4.1 miles river road, north/seabury, south/river road, south/edmund,south 50 degrees
Went running earlier this morning. Left the house at 7:30. Overdressed with tights under my shorts and two long-sleeved shirts. A calm, beautiful, sunny morning. The gorge continues to green. I can still see through the leaves to the other side, but it’s getting harder. Only remember looking at the river once, almost at the end of my run. Up on the highest part of Edmund, looking down past the parkway to the path, I could see the sparkling shine of the water through the trees. What a sight!
Recited my poem for the week, Dear One Absent This Long While. Like on Friday, it was difficult to recite it steadily. I could say a few lines then I would get distracted for a minute or two. Maybe because I had initially left the first stanza off when I was memorizing the poem, I struggled with the first line: “It has been so wet stones glaze in moss.” It sounds awkward to me, like a word or a comma is missing. I do like the second line: “everything blooms coldly.” Sounds like spring in Minnesota. At the end of the run, I recorded myself reciting it into my phone. I wasn’t self-conscious, which is a big improvement from the beginning of the week.
note: In April, I tracked the number of deaths due to COVID-19. I wanted to add these in as a way to acknowledge how scary and surreal it is even as I write about the things I’m enjoying, noticing on my run. For this month, I’ve decided not to include this data. I’m hoping to avoid thinking about the virus as much as I can. Is this possible? Will it help? I’ll see at the end of the month.
Gloomy and gray but not cold. Ran into the wind at first, then had it at my back on the way home. I remember looking at the river and I remember admiring it but I can’t remember why or what it looked like. The leaves are filling in on the trees. Slowly the green veil is growing. Soon, no more view. Not too crowded on the trail and was able to keep at least 6 feet of distance. My knee felt okay–a little stiff and sore afterwards.
Recited the poem, “Dear One Absent This Long While.” Didn’t have any problems remembering the lines, but had to take a lot of time between lines–too focused on the effort of running. Oh–at first, I recited a line as “I have new shoes” then boots then I remembered it was “I have new gloves.” Thought about how gloves fits much better than boots or shoes in telling the story of a gardener. One of my favorite lines: “She has the quiet ribs of a salamander crossing the old pony post road.” Quiet ribs. Old pony post road. Salamander. Such great phrases/images/words!
This is my first memory of my mother. We were in India. My mother, graceful, cross-legged in front of her sewing machine and I, holding the pins. She stops running material abruptly and takes my small face in her cupped hands, my round cheeks in her long fingers. I could feel the cold metal of her engagement ring, her wedding ring. She said to me: one day you will be a woman. And I want you to understand that you must be like water. Like water, you have to know where you are going before anyone else does. You have to be able to rush into the gaps. You have to be diffuse. You have to uncoil to fill the space.
You have to be transparent. In times of hardship, in the times of heat, you have to steam only then will your rise. You have to be smooth. You have to shift easily. Stay the same but take the shape of every new place. You have to be patient. You have to move only when you are called to move.
You also have to know when not to move. You have to know when to freeze and then expand so full and so eloquent, you can force those spaces in between rocks to deepen, to widen, and then force the rocks to shatter. you must watch, she said, You must reflect back. You must be water.
Love thinking about how to be like water:
rush into the gaps
be diffuse
uncoil
fill the space
transparent
in times of hardship, steam, so as to rise
smooth
shift easily
stay the same but take the shape of every new place
patient
move only when you are called to move
know when not to move
know when to freeze and then expand so full you force spaces between rocks to deepen, widen, shatter
reflect back
Do all these fit? I’m not sure, but I like thinking about what water does/is and how to try and be more like it. I love water–swimming in water, running beside water. Looking at moving water, still water. Hearing water lapping against a shore, dripping out of the eaves, gushing from a sewer pipe.
2.3 miles river road path, south/edmund, north 44 degrees/ 17 mph wind Deaths from COVID-19: 319 (MN)/ 58,529 (US)
A difficult run this morning. Straight into the wind on the way back. About 5 minutes in, my knee hurt. Stopped for a few seconds, then started again. Mostly fine while I was running, but decided to not run too much. Not crowded on the path. It’s getting greener. Looked over at the Oak Savanna and the Winchell Trail. I don’t remember much from this run except for worrying about my knee or feeling the wind. The stretch of grass between Becketwood and 42nd was muddy and wet.
At the very beginning of my run, I heard the bird call that Scott and I have been curious about lately. I’d like to figure out which bird makes this sound and why. Found it!
