast up the hill, their poles clicking on the asphalt, several of them continuing past me, 4 of them turning around in front of me — sharply, quickly — the last one misjudging the turn and stumbling, then apologizing to me for almost getting in my way

I reflected on the run, which was both a failure and a success — a failure because I had to walk much more than I planned, a success because I didn’t give up and wasn’t nearly as slow as I thought I would be.

I heard Des Linden’s words in my head, you can do hard things. Yes. Most of the point of running another marathon is to give me the opportunity to prove that to myself — I can do hard things. There is something satisfying about facing a difficult/overwhelming task that you can’t imagine being able to do, and just starting to do it and never stopping until it’s done. To a lesser degree that happened at my swim last night. On loop 1 of 4, I felt tired and awkward, my body heavy in the water. A brief thought — can I really do this for an hour and a half? Then I stroke and kicked and breathed until I finished loop 4. Never quite believing or not believing; just doing and not thinking.

A deepening and quieting of the spirit = a deepening of the resolve, a quieting of the voices that encourage you to quit / a muting of an ego/I that believes going slow or walking or straying from an exact plan = failing, a digging into the depths for new forms of belief

breaking news: an audiobook I requested from the library just became available! I Contain Multitudes / Ed Yong.

Every animal, whether human, squid, or wasp, is home to millions of bacteria and other microbes. Ed Yong prompts us to look at ourselves and our animal companions in a new light — less as individuals and more as the interconnected, interdependent multitudes we assuredly are.

from the “about this title” blurb in Libby

I’ve tried reading or listening to a more recent book by Yong. I can’t remember what about it made me stop. It would be wonderful if I liked this book and could listen to it on my long run (at least 12 miles) on Saturday.

Back to hearts breaking apart. I looked up, “breaking apart” and Poetry Daily (poems.com) and found this excellent poem. I’m thinking of it less in terms of my 1 day in august project and more in terms of my Holes/How I Read project.

A Seam of Electricity [an excerpt] / Ian U Lockaby

Language is breaking apart in our hands. In the darkness, we can only make out
the shapes of letters on the pages. We’ve been reading like this for hours, or forever,
it seems, but now the sun fades out our windows and particles of darkness block
the white bays the letters gather in their limbs— the blank spaces that make them
legible, where the illuminate of the pale page makes shape.

Each word, suddenly the shape of a small animal. Lines of small animals creating a
blurred grid on the page.

A moment longer and the darkening brings out the beady eyes, glowing, reflecting
the light from the headlight of our eyes.

(An inherent light inside the eye— who had that idea, that I feel now in my sockets?)                                                                                                                           

In the neighboring darkyards 
not cherryglow but
a single candle left flickering out

I want to return to this poem, later, when I’m working on Holes again. There is some great ways of describing reading in low light and with limited vision!

swim: 3 loops (6 mini)
cedar lake open swim
71 minutes
86 degrees

The past two cedar lake swims were cancelled because of blue-green algae. Today it was open and almost empty and wonderful. There were lifeguards and more than a dozen open swimmers, but hardly anyone else. Was it because they just opened the beach at 3pm today?

Hardly any wind and only a few waves. Lots of floating strands of milfoil. I was subject to at least one full body scan as I passed over a vine. A few kayaks and canoes. I saw bubbles but now sparkle friends. No flashes of fish either.

The air was hazy. I kept thinking my goggles were fogged, but it looked as fuzzy with or without the goggles. Difficult to see, but just enough for me to navigate. Other swimmers weren’t able to navigate in the haze and sinking light. Or, they didn’t care whether they were swimming on course or not. I noticed several swimmers swimming way over on the wrong side. Cedar vibes.

Before leaving home for the swim, I thought about how MO’s poem would change if you focused on space instead of time — There is space here for the sinking and settling of the spirit? Every so often, I thought about space and here in relation to my swimming, but I don’t remember what I thought. A task for tomorrow?

aug 10/RUNSWIM

10k
ford loop + ford overlook
67 degrees / humidity: 86%

No sun this morning, so it felt cooler, less difficult. Because of the smoke, the heat, and my cold last month, I’m behind on my marathon training, but I’m not too worried. This week, I’m getting back on track.

For the first two miles, I didn’t have my headphones in. Other than traffic, I don’t remember hearing much. Oh — a sprinkler turning on, a biker laboring up the hill, the soft thud of my feet striking the ground, a kid running and jumping as they crossed the street, a fountain at my fancy house, bubbling. For miles 3-5, I listened to Olivia Rodrigo’s latest album. Mile 6, my “Doin’ Time” playlist.

The surface of the water, viewed from the lake street bridge was scaled and empty. No rowers this morning. The surface viewed from the lake street bridge was more of the same, with the addition of a thin trail in the center — the wake from a canoe or a small motorboat?

I passed a tall man who was walking with ski poles, twice and a regular, skirt with sandals (who no longer pairs her skirt with sandals but white socks and running shoes.

I don’t remember what I thought about. For my next run, I’d like to memorize a new poem to recite in my head, or return to one I’ve already memorized. Could that make the run easier? Or, maybe not memorize an entire poem, but fragments related to stillness (inspired by “the deepening and quieting of the spirit”). Maybe a fragment or two from this one:

Shore Acres/ Sarah Holland-Batt

August, driving from North Bend,
from Empire, we saw how the waves gut
the bluffs until they are pocked, whole
scoops of rock being pawed out by water.
But this year nothing moves at Shore Acres,
the water is static as land, and stripes
of foam bone its slate like a corset.
We are here for the end of movement.
You stay to watch the ocean. I go back
to the Japanese garden. I only want to see
stillness where I expect it, the sombre willow,
the colossal Monterey pine; I sit,
making myself limestone and basalt,
on the grounds of what was once the summer
house of a pioneer shipbuilder. Now it is nobody’s
private estate, but the home of a gardener
who pulls yellow roses through the mist
in hedged circles. I think I am stone
as the arrowheads of pines vanish
into the understory of cloud.
I have stopped
longing for whatever it was I desired
and have given in to the body’s basic need
for rest. Bare feet, bare face, I wait
at what I imagine to be a shrine’s gate
gathering the kind of force required
to stop loving, as only stone can.

I sit,/making myself limestone and basalt, and I think I am stone — I want to remember and reflect on these lines and put them into conversation with what A Oswald wrote in an interview for the Paris Review:

“They read me my rights and asked whether I knew I was breaking the law, and did I want to come easily or did I want to be an obstruction. And I said, ‘I’m happy to be arrested, because I don’t believe it’s an offense,’ and that I didn’t want to come easily, and so I lay down and imagined my heaviest self. I was imagining I was made of gold or lead, just enjoying the difficulty the police were having picking me up.

Two more additions to this conversation:

1

The ones who leave
come back with stories: an excitement
in their eyes. But the ones who stay

witness little changes: dust, weather, breath.
What happens to them happens so slowly
it seems not to be happening at all.
(the ones who stay :: faith shearin

2

The
girl wants to be too
big to lift, too much
trouble to move, a
boulder beholding
small changes: dust, breath,
weather, rocks and cone
cells eroding — what
happens so slowly
it seems not to be
happening at all.
(Platteville Limestone / Sara Lynne Puotinen)

swim: 4 loops
lake nokomis open swim*
90 minutes
85 degrees

*It is a Monday and open swim is usually at Cedar Lake on Mondays, but the parks department closed Cedar’s beaches because of blue-green algae so open swim moved to Nokomis

I think this is the first time I’ve ever swum across the lake on a monday evening. As Scott drove me over, I wondered how different it would be. It wasn’t that different, but it was trivia night at Painted Turtle, so it was extremely crowded for Scott, who has a beer and works on his laptop while i swim. During lap 3 or 4, when I paused in the middle of the lake to admire the sun, much lower in the sky than in July, I could hear the noise from the restaurant. Wow! So many LOUD voices — a proper din. Also — I overheard one swimmer say, as we waited an extra 10 minutes for them to set up the course, the lifeguards are from Cedar and they’ve never set the buoys up here before. A group of 5 or 6 swimmers had a lot to say about how the buoys were being placed in the water as we waited. Another difference: many more menacing swans, a few of them getting way too close to the course. Near the beginning, I swam right next to them; I kept looking to make sure they weren’t going to turn into me.

The water was a wonderful temperature; not too warm or too cold. It was mostly calm and buoyant and easy to swim through. With the bright sun that was lower in the sky, it has almost impossible for me to sight on the way back to the big beach. It didn’t matter, I still knew where to go, it was just a little less fun always (as opposed to only some of the time) swimming into a void.

There were several swimmers faster than me, which was a nice change. A few of them passed me quickly, others I could swim behind to see where I needed to go. Here seeing = the flash of a bright pink buoy, tethered to one swimmer’s waist, or some white foam from another swimmer’s stroking arm or kicking feet.

