In Which I am Reminded of Old Dreams

Ok, so April is almost over, but it is National Poetry Month, and I never gave even a nod to that, which seems oh-so-wrong. I didn't carry around a poem in my pocket on Poem-in-Your-Pocket day. And then Monday was Earthday, and I didn't say anything about that, either.

So here's my nod to NaPoMo and Earthday both, and also to the part of myself that has always been a little Thoreauvian and would like to run away to a cabin in the woods and be a hermit.

When I was seventeen, I told my friends that was my career plan. Except at the same age I also wanted to be the essay-writer for the back of Time Magazine, so I suppose I'd have had to own a computer. Or else come down off the mountain once in awhile to read the news and send off my essay. Which makes the whole hermit-in-the-woods thing seem not very hermitish.

Neither of those plans have come to anything. I'm married with five children and live in a city. Which isn't such a bad thing, after all. I do grow beans and write. And occasionally things are peaceful. Like when everyone's at school and I'm walking on the mountain or writing my brains out. But once in awhile I have to dust off Yeats and Thoreau.

So here's to what might have been:

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Apologizing to the Birds

We've all been going through a rough patch, haven't we?

Some of the details are different.

We all cried for Sandy Hook. All those children. And that movie theater in Colorado.

And back in February there was my sixteen-year-old neighbor who died of complications from flu. Not swine flu, just normal flu. The kind your kids got this winter, too. One week he was playing water-polo and fouling people in basketball and the next week he wasn't here anymore. And no, he didn't have special health problems that made him unusually vulnerable.

And then the mom of one of my kid's friends died.
And then that same friend's brother died, too, just this week. Nobody knew any details.

And of course, Boston. We're all still reeling from that. Who bombs a marathon? Kills eight-year-olds? Tries to murder people gathered together to cheer on determination and hard work and human spirit? Who does that? Nails and metal shards exploding from a pressure-cooker? What a sorry use of potential creative talent.

The same day as the marathon bombs, a middle-school girl in my city went missing. Left for school and never got there. They found her yesterday, safe and whole, and we all cried again, this time with relief.

And then yesterday, there was that explosion in Texas.

And the Senate rejecting any gun-control legislation whatsoever, as though rubbing into our faces all those Newtown and Colorado deaths by military-assault-style weapons. As though saying yeah, the world sucks, and we're going to do our best to make it suckier.

But then there were also all those people in Boston rushing straight into the smoke to help. Ripping down metal barriers to get to the injured. Giving away their coats. Sharing phones. And all those runners running all those miles and then running some more to the hospital to donate blood and save some lives.

Of course they did. Right? Wouldn't you? And the hundreds of volunteers, who didn't even know that missing girl, showing up to help search for her.

It's what we do, isn't it?

Yeah, there's horror in the world. A lot of it. There are people who try to make others suffer. It's the way this planet is. Sometimes it's the way some of us make it. But part of being human is reaching out and sharing the burden. Which people do, too.

Last night my son came into my room at midnight to tell me that his hair was crunchy from the gel in it and he couldn't sleep, so he was going to take a shower, ok? And, by the way, his friend's brother who just died? It was suicide.

I don't think my kid woke me up because his hair was crunchy. He didn't want to talk much, just let me know about that suicide. Somehow it made it a little easier for him to sleep, that he didn't have to be alone knowing really sucky things happen in the world.

When I thought about it this morning, I cried again. And thought of Alyosha's hero, Father Zosima in Brothers Karamazov, apologizing to the birds for the condition of the world, because he knew if he were just a little bit kinder, better, more generous, things would be better for that bird outside the window, and for every other creature and person on the planet. And then Alyosha going out and living that way, as if he owed the birds.

Nobody steals Fred Roger's car

And I thought about that story I heard of the guy who stole Mr. Roger's car once, and when he found
out, gave it back. Because you don't steal Mr. Roger's car, right?--the man who sang, "you are my friend, you are special to me"? Because every kid who grew up watching Mr. Rogers secretly knew he loved them. We all need to feel that from someone.


What if we were all Fred Rogers and Alyosha Karamazov? Would people still bomb marathons? Maybe. I wonder.


But we can at least keep on running a few extra miles past 26.2 to donate blood. And we'll keep on talking, sharing the burden of all the suffering through the stories we tell. The stories that make us feel, yeah, people are good. They really are.

And no, I don't think the terrorists won in Boston. Humanity did. Because the stories are bigger than the bombs. Maybe we'll even get to the point where we can apologize to the birds.

Going on year five...

"If you want to be a fiction writer, read fiction every day; write fiction every day; and after ten years you might produce something worth publishing."

               --Darrell Spencer (American novelist and short-story writer)

Barefeet: Signs of Spring

This week, I saw my first barefoot runner of the season. Granted, it happened to be 32 degrees at the time and I thought he was crazy, but it felt like seeing a daffodil blooming in snow.

Also, my crocuses bloomed.

Today was truly warm. So, I grabbed the dog and went running up the mountain in capri running pants and no wool whatsoever and not even an ear-warmer or gloves. I kept my (minimal) shoes on.

But that was only because the dog got into the shed yesterday and ate four-days worth of food, and he was clearly feeling the weight of all that naughtiness, and I didn't feel like dragging him along and carrying my shoes, too. Bad boy, Andre.

But I really wanted to take my shoes off.

Ok, so I'm addicted to bare feet. Yeah, it's a craving.

And also, it keeps me injury-free. For someone with a life-time of random running injuries and 15 years of knee problems, that's just short of miraculous. I plan on never having a running injury again. My knees feel fantastic. We'll see what happens when I try to ramp up the miles.

Not that I haven't had nasty set-backs. Like almost-stress-fractures when I tried to jump in too fast. And Achilles tendonitis that took forever to go away.

So, in case you're thinking of shedding your shoes, too, or just want to pretend you have, here's a little of what I've learned about how to run like a bare-footer:

*Keep your knees higher than you think. If you watch the Jamaicans--who grow up barefoot-- you'll notice they run with higher knees than the Americans--who grow up wearing shoes. And the Jamaicans win.

*Never hit the ground heel-first.

*In fact, never hit the ground. Bare-foot Ken-Bob says kiss it. The idea is to keep your feet light. Think: lift, not land.

*Bend your knees more than you think. Especially on downhill, try to bend as much as running uphill. Think butt-kick.

*Work into it slowly. Start with a tiny bit of barefoot in the grass and increase a little at a time. If you're transitioning from ultra-padded chunkers to minimal running shoes, only use the minimal ones 10 percent of the time as you build up strength. Or just take your shoes to a shoe-repair place and zero-out your padding. You've babied your feet all your life. They're weak. And thin in the soles. You'll get sore feet or stress-fractures or achilles tendonitis if you jump into minimal or bare too fast.

*Yoga. Helps everything without injuring anything. Just take that slow enough, too.

*Find the joy. If you've never run bare in the grass you don't know what I mean.


It's like extra-dark creamy Swiss chocolate for your feet. Or daffodils in snow. Fuzzy pussy-willows. Crocuses in the grass.

Like spring coming around at last. February banished.



See you in bare feet. :)