Male Black-capped Chickadee
The song Scott and I have been hearing comes from the male black-capped chickadee. It’s also called the “fee bee” call or, when it has three notes, the “hey, sweetie” call. The song is used to attract mates or defend territory.
Some facts I’d like to remember from this brief video: 1. This song signals spring is coming and 2. Males use it in singing battles.
Of course, this mention of singing battles reminds me of one of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver:
After all these years I still don’t know the name of the bird who has followed me with his early-morning song to all the places I’ve lived.
I’ve never asked “Which bird is that, singing now?” I remember hearing him first on a spring morning in childhood somewhere in the woods behind our little house, his song clear above the thousand little sounds of grass and water and trees around us.
I’ve thought about the deaths I fear, but only now do I know the death I want: to let that song be the last thing I hear, and not to mind at all that I never learned the singer’s name.
I wonder, was she writing about the male black-capped chickadee?
Thinking about the purpose of the black capped chickadee’s call, I’m imagining more of the conversation:
I’m right/you’re wrong Welcome/spring’s here hello/goodbye get lost/no way Beatles/Elvis gray duck/no, goose
bike/bike stand: 30 minutes run/treadmill: 1.5 miles rain Deaths from COVID-19: 301 (MN)/ 57,533 (US)
Rain all day. In a few days, everything green. Green green green. I like the green but it always comes too much too soon. Biked in the basement while watching more of the Agatha Christie movie. Enjoying it. Then, ran on the treadmill. Listened to a playlist, fell into a trance.
I didn’t recite my memorized poem today, but decided to recite and record it during my cool down, walking on the treadmill. Realized, before my workout, that I had not memorized the first stanza. Somehow I had left it off my log post. Oops. I’ll have to practice it a lot: “It has been so wet stones glaze in moss;/everything blooms coldly” “It has been so wet stones glaze in moss;/everything blooms coldly”
Dear One Absent This Long While, recorded 4/28
I stumbled over a few words, and it sounds like I said “pawny” instead of “pony” but I recited the whole thing. Nice. I don’t quite own these words yet, but I will soon.
use better words || use words better
Yesterday, while trying to figure out some succinct ways to describe the creative experiments I’m doing in my run project, I came up with this concept. I want to find and use better words–words that allow for new understandings, that more effectively communicate my experiences, that make me/others feel things, that foster curiosity. And, I want to use words better–to be more deliberate and precise and thoughtful in my choices so that my words generate movement and encourage others to think and be curious.
the Subway/Eat Fresh birds
A few days ago, inspired by 2 birds chatting, I imagined what they might be saying–including: bird 1: Subway/ bird 2: Eat Fresh. Scott was inspired by another similar bird conversation this morning. He recorded them, figured out what notes they were singing and then played around on his keyboard with them. Very cool.
birds singing in the rain, april 28Birdsong in the rain, Room 34
I’m hoping we can collaborate on a sound/poetry project about these birds–probably one that doesn’t involve referring to the birds as Subway and Eat Fresh, but who knows? Anyway, as a starting point, I wrote down a list of 2 syllable calls and responses:
Be here Not here Beside Be Safe Deep Down Lost Ones Release Slow down Rethink Listen Sink in Undo Nothing Delight Been there Terror Old ways New ways Broke down How to
Not there Not there Beyond Steer clear We knew Stay gone Forget Down size Reprise Loosen Retreat Rebuild To do Sorrow Done that Wonder Destroyed Unfurl Remade Be now?
4.1 miles river road, north/seabury, south/river road, south/edmund, south 53 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 286 (MN)/ 55,118 (US)
What a morning! Rained early, then Sun! Birds! A slight breeze! Trees barely budding, glowing a yellowy green!
In the name of the Trees— And the Woodpecker— And the Breeze—Amen! (variation on Emily Dickinson)
It’s easier to bury deep the panic and thoughts about getting very sick or someone I love getting very sick when the weather is like this and the trails aren’t too crowded and it’s not too hot or too cold and there aren’t swarming gnats yet.
My run felt good this morning. I remember looking down at the river, but I don’t remember what I saw—wait, how could I forget? It was gorgeous! Not sparkling or shining, but a mirror reflecting the fluffy clouds. I imagined that the water was another world, doubled and reversed, like in May Swenson’s great poem, “Water Picture“: “In the pond in the park/ all things are doubled:/ Long buildings hang and/ wriggle gently. Chimneys/ are bent legs bouncing/ on clouds below.” Love how “In the pond in the park” bounces on my tongue. I kept glancing over at the water and admiring its smooth beauty and how it looked like a mirror. I started thinking about the Greek myth (which I couldn’t really remember) about the hunter who looked at his reflection. I looked it up just now–of course it was Narcissus. Here’s an interesting article I found that discusses him and the idea of mirrors in water–it even has a picture of Salvadore Dali looking into the water.