For several stretches, I recited Mary Oliver’s “Swimming, One Day in August.” I was trying to think about the stanza:

Something has pestered me so much
I though my heart would break.
I mean, the mechanical part.

I particularly wanted to think about the word mechanical, but I don’t think I did. All I remember now (I’m writing this next morning because I didn’t have time or energy last night after a late dinner) is reciting all of the lines over and over. Oh — and I remember that I was struck by the first stanza’s time now and the last stanza’s time again. In my head I repeated, time now / time again / time now / time again.

Anything else? Bubble, but no sparkle friends; a few planes above me; water sloshing over me; 1 2 3 4 5 breathe right 1 2 3 4 5 breathe left 1 2 3 4 5 6 / 1 2 3 4 5 6 7; always the swan boats lurking in the background; the surface of the water beside the buoy, bright orange; seagulls in the sky; a whistle being blown on shore — 7 pm; the occasional strand of floating milfoil wrapping around my head or my shoulder; some other vines of milfoil reaching up from the bottom; the patch of milfoil just off of the swimming area thickening again; a canoe or two crossing the course; the surface of the water on the way to the big beach glowing from the sinking sun.

The course seemed longer than it usually is, with the buoys placed farther from each other. How does it compare to other 4 loop swims this summer?

10 aug: 4 loops = 4, 690 yards / 2,487 strokes
6 aug: 4 loops = 3, 969 yards / 2, 234 strokes
2 july: 4 loops = 4,639 yards / 2, 454 strokes
17 aug 2025: 4474 yards / 2, 526 strokes*

*Looking at the data from today’s swim vs. 17 aug, I know what the strokes don’t seem to add up with the corresponding distance. It’s because I started my workout early, then had to wait in the water until they let us go. The watch recorded 35 or so yards of distance while I stood there. Also, I read through the entry and realized last year’s 4 loop swim was at Cedar and not Nokomis.

aug 7/RUN

4.15 miles
minnehaha falls and back
77 degrees / dew point: 72

I was supposed to swim this morning, but it was raining and windy with a chance of thunderstorms, I was tired from last night’s swim, and it was the queen stage of the Tour de France Femme avec Zwift, so I decided to skip open swim today. Scott and I watched the stage instead and it was awesome. The women’s tour has been way more exciting than the men’s. Kassia Niewiadomma Phinney destroyed the field on an HC climb.

After the stage finished, the rain had stopped, so I went out for a run. Right after I returned, a clap of thunder. Nice timing! It was hot and humid and I sweat a lot. I ran 90/30 for almost all of the run. Because of the humidity, my heart rate was still high, but my pace was steady. I’d like to try this 90/30 again on a longer run, and when it’s a little cooler.

For the first mile, I ran without headphones. Do I remember anything I heard? I think I heard some construction noises and at least one car? Oh — just remembered: I heard the bells of St. Thomas! After that, I put on the latest “Off the Rails” podcast. They were talking about the new women’s pro baseball league and the terrible version of the National Anthem that opened the season at a stadium in Illinois.

10 Things

  1. there were a lot of people near the falls and waiting to pay for parking in the parking lot
  2. the bells of st thomas! I heard at least one chime (this is when I remembered that I had heard the bells, or a bell, then I added it in the previous paragraph)
  3. the sky was dark — thick, heavy, holding a storm waiting to happen
  4. small puddles all over the trail
  5. sometimes windy, sometimes still
  6. the trail that dips below the road south of the double bridge was especially dark and mysterious-looking
  7. a tiny kid — maybe 2? — running away from an adult and another kid near the parking lot
  8. as the run went on, the sky got darker and heavier
  9. someone has painted the tops of two wooden railings on the path bright colors: one is orange, one yellow
  10. another runner emerged near 42ndas the winchell trail climbed out of the gorge, then they immediately turned and followed the trail back below

aug 5/RUN

10.1 miles
confluence and back
62 degrees
AQI: 36!

10 miles. That was not easy. Much cooler today, better air quality, but still warm. I sweat a lot. By mile 5, my pony tail was dripping. I could feel it on my shoulder, hear the wet strands of my hair swishing as I moved. I decided not to bring my handheld water bottle, which was a big mistake. Two thirds of the way through, I ran out of gas.

3 things that worked well:

  1. managed my unfinished business — even before I finished mile 1, I felt like I needed a port-a-potty, but taking walk breaks and not thinking about it, helped the need to poop go away
  2. just kept moving (mostly running, some walking) — I wasn’t sure how much I could run today and when I realized that the route to the confluence and back was almost 2 miles short, I could have stopped sooner, but I decided I need to keep going, so I did
  3. nice route — even though this route was too short, I liked it — the stretch of the east river road between hidden falls and the confluence is beautiful — such amazing views!

3 things to work on:

  1. don’t forget the water bottle
  2. don’t forget snacks
  3. work on being more consistent with the run/walk method — on the next run, try 90/30 again

As I ran under the road at Hidden Falls, I thought about the small stretch of hidden falls that was daylighted when they redid this area a few years ago. I listened as it rushed to the edge then fell over it and smelled its fishy smell.

10 Things

  1. running over the ford bridge, admiring the river, 1: the brownish water was calm, still, flat, not even a ripple
  2. running over the ford bridge, admiring the river, 2: because the surface was still, I could see below it — the faint outline of several sandbars
  3. a short (under 5 ft) older woman i, stretching next to the hidden falls park sign, at the top of the hill, later I encountered her again; she was walking, I was running
  4. a strange pair of sounds on either side of the road, call and response. Bird song I had never heard before, sounding almost like machines or alarms — was it 2 birds, or 2 people with some kind of device making the noise?
  5. what a view! — 1/2 mile from the confluence overlook, the trail and a bench are high above a bend in the river where you can see the mississippi and the minnesota rivers — I would have stopped but someone had brought a chair and was sitting in front of the bench
  6. near the far entrance to hidden falls — a roller skier perched at the top — were they about to bomb down the steep hill?
  7. at the confluence — a lime green bike, wedged in the corner of the overlook — too many leaves below to see anything — a warm water water fountain
  8. a bird crying out, sounding like they were in distress — a woman came to the edge where I was standing and said the sound came from an eagle on the other shore
  9. 2 men running on the ford bridge, one of them was turned around and running backwards
  10. 2 older men, carrying signs to place along the bike path that said something like, bikers, use caution! alert walkers with an “on your left” or a bell — Yes!

Just before I heard the eagle (mentioned in #8), I took a picture of a view of the river:

east river road, heading to downtown St. Paul

Running near where this picture was taken, I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with FWA at the dog park earlier this year. We were deep in the gorge, looking up at this bluff I was running on this morning. I said, this summer, when I’m training for the marathon, I want to run up there. And I am!

1 Day in August

Bummer! As I write this, I received an email from Open Swim. It’s cancelled tonight because there are blue-green algae blooms at one of the Cedar Lake beaches. Must be serious if they’re cancelling the swim; usually they just post an advisory and caution club memebers to “swim at your own risk.”

Reading the first verse of Mary Oliver’s poem again, my eyes stopped on among the flux of happenings” and I thought about the floating particles I encounter while swimming in Lake Nokomis. Often I call them my sparkle friends. They are the little bits of sediment or muck or aquatic plant that float in the water in front of me. They sparkle because of shafts of light in the water, and they seem to be in a constant motion of floating at me. I imagine some people might think my friends are gross, but I don’t, and I love the strange, trippy effect they create as I swim through them. I wrote one of my inklings about them:

Particles
before buoy 1

Lit by thin shafts of
light, they put on a
show. Their frenzied disco
of shimmer sparkle
shake stirs us up.

I like MO’s use of among here — among the flux of happenings. The deepening and quieting of my spirit comes among this flux, these little happenings.

I know I’ve written about “among” before; found it! On 16 may 2025, past Sara wrote a lot of things that are very helpful to present Sara as I think about MO’s use of among!

side note: the more I follow my muse here — and, maybe, my muse is a fish or floating milfoil or a sparkle friend? — the more clear it becomes: this year’s Swimming One Day in August is about engaging in a deeper reading of MO’s words — expanding on meanings, connecting them to her other work, reading them beside my experiences in the lake.

But, back to among. Here’s what I wrote in my 16 may 2025 entry:

among / between

When I read and posted Lorine Niedecker’s poem about standing among the birch last week —

For best work
you ought to put forth
some effort
to stand
in north woods
among birch.

I was struck by the word among and wondered how it was different from between. I looked it up this afternoon and, after wading through discussions about how between is used with 2 items, among with more than 2, I came across a helpful distinction in Merriam Webster: 

We use between when we want to express a relation to things and have them considered as individual and usually equal entities. 

Among, on the other hand is the best word to use when referring to things collectively and imprecisely. 

5 aug 2026 Sara, interjecting here: using among to refer to things collectively reminds me of a favorite (and very popular line) from MO in “Wild Geese”:

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

among: your place in the family of things — so, the deepening and quieting of the spirit could be finding one’s place in the world? Where you belong? when you’re in your element? Of course this reading is different from the predominant one in which quieting your spirit among the flux of happenings means being present and calm, not worrying about all the noise around you.

