trestle turn around +
65 degrees / humidity: 70%
wind: 18 mph / gusts: 30 mph
So much wind! As I neared the river, a surprise gust swept through and ripped my visor off my head. Luckily, that was the worst thing the wind did. No knocking down thick branches onto my shoulders. No pushing me off the edge of the gorge. Just a few big gusts, and a wall to run into after I turned around at the trestle.
The wind and the humidity distracted me from noticing much else. Did I even look at the river? One thing I do remember noticing: the green in the floodplain forest is thickening. Already the view through to the river is gone in that spot. I also noticed the welcoming oaks. They’re still bare and gnarled.
Near the end of my run, when I had one hill left and wanted to be done, I chanted some of my favorite lines from Emily Dickinson again: “Life is but life/Death but death/Bliss is but bliss/Breath but breath.” It helped!
10 Things I Noticed While Running*
*4 thoughts that distracted me from noticing + 6 things I still noticed despite the distractions
- my left hip is a little tight
- it is very humid
- I hate my sinuses and allergies; I wish I could breathe fully through my nose
- I wish I had worn a tank top. I’m so glad I didn’t wear that sweatshirt I almost put on because I was cold in the house!
- an intense floral scent — lilac, maybe?
- only a few big branches down near the trail
- a woman walking and pushing a stroller, a dog leash in one hand, a dog stretched across the trail
- several walkers dressed for winter in coats and caps
- an inviting bench perched at the edge of the gorge, taking in the last of the clear view before the green veil conceals it
- the creak of some branches in the wind: another rusty door opening!
This final thing I mentioned noticing, the door, made me want to find another door poem, so I did:
Doors opening, closing on us/ Marge Piercy
Maybe there is more of the magical
in the idea of a door than in the door
itself. It’s always a matter of going
through into something else. But
while some doors lead to cathedrals
arching up overhead like stormy skies
and some to sumptuous auditoriums
and some to caves of nuclear monsters
most just yield a bathroom or a closet.
Still, the image of a door is liminal,
passing from one place into another
one state to the other, boundaries
and promises and threats. Inside
to outside, light into dark, dark into
light, cold into warm, known into
strange, safe into terror, wind
into stillness, silence into noise
or music. We slice our life into
segments by rituals, each a door
to a presumed new phase. We see
ourselves progressing from room
to room perhaps dragging our toys
along until the last door opens
and we pass at last into was.