At some point during my run, a biker biked by, their radio blasting “Everybody Talks.” (Had to look it up, it’s by Neon Trees.) I haven’t heard this song in a few years; it was on one of my running playlists for a while. Mostly I listened to it while I ran around the track at the YWCA. Just looked and couldn’t find any mention of it in this log.
Reciting While Running: Dear One, Absent This Long While
Started reciting my poem for the week, Lisa Olstein’s Dear One Absent This Long While. Not too difficult to memorize, fun to say. I don’t remember much about the rhythms with my feet, but I do remember thinking more about the words. As I recited the line, “so even if spring continues to disappoint” I wondered, is it “spring” or “the spring”? I couldn’t remember and I tried to think about which fit better and whether or not a “the” was necessary. Also paused at the line, “She had the quiet ribs/ of a salamander crossing the old pony post road.” At first, I kept saying “has” but then I realized it made more sense to say “had.” Also, why is there a “the” in front of pony post road here, but not a “the” in front of spring? I find it helpful to think more about the choices poets make with their words. It’s fascinating and I think it can help me make a better poet who uses better words and words better–which is always my goal in writing.
I decided it would be fun to record myself reciting the poem right after finishing my run and then listening to it while looking at the poem–which words did I screw up, leave out, add? This experiment was fun, although I am still way too self-conscious speaking into my phone. I want to stop caring if people see me doing it and what they think about it. Here’s the recording:
Dear One Absent This Long While, recorded 4/27
I’d like to try recording myself saying it again tomorrow after my run. Maybe by the end of the week I won’t feel weird doing it.
In addition to reciting this new poem, I also revisited Emily Dickinson’s “It’s all I have to bring today” and the second line. I tried running with the different rhythms that I figured out in yesterday’s log. “This, and my heart beside” I was struck by how the different rhythms also changed the emphasis. In the original, Dickinson is emphasizing, “This.” Some of my rhythms, like the triplet for “this and my”, put the emphasis on heart. It’s cool how much of a difference changing the rhythm can make on the meaning–not a deep insight, but it’s fun to find ways to actually understand poetry, especially those parts of it that seem so hard for me to get.
What else happened on my run?
Saw someone walking down the old stone steps
Later, saw a dog and its human crossing the path to also walk down the old stone steps
Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker with a “Hi Dave” and a wave and, “Beautiful morning!”
Greeted another biker on Seabury
Noticed the trestle as I ran by it
Inspected the progress of the leaves below the tunnel of trees in the floodplain forest. The green veil is coming–too soon!
A few rocks were stacked on the ancient boulder at the top of the path, near the sprawling oak and at the entrance to the tunnel of trees
Greeting the Welcoming Oaks
note: I’m adding this in later, but I had forgotten about it.
About 5 minutes into my run, as I passed near the overlook and through the Welcoming Oaks, I greeted every one of them. I didn’t count, but I’m guessing it was about 10 trees? “Good morning!” “Hello friend!” “Hello!” “Hi!”
3.75 miles 47th ave loop, shorter 50 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 272 (MN)/ 54,001 (US)
I wore shorts this morning on my run. Shorts! Very exciting. Ran south on the trail, right above the river. It had a dull, un-sparkly surface but it was still beautiful. Soft, subdued. So many birds chattering away. A few runners and walkers and bikers. I had to weave around the path several times, from one end–on the edge of the bluff, above the water–to the other–across the walking and biking paths and the road, over to the grass between the parkway and the boulevard– but it didn’t bother me. As long as I can run and keep my distance, I’m fine.
Recited Emily Dickinson’s poem again, “it’s all I have to bring today.” Played around with the rhythm in the second line: “This, and my heart beside—” So awkward when running. (note: I can’t actually remember what beats I did with this line while running, so I’m experimenting after the fact. Now, I want to try running with each of these. Which works best?)