I like among in LN’s poem, although I wonder about the effect of using between (or beside or with) instead. to stand/in north woods/between birch. Among indicates a kinship — among all of us trees, but between suggests an actual place — stand between this birch and that birch and an exchange — between us. I like both meanings. I like imaging my best work as trying to become a tree. But I also like the idea of my best work happening when I stand between birch — giving and receiving air. 

I was reminded of among and between while reading this passage from Marie Howe:

That was really a big deal. I was given this place to be without any expectations really. And everything changed so that the particulars of life—this white dish, the shadow of the bottle on it—everything mattered so much more to me. And I saw what happened in these spaces. You can never even say what happened, because what happened is rarely said, but it occurs AMONG the glasses with water and lemon in them. And so you can’t say what happened but you can talk about the glasses or the lemon. And that something is in BETWEEN all that.

You can name/describe the collection of things (among), but you can’t find words to describe how their meaning has changed in that moment. Often when I think about the slight shifts in meaning between small words, like among or between, I’m reminded of an essay I read about Mary Oliver and her mousier words. I love mousy words! Meanwhiles and in-betweens and yous and wes and usses (is that the plural of us?). 


…it’s tempting to be blinded by the more immediately visible parts of speech: the monolithic nouns, the dynamic verbs, the charismatic adjectives. Mousier ones—pronouns, prepositions, particles—go ignored.

Mary Oliver and the Nature-esque

—

Reading through this past entry, and thinking about MO’s next verse —

Something had pestered me so much
I thought my heart would break.
I mean, the mechanical part —

I remembered MO’s words in another of her poems:

I Go Down To The Shore/ Mary Oliver

I go down to the shore in the morning
and depending on the hour the waves
are rolling in or moving out, 
and I say, oh, I am miserable, 
what shall–
what should I do? And the seas says
in its lovely voice:
Excuse me, I have work to do.

Here the sea doesn’t hold her until she grows easy or tell her what she should do, but they (the sea is they, because the sea is not an it) offer a suggestion, find your place in the family of things, do the work you were meant to do.

And there is the thing that one does, the needle one plies, the work, and within that work a chance to take thoughts that are hot and formless and to place them slowly and with meticulous effort into some shapely heat-retaining form, even as the gods, or nature, or the soundless wheels of time have made forms all across the soft, curved universe–that is to say, having chosen to claim my life, I have made for myself, out of work and love, a handsome life. 

Upstream/ Mary Oliver

I use this passage in the introduction to my “How to Be” project on my Undisciplined site.

an idea: Perhaps I should revisit Upstream and Long Life. I own both of them. Also, how about another read through of The Leaf and the Cloud?

aug 1/RUN

8 miles
ford + hidden falls loop
68 degrees / humidity: 87%

That was hard! I had wanted to run 10 miles, but the route I took was a lot shorter, my legs were tired, and the sun was hot, so I only did 8. Good enough for me today. I ran the first mile without stopping, then 2 min run / 45 seconds walk for most of the rest. After listening for Shadow Falls, 15 minutes in, I put in my headphones and listened to an audiobook I recently checked out, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. It’s a great book to listen to while running: a good distraction.

10 Things

  1. running up the hill above the ravine, hearing the water falling at shadow falls
  2. another runner passing me, then the sour smell of someone working hard
  3. a peloton on the road — a dozen riders
  4. a big group of shirtless runners: 20 or so? a college cross country team?
  5. encountering many runners (most) approaching me, running the other direction
  6. a sour, sharp smell near the overlook at hidden falls — from the creek water?
  7. so much sweat — my shoulders were soaked
  8. baby turkeys! near the 44th street parking lot, grazing in the grass
  9. a boisterous group of runners — 5 or 6 women laughing
  10. Patches of mud and some felled trees — because of yesterday’s rain and occasional strong wind?

No roller skiers, no geese, no bugs, no acorns underfoot — usually the acorns begin falling at the end of July. When will they fall this year? (update, a few hours later: Scott and I took Delia the dog on a short walk and, at the end of the block, acorns on the sidewalk!)

Before starting my run, the line from Mary Oliver’s “Swimming One Day in August” popped into my head — it is time now, I said, for the deepening and quieting of the spirit. I imagined this deepening and quieting as an inner stillness. I hoped to think about that as I ran, but I was too distracted by the heat, my legs, and the effort.

So far, I’ve heard 2 hours (out of almost 12) of the audio book, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. It’s about two friends, Sadie and Max, who love playing and making video games. I’ve haven’t read the summary and don’t know that much about the book, but I’m assuming they make some big video game together. Do they fall in love, too? The first video game Sadie makes in her seminar at MIT is called EmilyBlaster and it involves pen-as-gun that shoots out the words of Emily Dickinson poems. Nice. I looked it up, and the game actually exists online, EmilyBlaster. I tried playing it. Admittedly, with my bad vision and limited gaming skills, I sucked, but it was pretty cool. The first poem was “I felt a Funeral in my Brain,” which I memorized a few years back. It felt strange to try and shoot these words as I recited them in my head. I can’t believe I’ve never heard about this video game before.

EmilyBlaster is one of Sadie Green’s earliest games, and one of the first games I invented for Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow as well. It’s the simplest game in the book, and I needed it to be convincingly something a clever college student might be able to make on limited resources and time in the 1990s. The game was inspired by the poetry of Emily Dickinson and by edutainment games of the 1980s, like Math Blaster! I liked the slight subversiveness of making a game where the object was to shoot poetry, and I thought that Emily Dickinson’s compact verse style and memorable phrasings would make for perfect targets. 

Play EmilyBlaster!

campanilismo

More on echolocation and bells and bioregionalism. I recalled something I’d heard about earlier in the year. Here’s what I wrote at the end of my entry for 9 jan 2026:

Working on a tiny (24 word) poem tentatively titled bio-regionalism, and I was thinking about something I recalled hearing from Stanley Tucci in his series on regions in Italy and their food: he said that a region/neighborhood was/is defined by anyone who was in earshot of that neighborhood’s church bells. I looked it up and found this helpful definition and video from Rick Steves. The term is campanilismo:

During Tuscany’s medieval and Renaissance prime, this region was a collection of feuding city-states dominated by rich families. To this day, Tuscans remain fiercely loyal to their home community, and are keenly aware of subtle differences between people from different cities, towns, and villages. (Italians have a wonderful word for this: campanilismo, meaning that a community consists of the people within earshot of its bell tower — campanile.)

source

I love this idea of defining a community, your home-place, by its bells. My bells are the bells of St. Thomas, just across the river.

And here’s the poem:

Defining a Neighborhood

It begins
from the ground
up with feet
following,
and ends when
ears listening
can no
longer hear
the bells. 

It needs some work! I’d like to include it in Echolocation — should it be a separate poem, or should I add in some lines in my opening poem, Listen, where I first introduce the bells?

july 30/RUNSWIM

4 miles
monument and back
78 degrees
AQI: 70

Hot, so hot! And hard, especially when I was running in the sun, which was a lot of the time. As I neared the monument, I could hear shadow falls — it hasn’t rained in several days, where is that falling water coming from? I also heard construction workers working on a huge house (the U of M President’s house that Gov. Walz was living in while they repaired the governor’s mansion) on the river road and a carolina wren calling, cheeseburger cheeseburger or tea kettle tea kettle. I decided on cheeseburger because I like cheeseburgers, but not tea. I passed by a small break in the trees and saw a flash of white — was it a plastic bag or a white cat? On my return trip I wondered what I’d see: nothing. A few options: either someone picked up the bag or I saw something that wasn’t there or it was an animal and that animal moved. Another thought: maybe it was a possum? I didn’t hear any rowers or roller skiers or fragments of conversation. On the bridge, I stopped at the overlook to study the surface of the water. Tiny scales or corrugation. No sparkle spots, but small waves moving upstream. I also looked at the texture of the green leaves; it was giving me broccoli vibes.

Before I started running again, I turned on my color playlist and heard the line from “Bein’ green”:

It’s not that easy bein’ green
Having to spend each day
The color of the leaves

*

It’s not easy bein’ green
It seems you blend in
With so many other ordinary things
And people tend to pass you over
‘Cause you’re not standing out
Like flashy sparkles in the water

As I walked the final blocks back to my house, a phrase appeared in my head, not moving through but moving in. Not passing through a place, but dwelling in it. Before my run, I had been thinking about echolocation and navigation and what it means to be located in/by a place. I started thinking about Lorine Niedecker and an article I read about her ecopoetics as dwelling with place. With — I had misremembered it as in, but now I want to add moving with a place to my thinking about being located in space and time. Hearing this phrase, moving with a place, makes me think of Juliana Spahr and breathing and the space around everyone with lungs.

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
87 degrees

Choppy water! A storm is moving in, I think. It might rain all day tomorrow — I hope not. I want to do open swim tomorrow morning and/or run. The water was rough all the way through, from above to below. The feeling of an undertow, waves, getting rocked roughly. It was so choppy that one of the green buoys kept moving around. I’m not sure what was happening — was it the wind or lifeguard error — but as I swam towards buoy 2, I saw that buoy 4 was right next to it, and on the wrong side: close to the left instead of far to the right. I kept swimming towards the little beach and didn’t worry about it. A few minutes later, I neared the 4th buoy, now in place, or I thought it was in place, but as I kept swimming towards it, it wasn’t getting closer but farther away. Then I realized what was happening; the lifeguards were dragging it. I finally gave up on trying to swim around the far edge of it and just cut in towards the big beach. Chaos! It was fun to swim in the chaos and the choppy waves, but it was also tiring. And, my goggles were fogging up, which made it even more challenging to try and sight anything. I decided 2 loops was enough for me.

I did a lot of breathing every 5 and every 6 with some every 3 or every 4. I can’t remember what color the water was, but I do remember seeing bubbles around my hands. The milfoil seemed to be thickening again near the far white buoy. Bummer.

july 28/RUNSWIM

6 miles
hidden falls and back
69 degrees
AQI: 67

A little cooler this morning. The AQI wasn’t that high, but there must have been some smoke in the air because the spots of light on the path looked pinkish-orange. A steady run. Felt strong, sweat a lot.

10 Things

  1. rowers’ voices, down below
  2. click clack click clack — a roller skier’s poles hitting the sidewalk
  3. running parallel with another runner — I was on the paved path, they were on the dirt trail near folwell
  4. 2 women sitting on the curb at the top of the locks and dam hill — taking a break after doing a hill workout? waiting for someone? just sitting and talking?
  5. running under the east river road at hidden falls, listening to the creek water rushing down then over hidden falls — what creek is this again? looked it up: Hidden Falls Creek — but, actually, it’s not a creek but a stream of storm water*
  6. minneapolis park workers, mowing the grass beside the trail, stopping and waiting for me to pass
  7. the smell of freshly cut grass
  8. the river, below me on the ford bridge: flat and still and empty
  9. spots of sunlight on the trail, stained orangish-pink
  10. dust or smoke, stirred up by work they were doing at the old power plant near the locks and dam

*When I looked up the name of the creek at Hidden Falls, I found a Hidden Falls Resource Management Plan from 2004 and this description:

Today, Hidden Falls Regional Park encompasses 130 acres andn1.6 miles of shoreline and is an important natural area within the Mississippi River Corridor Critical Area and the Mississippi National River and Recreation Area. It is an oasis of floodplain forest along the Mississippi River visited by local residents and visitors using the park’s trails throughout the year. Visitors utilizethe park for hiking, fishing, running, bicycling, dog walking, birdwatching, wildflower watching, picnics, and boating. The park is a significant stopover place for migrating songbirds and waterfowl traversing the Mississippi Flyway. The park also serves as an outflow for storm water from adjacent neighborhoods north and west of the park via storm sewers that end in the bluffs along the park’s eastern edge.

Hidden Falls Resource Management Plan, 2004

And here’s a description of where I ran as I followed the creek to an overlook of the falls:

For decades, Hidden Falls has been a nearly inaccessible trickle dripping out of a culvert behind the Ford Plant in St. Paul’s Highland Park neighborhood. Bounded by a tight curve in the Mississippi River Boulevard (MRB), the falls offered visitors two options: a steep climb down crumbling limestone stairs or a rocky hike up from the Hidden Falls Park picnic pavilion.

This month, with the opening of a new tunnel and walkway under MRB, a new viewing platform and the partial daylighting of Hidden Falls Creek, the falls are ready to be discovered by many more visitors.

Originally, Hidden Falls Creek was fed by a natural spring located near Cleveland Avenue and Ford Parkway. The creek above the falls was buried into a culvert sometime in the past century during the development of Highland Park. Now, the falls are connected to a whole new source of water via the Highland Bridge development’s massive stormwater management system, creating a consistent flow of water over the falls.

Hidden Falls, Hidden No More

A creek, daylighted! Reading a little further in the article, I found a video from Dr. Greg Brick (I’ve read and enjoyed his great book, Subterranean Twin Cities) at the site as they were working on it a few years ago:

the video ends with a useful note: the only parts of the site that originated with the WPA are the fire pits. The steps came later.

It was cool to watch this video and think about it the history of where I ran this morning. It’s easy to not notice or reflect on the spaces you’re moving through. Now, five years later, the evidence of the planning and the labor done to create the path under the road, the overlook on the edge, and the daylighted creek are hidden to those not giving attention.

echoes

Thinking about the daylighted creek and the work done to restore/open up the area around Hidden Falls, I’m wondering about echoes beyond the definition of sound bouncing off an object and returning to a listener. Echo as trace, vestige, evidence of what came before. My collection of poems is filled with traces/evidence of what was/is there before me: countless other living things, human and non-human. I am not alone.

Echolocation is a practical tool for navigation; using echoes/changes in sound to gain a sense of the terrain — hearing where a tree or a car or a drop-off is. I use sound in this way to supplement (enhance?) my weak central vision. But echolocation, as in, locating the echoes-as-traces-as-evidence-as-proof that others are there or have been there, is also important to me.

swim: 3 loops
lake nokomis open swim
87 degrees
AQI: 70

3 loops! No pain in my shoulder! No panicking in the middle of the lake! Only a near foot cramp at the end of loop 3 and misjudging where buoy 4 was on the first loop. A good swim. I felt strong and steady and mostly breathed every 5. There were a few patches of cold water but also patches of very warm, almost hot, water. It was 100 degrees yesterday, so that must have hotted up the lake. It was crowded — on the course, all around the beach, at Painted Turtle. I saw my sparkle friends, noticed that the water was a pale green, felt something touch my toe (a fish, I think). Heard sloshing water and other swimmers chatting near the final buoy; I was treading water to assess my cramped foot.

Overheard: one swimmer to another near the 5th buoy — I feel like I was all over that course!

Overhear: one swimmer to another, on the beach — what do you do if you can’t quite do another loop? I wish there was a half loop option!

The sky was a pale blue with a few clouds. There were kayaks and paddle boarders and a few menacing swans on the edge. No sail boat — probably because there was hardly any wind.

Swimming one day in August is coming and I think I’m ready for it!

july 25/RUN

5 miles
bottom of franklin hill and back
77 degrees / dew point: 72
AQI: 52

Went out for my run at 10 so I could watch the queen stage of the Tour de France. It was hot, but worth it to watch all the drama of the final climb. Sepp Kuss crashing twice and barely saving himself from falling over the edge of the mountain. Yikes. Carapaz won the stage. Pogachar acted as a domestique for del Toro.

It was warm, but there was a cool breeze and no sun, which helped. I was able to greet Dave the Daily Walker at the beginning – Good morning Sara! / Hi Dave! I heard the rowers down below, encountered lots of runners, most of them running by themselves, like me. Was passed by many bikers and roller skiers. I ran down the franklin hill then stopped at the river to study its surface — a thin film of something was on it in streaks. Down in the flats, by the low retaining wall, I noticed a single shell and the white coxswain’s boat taking a break in the middle of the river.

Even though my chest has some crud, I feel much better today. My resting heart rate is lower and I’m less anxious. The effects on inhaling wildfire smoky air = 4 days of feeling like I had a bad cold.

10 Things

  1. white sky
  2. thick, moist air
  3. deep greens
  4. no bugs — where are the bugs?
  5. overheard: one guy walking down the franklin hill, meeting up with someone halfway down and turning around to walk with him, I‘m glad I don’t have to walk up the entire hill!
  6. the big crack north of the trestle is growing deeper and is still barricade off — is too deep and dangerous to patch?
  7. stopped at the sliding bench — a deep, dark green view below
  8. a woman crossing over the road ot the trail, carrying a coffee, not wearing any shoes
  9. no stones stacked on the ancient boulder
  10. a horn blasting from somewhere — a train horn? deep and loud

today’s colors in plastic

At different times, depending on the how bright the light behind the clouds was, the sky looked either 1, 2, or 3:

the “white” sky

Standing behind the sliding bench, looking down at the green gorge, I saw these 2 greens:

a green view

july 10/RUN

12 miles
franklin + ford + hidden falls + veterans home + falls
67 degrees
humidity: 86% / dew point: 65

Ugh! That was hard. It was too hot, too sunny, too humid. My feet hurt from warts and a big blister. I almost altered the route to cut off 2 miles. And I did it. And I felt okay for the last mile, like I could have kept going. Success! I’m proud of myself for persisting today.

3 things I did right

I didn’t have any unfinished business problems! I brought my water and made sure to keep drinking from it. I didn’t give up.