This and my heart beside/ 123 4 5 6/ ♪♪♪ ♩ ♩ ♩ This and my heart beside/ 123 4 56 7/ ♪♪♪ ♩ ♫ rest
This and my heart beside/ 12 34 5 6/ ♫ ♫ ♩ ♩
This and my heart/ 1 2 3 4/ ♩ ♩ ♩ ♩ beside/ 1 2 3 4/ ♩ ♩ rest rest
I’m really fascinated by these rhythms and what they do to the word beside, particularly what gets stressed. BEside or beSIDE or BESIDE. Trochee or Iamb or Spondee (I think that’s right. I’m trying to learn and then remember these terms. Maybe one day they will be second-nature to me?)
The other day, I read a beautiful thread about the poet Ted Kooser. I liked the poems that were mentioned in the thread, but decided to read some more of his work online. Because I find soaring turkey vultures to be beautiful, I was drawn to this poem:
walk: 4.75 miles extended 47th ave loop 65 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 244 (MN)/ 53,070 (US)
Woke up feeling sore all over. I think it’s from the hours I’ve spent trying to scrape the paint off the deck railing. Decided to take a long walk with Scott and Delia the dog instead of running. Amazing spring weather. Bright, warm sun. Hardly any wind. Calm, gentle air. Lots of people walking, biking, and running out by the gorge this morning. Didn’t see any wild turkeys but did see a tiny baby rabbit. I said to Scott, “that’s the only time I think rabbits are cute.” I really don’t like rabbits. Also saw this super cool sculpture in someone’s front yard:
photo by room34
I want a front yard like this! No grass and an awesome sculpture. It’s fun walking by the gorge and then winding through longfellow neighborhood. People are delightfully quirky around here. Anything else? We talked about if the virus will ebb some in the summer and how terrible it must be for some kids now that they are closing down all the playgrounds and skate parks and removing the nets from basketball hoops and tennis courts. How will some kids entertain themselves? So tough.
When we got home, I sat on our warm deck in full sun and felt nostalgic for past springs and summers as a kid, when I would soak in the sun, still able to enjoy feeling hot because it was novel. Then I composed another version of Emily Dickinson’s “It’s all I have to bring today”:
It’s all I have to bring today— This, and my knee, beside— This, my knee, and all the gorge And all the river wide— Be sure to count—should I forget Some one the Sum could tell— This, and my knee, and every Tree Bare-branched without its Veil—
I think I like this version better than my last.
After composing this poem and reciting it to my wonderful daughter who was willing to listen, I sat in my chair and heard the birds. I didn’t actually have a choice, they were insistent that I eavesdrop on their conversation. Repeating it over and over and over again. Of course, when I finally decided to record them, they weren’t as chatty. Still, I did manage to record a few lines. 2 syllables each. One bird started low, then went higher. The other responded higher, then went lower. I imagined them to be singing: “Up high/ Down low” What else could they be saying?
2 birds chatting
Subway/Eat fresh Be nice/Fuck you Hey there!/What’s up? Mustard/Ketchup Doughnut/Ice cream Mad Men/Ozark Mustache/Goatee Pizza/Nachos Dumb luck/Hard work Winter/Summer
3.75 miles 47th ave loop 47 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 221 (MN)/ 50,031 (US)
Wow, what a glorious morning! Soft light, hardly any wind, singing birds, uncrowded paths. Everything felt calm, relaxed. I don’t remember looking at the river that often, but I do remember the sky over the gorge and the view on the bluff near Folwell. Beautiful.
Anything else I remember from my run? I’ve noticed–today and yesterday, at least–that the morning sun makes it hard for me to see people sometimes. It also makes it almost impossible for me to determine if people are coming towards me or are moving away from me–is that the cone dystrophy or my near-sightedness? Not sure.
I recited Emily Dickinson’s “It’s all I have to bring today” again and I’m liking it more. The second line with the anapest–“This, and my heart beside”–is still awkward, but I like running to “this, my heart, and all the fields/and all the meadows wide” and “this, and my heart, and all the bees, which in the clover dwell.”
When I got back from my run, I started thinking about changing the words of Dickinson’s poem to fit with my run:
It’s all I have to bring today— This, and my knee beside— This, my knee and all the trees— And all the river wide Be sure to count — should I forget Some one the sum could tell — This, and my knee, and all the Birds whose songs can cast a Spell.
Not totally happy with my words, but I’ll work on it some more. I struggle to understand “some one the sum could tell.” It mostly makes sense, but it still trips me up.
more wild turkey sightings!
Yesterday on our walk, near the tree graveyard, we saw 2 more wild turkeys! Scott took some video and posted it on instagram:
Finally, looking back through my log posts from 2018, I found this beautiful poem. It will be the next one that I memorize. So many lines I am looking forward to learning and keeping.