3 things to work on

Bring more snacks/fuel. A bandaid around my toe doesn’t work — it created a juicy blister — find other solutions. Be more intentional with music or mantras or experiments to try for distraction/focus.

10 Things

  1. Mr. Morning! upped his game today with his greeting. Instead of just, morning! He added: Have a Great Day!
  2. rowers!, 1: a coxswain’s voice, giving instructions through a megaphone
  3. rowers!, 2: the gentle slap of the oars hitting the water
  4. the crack just north of the trestle is bigger (again) — they’ve barricaded it off with metal gates
  5. the part of the trail near the trestle on the east side was blocked off — some sort of work with a tall crane
  6. the bells of st. thomas chiming
  7. a skate boarder at the skate park: doing a wide arc at the edge of the course
  8. filling up my water bottle: at the monument, near the skate park
  9. a group of three bikers — 2 adults, one kid — biking slowly in front of me
  10. stopping in the grass to adjust my laces (at least 5xs), stopping at a bench to take off my shoe to inspect my toe (1)

I have to do this again next week, but for the rest of today, I’ll celebrate the accomplishment of running (with some walking) 12 miles and moving for more than 2 hours.

For the first hour, I listened to birds, fragments of conversations, cars, trickling water, and bells. For the next 45 minutes, I listened to a Ruth Ware audiobook. And for the rest of the time: my Color playlist.

I’ve just barely started reading Kohn’s How Forests Think, which I was able to get through RJP’s college library. This is one of the opening lines in chapter 2, “The Living Thought”:

This chapter develops the claim that all living beings, and not just humans, think, and explores another closely related claim, that all thoughts are alive. It is about “the living thought.” What does it mean to think? What does it mean to be alive? Why are these two questions related, and how does our approach to them, especially when seen in terms of the challenges of relating to other kinds of beings, change our understanding of relationality and “the human”?

If thoughts are alive and if that which lives thinks, then perhaps the living world is enchanted. What I mean is that the world beyond the human is not a meaningless one made meaningful by humans. Rather, mean-ings—means-ends relations, strivings, purposes, telos, intentions, functions and significance—emerge in a world of living thoughts beyond the human in ways that are not fully exhausted by our all-too-human attempts to define and control these. More precisely, the forests
around Ávila are animate. That is, these forests house other emergent loci of mean-ings, ones that do not necessarily revolve around, or originate from, humans. This is what I’m getting at when I say that forests think. It is to an examination of such thoughts that this anthropology beyond the human now
turns.

How Forests Think / Eduardo Kohn

I’d like to put this chapter and the questions, What does it mean to think? and What does it mean to be alive?, beside Alice Oswald’s Homeric mind, with thoughts that don’t reside in the brain but travel outside of it, over the sea, Emily Dickinson’s bees, and the possibility that thoughts might be creatures themselves — and not just metaphorically. I’ve written about this before, and I’ll find where, either later today or tomorrow.

the next day:

1 — Alice Oswald on the Homeric mind:

Well, as you know, I’m quite fascinated, even obsessed, you might say with Homer. And one of the things that really tantalizes me in Homer is what is the Homeric mind? Because I think it’s very different from a literary mind. And it seems not to be inside the skull, but to be out in the world. So, there is a particular simile in the Iliad, which actually that first bit of the poem is based on, where it talks about two goddesses coming from heaven to the earth. And they’re very physically described. They kind of fall down from heaven to the earth. And then when they land, they take little pigeon steps, steps like doves or pigeons. So you can really picture them. But the way their flight moves from heaven to earth is as a man, you know, as the mind flutters in a man who has traveled widely, so you can turn it the other way around and say the way a man thinks is like this incredibly physical flight of two goddesses coming down to earth a bit like pigeons. And that’s always really interested me, that for Homer, the mind has the limitations of a pigeon, if you like. It is this kind of … this physical thing that moves. So, if you imagine a place over the sea, your mind actually has to get there. So, even though it may be as fast as the light, it is physical movement.

A Conversation with Kit Fan and Alice Oswald

2 — bee in your bonnet (19 march 2024)

Here’s an article about the origins of the phrase. According to the article, the phrase is still being used in popular culture. I use it, usually when I notice Scott hell-bent on some task — and usually it seems like a task, or idea, that is fool-hardy but that he needs to work through and figure out for himself. 

Sometimes instead of saying, bee in your bonnet, I say that someone (or me) is hellbent. Of course, writing that immediately makes me think of Jackie from the 1979 Death on the Nile:

Jacqueline De Bellefort : One must follow one’s star wherever it leads. 
Hercule Poirot : Even to disaster? 
Jacqueline De Bellefort : Even to Hell itself.

When I envision a bee in my bonnet, I see something that is relentless, impossible to ignore, urgently needing to be dealt with. That’s not quite how I imagine my preoccupation with haunts and ghosts and writing about the gorge. Still, I like the idea of bees in bonnets, and bees in general, so maybe I’ll spend more time with them this morning?

Reading through several ED “bee” poems, I suddenly had a thought: could the bee in your bonnet be your soul, trying to escape the confines of the body?

This thought was inspired by a poem I wrote about in an On This Day post: Body and Soul/ Sharon Bryan. I didn’t mention it in the post, but the description of the soul in the poem, as leaving the body at night to roam around, reminded me of an ED poem I read a few weeks ago, when I was thinking about the difference between the brain and the mind:

If ever the lid gets off my head/ Emily Dickinson

If ever the lid gets off my head
And lets the brain away
The fellow will go where he belonged —
Without a hint from me,

And the world — if the world be looking on —
Will see how far from home
It is possible for sense to live
The soul there — all the time.

3 — thoughts as a swarm of bees, uncontrollable and unwanted

As I started thinking more about my discussion of thoughts as bees, I also thought about how those bees, especially if they are swarming in your head without the lid being removed, could be overwhelming, incapacitating. Then I found this in my log entry from 30 june 2024:

“During the first loop somewhere between the first and second orange buoys an alarming thought appeared: what if I fainted in the middle of the lake? In the past this thought might have caused panic which I would feel in my body — a flushed face, harder to breathe, hot tingling on the top of my head. Not today. No physical effect. Within a few minutes the thought was gone. Is this because of the lexapro? FWA says that sometimes he feels the lexapro working — he’ll start having overwhelming thoughts but instead of spiraling, he feels himself become separated from those thoughts — they become abstract and distant. I wondered about this as I stroked then connected it to Alice Oswald’s Homeric mind and the idea of thoughts not just living in our head but traveling outside of our bodies from there to there.”

from Thinking/ DANUSHA LAMÉRIS

And I found this bit of a poem:

Don’t you wish they would stop, all the thoughts
swirling around in your head, bees in a hive, dancers
tapping their way across the stage?

Who with their whispered psalm
can outvoice their huckster cackle, the trees
blustered to howls while the tesla bees

whine loudly to the shocked air?

other links: I have a page about bees in my “How to Be” project on Un || Disciplined (I had forgotten that I did this — thanks, past Sara!)

one more thing: Finding my archive of bee-related things, is putting a bee in my bonnet. I need to archive all of my resources — or, as many as I can — before my central vision is completely gone. I imagine it will be much harder to do this once that happens!

july 8/RUN

3.9 miles
wabun hill and back
67 degrees / humidity: 87%

An early-ish run. Started at 7:45. If I had run earlier, the temperature would have been a few degrees cooler, but the humidity and dew point would have been higher. Which is worse, higher temp or higher dew point? Dew point, I think. I’ll have to test it out — if I can get up earlier!

For the past month or so, I’ve been struggling with my feet and ankles. I’ve tried a few different pairs of shoes to see if any of them were better. This week — on Tuesday and today — I went back to my Brooks Ghosts. They seem to be working better. Today I realized (or remembered?) to put my laces through the extra holes at the top of the shoe. I think I had tried this early on with these shoes, but it felt too tight, then. It worked!

10 Things

  1. gobble gobble gobble a turkey calling out from a tree in turkey hollow
  2. a bike rushing past me on the wabun hill
  3. an older man and woman stopped at the bottom of the locks and dam hill
  4. thwack thwack the chain from the flag hitting the flag pole
  5. a few bits of glitter on the surface of the river under the ford bridge
  6. the older man and woman halfway up the hill, each of them dragging a tire
  7. almost all benches were empty
  8. stopping at the Rachel Dow Memorial bench for a quick view of the river and to retie my shoe
  9. the wabun hill was covered in wet dirt — a little slippery when descending it
  10. a woman standing on the edge of the trail, looking out somewhere, taking a picture of something

strong shoulders

Open swim tonight, but no Sara swimming. It’s a bummer, but I know that it’s a very bad idea to try and swim with my sore shoulder, My favorite, self-proclaimed “best PTs in the world,” Bob and Brad have some exercises for me to try in the next couple of days:

july 7/RUNSWIM

run: 4.1 miles
monument and back
70 degrees
humidity: 87% / dew point: 68

More uncomfortably warm conditions. Difficult, but doable. I did my run/walk plan: 5/1 (mile 1) — 1.5/.5 (miles 2-4). My feet didn’t hurt that much, and I had a lot of energy, especially in my legs, at the end of the run. I’ll take that as a victory. I listened to my striking feet and dripping water (shadow falls) and the st. thomas bells for the first half, Olivia Rodrigo for the second.

10 Things

  1. St. Thomas bells — faint and short, 8:45, I think
  2. rowers!, 1: on the way to st. paul, crossing the lake street bridge, 2 double rowing shells in the blueish gray water
  3. rowers!, 2: on the way back to minneapolis, crossing the lake street bridge, 4 6-man rowing shells + the white boat with the coxswain
  4. coxswain to rowers: okay and stop. good job!
  5. overcast — a gray sky — is it going to rain? no: soon, sun
  6. the dreamy reflection of clouds on the pale blue gray river
  7. the path near shadow falls: cracked, cratered, ridged — dangerous!
  8. at the top of the shadow falls hill, passing an adult and a kid wearing a backpack — summer school?
  9. honk honk
  10. near the beginning: a woman walking with a dog, holding the leash too loose, the dog licking my leg — sunday, I didn’t mind; today I did

swim: 1 loop
lake nokomis open swim
81 degrees

Written the next morning. Almost perfect conditions. Smooth, warm water, not too crowded, overcast. For the first half of the loop, I felt strong and relaxed, but sometime not long after I rounded the third buoy, my right shoulder started to hurt. It was difficult to lift my arm. Ouch. When I reached the final green buoy, I stopped and rested for a few minutes in the beach area. I tried to swim again. Nope. I had to stop. A big bummer. I think I could have swum 5 loops tonight in this water.

Looked it up in the middle of the night (which might seem like a bad idea, but didn’t make me any less able to sleep) and it’s probably swimmer’s shoulder, caused by overuse. Swimmer’s shoulder is a common injury. I’m hoping that taking the rest of the week off will be enough to make it better. The silver lining: I still have more than half of the season left, so I should be able to swim again.

june 30/RUNSWIM

run: 3.25 miles
2 trails +
75 degrees
humidity: 77% / dew point: 68

Hot! And not too terrible. Yesterday morning, walking to a coffee shop in the heat and humidity I felt like I struggled to breathe but today, when it’s almost as hot, I didn’t struggle at all1. As I ran above, I listened to my “Doin’ Time” playlist. Below, I listened to water trickling out of the sewer pipes and the occasional voice and the cars driving by. I noticed puddles and some wet dirt (it briefly rained earlier this morning). I thought about how fast the summer is going by and if I encounter any coyotes or the den that I’ve seen signs about.

No rowers or roller skiers or regulars. No poetry or flashes of inspiration. And that was fine with me. I was relaxed and free and happy to feel how strong my legs and back are, thanks to several weeks of solid swims.

A week or so ago, I discovered Moheb Soliman’s Homes, a collection of poems about the Great Lakes. I requested it from my local library and picked it up on Sunday. Here’s one of the first poems:

from Homes

At Point Pelee–Leamington,
Sandusky–Cedar Point / Moheb Soliman

This beach has more than two sides
more than the lake and the parking lotmand cultivated and sandwiches farms
and kiosked
aside it
and defies properties
I’ve peed
behind every sorta flora
scared away all kinda fauna
I crossed the lines
of r&r
to bridge the banks of main and head streets and waters
I tried myself
had myself
washed ashore to hamlets
faceup
the whole time
my figure
a petty viaduct only shallow beach could love
I swam each day I changed
myself in the Corolla
and diaspored
footfalls of mollusky sand all over the motel districts of Canuck Sanduskys
where in touch more
with
nature’s what they are
more
than
amusement
or
national park
and
lark
Cedar Point and the
tip
this land does not come to
two
states
means ends
nations
and defies commodity
recreation’s and conservation’s
this place
has
more
than
the
all-night
or
primitive drive-thru and the camping
this whole time my body held in feet
of surf
not diverting to the water
or exiting
but bridges fail all the time nothing new
bridges are being built and rebult
all over these lakes
adding sides to
no end
defying the accounts of travelers
homing in
pointing out
we came in off the water
not really having been
out there
you come out of the water turn right
around get back in there
I’m going out to the water
never really having left there

I wasn’t sure how to keep the spacing with my typing, so I took a screen shot of the page (see above). I’d like to hear the poet read one of these poems to get a better sense of how to understand their spaces….I found them reading it!

Does this help? I’ll hav to listen a few more times, and read more of the poems in this collection. I should also watch this:

So much to think about in this short prose poem. Today, if I can remember as I am battling the wind and the waves, I’d like to think about these lines:

but bridges fail all the time nothing new
bridges are being built and rebult
all over these lakes

There are literal bridges and metaphorical bridges and metaphor as bridge. I want to think about the bridges in the ending lines:

we came in off of the water
you come out of the water
I’m going out to the water / never having really left there

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
90 degrees

It didn’t seem windy but, wow, the water was wild. Very choppy, with an undertow and lots of waves. Mostly I breathed on my right side and did as much punching of the water as stroking. Rounding the buoy during the second loop, a lifeguard approached and called out, we need to evacuate the water! head to the beach! I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I didn’t ask, just swam to the beach. A few minutes later, we all heard a lifeguard tell everyone that the open swim course was just for open swimmers. Then another lifeguard (or was it the same one?) call out, there was a distressed swimmer, but we were able to help them. I’m not surprised that someone was distressed out there; it was rough. I didn’t mind how rough it was, but I didn’t want to blow out my shoulder with another loop. So I stopped after two. I told Scott that June is for being cautious as you build up your muscles, but July is for pushing yourself to keep going. July doesn’t start until tomorrow, so I’m fine with stopping tonight.

I had wanted to think about bridges and being on the water or in the water or out at the water, but I was too distracted by the waves and the need to give attention to breathing and not swallowing water and delighting in the fun of fighting the waves and winning.

A question to ponder: will this be the week (the month?) of choppy water? I don’t mind having a few choppy days, but I hope the water calms down.

  1. Just checked and the humidity was worse yesterday, 89%, so I guess that could have been why it was harder. ↩︎

june 27/RUN

6 miles
veterans home + extra
64 degrees

Another beautiful morning. Quiet, calm, low-ish humidity. Ran on as much soft dirt as I could find, which helps my feet. Ran for 12 minutes straight, then 90/30 for the rest — with an occasional 2 or 3 minutes of running thrown in. My legs felt strong and bouncy. My feet started hurting around mile 4. I need to figure this one out. I think it’s mostly warts — yuck! — a few on the ball of my feet, one or two on or under a toe.

10 Things

  1. a coxswain’s voice, down in the gorge
  2. the dirt trail on the grass between lena smith and the river road was narrow and overgrown
  3. nearing locks and dam no. 1, voices somewhere in the trees — on the upper trail leading to the ford bridge
  4. ding ding ding ding ding the recorded bell from the light trail train passing through a intersection
  5. the soft roar of the creek far below me as I crossed the tall bridge that connects the veterans home to the park
  6. a glimpse of the trail Scott, RJP, and I hiked yesterday evening through the trees, below
  7. mostly empty benches
  8. a few e-bikes on the trail, going way too fast
  9. glanced over at the statue of Big Feet/Gunner* when I turned to run through the archway near the falls
  10. surfaces: asphalt, concrete, dirt, roots, brick, sand

*I looked up Gunner on this log because I knew I had written about him. A fun coincidence: I wrote about him on June 27th, 2021! “Ran south on the river road trail past the falls and stopped at the big statue just past the pergola garden. When I would walk or bike the kids over here, about 10 years ago, we (or was it mostly me?) called this statue “big feet” because all the kids could see was his big feet. There was also a little feet (John Stevens)–a much smaller statue not too far way. Today I wanted to find out who Big Feet actually was. I assumed he might be someone connected to Fort Snelling–Zebulon Pike or Snelling or Franklin. Nope. Gunner Wennenberg, a Swedish composer, poet, and politician. This statue was erected on June 24th, 1914.”

Found this bit about names on Poetry Daily (poems.com):

A name is a word but not a word. Some words are names and some names are words. When you’re alive your name means you; sometimes it means the you you mean to yourself; more often the you you are to each person who knows you well enough to use it. If it’s a word, it also means what it means as a word in the mouths of people who don’t know you, and also sometimes in the mouths of people who do know you. When you’re dead your name means you until the people who used it are all gone and then it means pure sound (if your name was not a word), or it goes back to meaning what the word means (if your name was also a word).

Danika Paige Myers on Grave Markers

june 25/RUNSWIM

10 miles
ford loop + hidden falls + veterans home + falls + locks and dam
60 degrees
humidity: 80%

10 miles. It’s been a few years since I ran 10 miles. I just looked it up and, according to my records, it’s been since Sept 29, 2024. That’s a week before the marathon. Wow. It wasn’t easy. I wasn’t fast. My feet really hurt in the last mile. And I did it. And I feel good about it. More than good, great. These long runs are really helpful for me as I try to work on my mental strength and endurance.

Yesterday I was listening to Kara Goucher giving advice on her podcast. What I remember her saying is this: find something positive to focus on for each stretch. Don’t allow yourself to think about what’s going wrong; think about what you are doing right. For many of the running stretches I felt strong and bouncy and in a dreamy state. Not sure I’d call it a flow state, but a state of non-thinking. Of being.

When I was thinking, I thought about my running. In the last three miles, I thought: I need to be particularly intentional in these last miles of my long run to not let it fall apart. I need to work at keeping to my schedule of walk runs. Keeping to this schedule should be something I work on in future long runs.

my route

My route took me many different places: through the neighborhood, past the daycare at the church, over the lake street bridge, beside shadow falls and the monument, on the edge of the new Highland bridge development, just above Hidden Falls, next to a skate park, over the ford bridge, past Wabun and the splash pad, through the veterans’ home grounds, behind the John Stevens’ house; above the falls, back up to wabun, down to the locks and dam no. 1, then north on the west river parkway. There was lots of shade and only a few stretches of direct sun. It was cool and overcast for the first half, a little warmer and sunny for the second half.

10 Things

  1. one rowing shell out on the river — I noticed in my peripheral as I crossed the lake street bridge — kept trying to see it in my central vision, but never could
  2. a woman’s voice at the construction site for home being renovated — she said something like, they’ll be here to hook up the garbage disposal — is that what she said? I can’t quite remember
  3. the soft shushing of my feet as they stuck the soft dirt then slid backward
  4. music blasting from a bike
  5. the soft rushing of water down the channel under the bridge that leads to a hidden falls overlook
  6. a ladder at an angle, leaning against a house, reaching a window on the second story
  7. the hum of skateboard wheels, a flash of a skater behind me, the sound of the board flipping as the skater went up a ramp
  8. a woman sitting on a bench near the veterans home, reading something
  9. 2 people, close together, on the little bridge overlooking the falls, taking a selfie
  10. the thwack of the flag rope hitting the pole in the wind

For the first mile, I listened to the traffic, then I put in Olivia Rodrigo’s new album. I listened to it 3 times as I ran. They lyrics I remember most come from the song “Expectations”: past mistakes are just new information

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
74 degrees

I entered and exited the swim course at the other end of the beach and avoided the worst patches of milfoil. Only a few ghostly vines not quite reaching my toes. Nice. I like starting there, much closer to the last green buoy. It’s less crowded and it shifts where and when a new loop begins. At least, this is what I thought as I swam the second loop and reached the second orange buoy, which was now the third buoy I swim by in a loop and not the second.

The water was a little warmer, or I was. Whatever the reason, the result: no freezing feet or fingers. I witnessed lots of bubbles, some menacing swims, lifeguards that were too close to the buoys, forcing me to take sharper angles around them. No fish seen below, one bird, flying low with its wings spread wide, above, a duck near the shore as I swam into the beach. Two little girls, chasing after it.

Overheard: one of the girls to the other — then he picked it up with his bare hands and threw it!

Overheard: one kid to another, on the beach — how old are you? Eight, you’re eight?!

A big exercise day today. Almost 1500 active calories. 10 miles of running, a mile and half of swimming. It felt good.

june 23/RUN

4 miles
monument and back
65 degrees

Hot! Bright sun. Some shade. I watched my shadow beside and below me as I ran the stretch of the east river trail between the lake street bridge and shadow falls. Heard a coxswain, then 20 minutes later saw the white boat on the river. I think I saw some rowers, too, but it might have just been waves.

I did 90/30, which should have felt easy, but didn’t. But it kept my pace and heart rate a little lower. Wore my Brooks Ghosts and some new socks — size: youth. I like this size — not too tight or too loose. My feet felt okay until the last mile when the widest part, below the big toe, started to rub, then slightly ache. No Brooks for my long run, either tomorrow or Thursday. 10 miles this week.

Listened to the cars and the kids and the sound of my feet striking the ground for the first half, then Olivia Rodrigo’s new album, you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love, for the second part. I like it; it’s fun to run to. As I walked back, I listened to her song, “Purple” — I better add that to my color playlist!

10 Things

  1. the sandbar, under the lake street bridge, was just beneath the surface of the river
  2. little kids being dropped off at the church daycare — as I ran by, I heard the bell for them to go inside and start the day
  3. cars backed up on the bridge due to a red light far up the hill
  4. voices in the ravine, near shadow falls
  5. the bottom of the water fountain at the monument was flowing continuously — had someone left something on? was the button stuck? no, I think it’s designed to do that for draining and dogs
  6. only one open spot at the monument parking lot
  7. workers were doing something under the lake street/marshall bridge — it didn’t impact pedestrians or the walking trail, but the road up the hill was closed
  8. a line of bikers on the trail — about 8 silver riders in bright yellow vests
  9. running by a house — a flash of red, then a small bird landed on a railing — mostly it had no color for my bad eyes, but a few times I could see that it was red
  10. the slide-y (but not slippery) feel of my feet striking the soft sandy grit on the desire path next to the paved trail

note: It is 2:44 pm and thunderstorms are predicted, starting at 4. Open swim is set to begin at 5:30. Will it happen? Future Sara, let us know! . . . Future Sara here: cancelled at 4 pm, amidst a steady rain with occasional thunder.

weeds / entanglement

Remembering this hours after my run: near the end of the walk home, I thought about nets and being entangled. Why? Just remembered! It was the lines in Olivia Rodrigo’s “Purple” in which she sings about unraveling. Wait — not “Purple” but “The Cure”:

Refrain]
But I’m unraveled (I’m unraveled)
I’m unraveled (I’m unraveled)
I’m unraveled (I’m unraveled)
I’m unraveled (I’m unraveled)

[Chorus]
And my head is full of poison, and my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream, you tried hard to suck ’em out
And it feels like medication, and it’s good for me, I’m sure
But it don’t matter how your love feels anymore
It will never be the cure

I thought about unraveling is the unwanted thing here; she’s falling apart. But, unraveling can be desired; I’d like for the thick knots and tangles of milfoil to unravel in the swimming area at lake nokomis. This lead me to think about nets and how they can trap us or keep us safe. And knots — in hair, of stomach anxiety, with thread, they’re bad, but on anchors, on the ends of drawstrings, for keeping shoes tied tightly as you run, they’re good.

Knot is a tangle, a problem that needs
unraveling. Not is the thing that isn’t / doesn’t /wouldn’t. Knot a securing, a way of holding on.

Knot Work / Not Work / Knot Hole / Not Whole

When I looked up the lyrics of “The Cure,” I discovered that Rodrigo is calling her tour the Unraveled Tour and has a very cool video for the song, which involves some visually freaky and cool unraveling:

Midway through the video Rodrigo begins unraveling as red threads emerge from her outstretched fingers. More and more red appears.

screenshot from “The Cure” by Olivia Rodrigo / red thread emerges from an outstretched hand

And here’s another knot poem that I posted on this log years ago. It’s a favorite of mine:

Epistemology / Catherine Barnett

Mostly I’d like to feel a little less, know a little more.
Knots are on the top of my list of what I want to know.
Who was it who taught me to burn the end of the cord
to keep it from fraying?
Not the man who called my life a debacle,
a word whose sound I love.
In a debacle things are unleashed.
Roots of words are like knots I think when I read the dictionary.
I read other books, sure. Recently I learned how trees communicate,
the way they send sugar through their roots to the trees that are ailing.
They don’t use words, but they can be said to love.
They might lean in one direction to leave a little extra light for another tree.
And I admire the way they grow right through fences, nothing
stops them, it’s called inosculation: to unite by openings, to connect
or join so as to become or make continuous, from osculare,
to provide with a mouth, from osculum, little mouth.
Sometimes when I’m alone I go outside with my big little mouth
and speak to the trees as if I were a birch among birches.

Her discussion of trees talking to each other and growing through fences returns me to the Knot Work / Not Work poem. Here’s what Jishin No-ben (Lee Ann Roripaugh, trans.) writes about tree knots and burls:

from Knot Work / Not Work / Knot Hole / Not Whole: a Mapping

2.
Formed in trunks where branches used to be,
or where the trunk’s growth has choked off
the smaller, lower branches in a tree. Each knot
the mark of a tightening tourniquet surrounding
a phantom limb. Each knot a scar, a toughening
over to cauterize loss, seal the body shut so it doesn’t
bleed out in the snow. In a concentration camp
in Minidoka, Idaho, wood artist George Nakashima
learned to burnish the souls of trees through their scars:
their knots, their holes, their cracks, their broken histories.

. . .

4.
Burl’s the wood formed when a tree is sick
or stressed, causing the grain to arabesque
into strange spirals, distorted forms, eye-spotted
with visible knots. Burl erupts when infestations
of insects or mold spread unchecked beneath bark’s
façade, the burl becoming larger, more ornate,
as the tree continues to grow. They sound like tumors,
or eyesores, but burl’s actually expensive and rare.
A tree can’t survive without its burl. When burl
is cut from a tree while it’s still alive, the tree dies.

I’d like to use these descriptions of tree biology as an inspiration for my discussion of milfoil biology — about how milfoil spreads and chokes out the light and starves fish and ensnares swimmers’ arms.

june 21/RUNSWIM

run: 2.3 miles
lake nokomis
64 degrees

Decided to run a loop around lake nokomis before open swim in order to be warmed up when I entered the cold water. The run was hard. It felt warm and my gait felt awkward. My favorite part about the run was nearing the big beach and hearing, then seeing, swimmers rounding the far green buoy. I thought: that will be me in a few minutes! And it was.

Overheard: a group of 7 or 8 runners, one of them calling out to the others: They didn’t give us any room. I guess they thought it was their path. Yep, I’ve thought, and probably said, that same thing to Scott on some run around this lake.

I was just reminded of this when I heard the bells of St. Thomas as I write this at my dining room table: When we arrived at the lake, I heard some bells chiming in the distance. I’m assuming a church service was starting somewhere — maybe at the church on Cedar, near Fat Lorenzos?

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
67 degrees

It felt warmer today, maybe because it was sunny. I noticed pink and yellow and orange safety buoys tethered to torsos, bent elbows, glittering water, a few splashes. Some swimmers wore wet suits, some wore training suits. I don’t think I noticed any swan boats or non-lifeguard kayaks.

I’m not sure I felt strong, but I felt stronger in the lake than last week. I decided as I stroked 1 2 3 4 5 breathe right 1 2 3 4 5 breathe left that June is always a more challenging month for open swim: the water’s colder and I’m using muscles that I haven’t used for 9 months.

The milfoil in the swimming area and near the start of the loop was terrible. Thick stretches of it, with individuals vines wrapping around my wrists and feet. I managed to avoid the worst of it on the way out, but when I returned I got stuck in a wide patch of it that I struggled to swim out of. As I have said to more than one person, I am a very strong, experienced swimmer and, even so, I had a few flashes of panic as I wondered how to get out and around these vines. I am seriously concerned that someone will drown in them. They are in the swimming area.

I wonder, is there anything Minneapolis Parks can do about this? Also, if enough people complain, will they have to close down the beach? I don’t want that, but I also don’t want someone to drown in this water or these vines to not be addressed. Sigh.

I’m glad that I ran and that I was able to swim 2 loops in slightly warmer water. Unfortunately, it didn’t help my mood. A few days ago, I wondered what was worse: perimenopausal anxiety or perimenopausal irritability. I thought anxiety was worse, but today, I am irritated and upset and I think it’s just as bad as anxiety. Oh well, like a wave, it will pass over.

Speaking of passing over, I noticed the dark shadow of a plane, blocking out the sun for a few seconds. Even though I know what it is, it is strange and settling (and kind of cool) when it happens.

10 Things

  1. bubbles — surrounding my hands as they entered the water
  2. clouds
  3. breathing to one side: blue sky
  4. breathing to the other side: clouds
  5. stopping in the middle of the lake: silence, solitude
  6. the bright orange first buoy, sometimes looking orange, sometimes white, once or twice green, a few times not there
  7. swimmers: 3 across, a good space between us, all heading towards the far green buoy at the different angles
  8. overheard before beginning: Theo, get your shoes! It’s time to go!
  9. exiting the water, watching as a toddler in a polka dot bathing suit ran across the sand and towards the swings
  10. chanting to myself, lifts the lid and shuts1
  1. I need to re-memorize the A Oswald lines so that I can recite them properly! ↩︎

june 20/RUN

6 miles
hidden falls loop
61 degrees
humidity: 77%

The sun and the humid air made it feel warmer than 61. If only it could feel like this tomorrow during open swim — warm, that is. A quiet, calm morning. Not too crowded on the trails or the roads. Lots of dappled light, flickering leaves. The only time I remember looking at the water was when I had just started crossing the ford bridge. I could see the dark reflections of the fir trees on the water.

I wore my bright yellow shoes. Today, they didn’t feel so bad. Before I went out for my run, I studied the bottom of my shoes. The Brooks Ghosts are already starting to wear down near the big toe, but the Saucony Cohesions and Rides are not. So, do the Ghosts change where I strike my foot, or are they just thinner at that spot? One day I’ll get my stride evaluated by someone at Mill City Running or another local running store.

I did some variations on the Galloway method (90 sec run/30 sec walk). I started with 15 minutes of running, then 90/30 for some time, then 3 min/1 min. Next time I need to commit to just running 90/30 the entire time and see what happens.

Right as I began running, I looked far ahead at the small circle of light at the end of a tunnel of sidewalk and trees. I thought about Alice and her view as she first falls down the hole:

down
and down

Watching this again, I remembered the light from above being brighter. Oh well, I still like it as inspiration for my hole series. Does it work for blur (see below)?

A few times, I recited “We Grow Accustomed to the Dark” by Emily Dickinson as I ran. Not sure I ever made it all the way through; I was distracted by the sound of a skateboard or the flash of a leaf or the feeling of sweat dripping down my face.

As I ran by the empty benches near the Ford/Power Plant overlook, I imagined biking here on some other day and sitting and reading a book, or writing or poem, or taking in the world around me.

10 Things

  1. loud music — dance? techno? — booming from a bike speaker
  2. a sprinkling, tinkling sound — was it falling water or rustling leaves?
  3. a few puddles from yesterday’s rain
  4. soft, wet dirt on the trail between the river road and lena smith boulevard
  5. the flickering shadow of one leaf being moved by the wind
  6. 2 older men talking, sitting at a picnic table near the skate park in Highland Park
  7. a woman running with a stroller, crossing near hidden falls — did she or the kid she was pushing make any noise? I don’t think so
  8. hot sun, then refreshing shade, at Highland Bridge
  9. passing a woman talking on a phone: then, what is it?
  10. 2 women walking — one, to the other: I haven’t perfected my pizza yet

holes and Alice

As I (finally) worked on my summary for April’s monthly challenge, I was inspired to return to the holes project. I want to keep experimenting with the Alice in Wonderland angle and the rabbit hole. What inspiration can I get from some of the scenes in Alice in Wonderland (1951)? So far, I have 3 scenes in particular: Alice falling down the hole1, Alice talking with the Caterpillar, and Alice and the Cheshire Cat.

Just now, I re-watched the Cheshire Cat scene and I’m thinking of pairing it with parts of hole 3: “land in a logic of blur and almost” and “read sentences sliced in half, glitching just enough to scramble what is real and imagined.” At the beginning of the scene, the cat is only a voice singing nonsense words, then a mouth, then eyes. Later, he is only footprints and stripes. How to represent that on the page? And, is that more almost than blur? Should the line be, “land in a logic of almost’?

Another part of this new approach is to simplify the image so that it is easier to understand as form/silhouette. I’m thinking of putting it on a single page — the page in which the word “hole” appears in the NYer essay — instead of the 4 panels. I’m hoping that will translate more effectively online (and on smaller screens).

Back to hole 3: what if I made the blur and almost as two different scenes/pages — one is blur, one almost. “Almost” would be the cat, and “Blur” would be –? I’ll keep thinking about that one. Blur = soft and fuzzy forms, before we grow accustomed to the Dark, right after the light has gone out, or grown too dim? Maybe, the image of a small hole of light, with everything else growing darker?

is water alive?

I was looking for something else (search on poets.com = “blur”) and found a wonderful essay about a poem, “on the water” and its dis/connection to ecopoetics. The author of the essay and the poem, Moheb Soliman, says this about water:

It’s a sacred hook—an existentially common denominator—the basis of everything, to build on together. You understand, but you’re deeply ambivalent about the abstraction of water. Water like a banner quivering in place, placeless. You fear placelessness. It’s why you are addicted to Google Maps. Isn’t everybody? Totalizing specificity, proper naming, sublime order, knowable space.

Yet, like many, you try and reject colonial hegemony. You can’t help but revere Indigeneity. But water flows one way at divides—you’re either duped by western science water as inanimate substance, or you’re co-opting animist beliefs about water. You don’t think of water as alive, nor of it as just a resource. Is there no other way?

Moheb Soliman on “on the water”

The line, You don’t think of water as alive reminded me that I have Is a River Alive? on my Libby audiobook shelf. TIme to start listening/reading, I think!

Perhaps a question to pursue this summer: (how) is a lake alive?

  1. Writing this, I was thinking about the moment before she/we grows accustomed to the Dark and can only see the whites of her eyes, but now I’m also thinking about the moment before that when we see her from the perspective of her cat Dinah as she call out, with delight, Goodbye Dinah! Goodbyyyyyyyeeee! How could I imagine that on a page? ↩︎