did not finish

20 minutes of contemplative writing,
recorded 2 days
after running farther
than I ever have
before

***

Equal. Even. Equal. Even.  

Preparation does not equal success. 

Effort in does not guarantee an even measure of reward.  

These are very static statements. Black and white thinking. Not really any room for softer perspectives.

  

I’m thinking too hard. Or rather, I’m thinking, period.
Trying, pushing, forcing.

Flow is found when the effort to find it isn’t there at all.
Sometimes the conditions require effort, and flow never comes.  

And that’s okay.  

One of the most important take-aways 

from running 

                           63 miles 

but not officially completing the race course 

because 

I missed a turn 

and ended up lost 

                           in the dark 

                                              was this: 

Sometimes you do everything right.  
Sometimes you find the flow  
                             not by looking for it  
                             but by running into it,  
                                          running with it  
                                             and on it  
                                             and through it  
                                             and part of it  
                               because it’s part of you. 

Sometimes the magic really is there. 

   And yet.  

      And yet.  

And yet  
               you find yourself 
                                             miles from where you’re supposed to be.  

Miles from where you’re supposed to be, 
          with only the pack on your back  
                   that’s unfortunately empty of food  
                             because you ate what you had  
                                and you were supposed to be somewhere else 

                                                hours ago,  
                                with all the provisions to choose from.  

Miles from where you’re supposed to be  
          with only one of your oldest friends by your side. 

I realize it sounds scary.

For a little bit there we were both really scared.
But of course, people knew where we should have been
and of course, people who know what they're doing
looked for and pretty quickly found us.  

But still.  

  But still.  

                  

                     And yet.  

                               And yet.  

Not finishing does not equal failure.
Just like preparation does not equal success. 

I don’t like the words failure and success. 

I don’t  
             haven't 
                           will not ever 
                            consider this event a failure.  

It was a  
                    Multi- 
                              Faceted 
                    Experience.  

Ugh. I wish I would have chosen to go a different direction with this writing.  

Missed turn. 
Darkness. 
Headlamps flashing on signs
that pointed the right direction 

                               for the wrong part of the course. 

 

I don’t know where I hoped to get in this writing 

        but it doesn’t feel like anywhere.  

And that’s okay.   

There is no finish line.  
There actually are no course markers.  
Just one foot in front of the other.  

Sometimes pain.  
Sometimes elation.  

Close and far. 
Almost and not quite. 

 

Time  
        and distance  
                               and right here  
                                       right now. 

A truck’s headlights break the night behind us.  

rebuilding

Today I will run (and walk) and it will be
                                                               movement.

I was going to say it will be
                                              fun
but that is not always true.
Sometimes it's
                         frustrating
and it can be hard to find the fun in that.
But I'm looking at my body as a
                                                       work-in-progress
And run/walking is my
                                       paintbrush
                                                         or my chisel
and I'm creating a healthier runner.
a more durable runner.

The body doesn't know pace. It knows effort.

I want to be that grey-haired woman I sometimes exchange hellos with.
She runs with her chin-length hair loose. It sways as she moves.
Not fast but why would that matter
when the smile on her face is bright enough to shine
on the remainder of my run?

saturation

Deep breaths; green breaths; deer-peeking-through-trees breaths.

Sane breaths; rain breaths; nothing-to-explain breaths.

Slow steps; flow steps; out-here-alone steps.

Breathing, moving, still.

layering

every time i run, i layer miles onto my body.

i am building up a tolerance for what i can handle.

every step is a pebble -- no, a grain of sand: seemingly insignificant. 

but building blocks
                                 form

                                          stack

                                                    create.

every time i write, i layer words like bricks.

sometimes they are little three-rock piles, left along the trail to mark where i've been.

sometimes they add strata to the story i'm trying to tell (am telling).

lately, its been mostly the little piles.

but that's okay.

they're important too. 

my feet are becoming callouses of capability. 

my lungs are getting deeper and wider, an expanding universe. 

i watch and my mind is growing too.

there are pockets i haven't even explored.

keep picking up the pen.

keep lacing up the shoes. 

one foot [word] in front of the other. 

not good, but persistent. 

a brief writing from the single-word prompt: layering. 

try it: get a pen. set a 5 minute timer. just write. see what you find.

Soundtrack of Silence

It's early morning. I'm sitting cross legged on the couch with my pen in hand, notebook open on my lap.

I haven't started writing.

Mostly, I'm just listening to the kitchen clock tick.

It's strange, I think, that this sound doesn't bother me. Never bothers me.

Because I am kind of sensitive about sounds.

I hate the sound of other people drinking, for example (shudder). I have trouble concentrating in a quiet room if someone, somewhere, is breathing too loud (ugh, shhhhh). Repetitive noises quickly grate on my nerves (sorry, but your foot tapping is a jackhammer on my soul. could you stop?). I can't sleep if there are any unusual noises at all (hello white noise, my love).

But this clock? For some reason, it's okay.

Even on nights when I simply cannot sleep and the only thing that helps is moving onto the couch in the living room for a new scene to try again to get some shut-eye -- even then, the clock's ticking is either something I don't notice at all or a sound I end up finding soothing.

Perhaps this is because during the day, with so much activity and movement and sound in the house (because of all the people (6) and dogs (2) who live in this small space), the ticking is completely covered under the cacophony of daily life.

But in the early mornings, when it has for years been my habit to sit with my notebook on my lap and a cup of coffee in my hand (sometimes writing, sometimes just staring sleepily into my cup), the clock sings the soundtrack of my silence.

When my girls were much younger, this was one of the only times I truly had to myself, so it was sacred. Now that no one needs me quite so much anymore, I'm not so desperate for or possessive about my alone time.

But there's still something special about that slip of time just after waking, before I'm pulled into the flow of my day.

It's the time when I'm most still. Most settled. Most at the surface of myself, before my mind has gotten buried under the duties of the day.

And maybe, on nights when sleeplessness grips my mind, moving to the couch solves my problems when nothing else seems to help simply because the sound of the clock is a signal to my psyche that I'm in a sacred space.

(Posting more frequently brought to you by inspiration from a blogging friend. I've always loved her writing voice. )

Pep Talk

...for myself (for anyone)
...for These Unprecedented Times (for any time)

It's okay to be bored even when you're doing something you love.

It's okay to resist what you normally embrace.

It's fine if you love something but sometimes you just don't.

It's fine if it feels like it doesn't love you back.

It's okay to keep doing it, keep trying, keep moving, even if it doesn't feel like you're going anywhere.

It's okay to rest sometimes, too.

It's good to avoid pushing too hard.

...but it's not always easy to tell when rest is best or if it's better to keep moving.

That's why it's good to have friends and mentors who see things from the outside.

...though ultimately, we have to know the language of our own minds, of our own bodies.

Dusting off

Last week, I dusted off this blog and wrote a post about all the running I’ve been doing recently. It seemed like a necessary way to cap off a project that ended up meaning so much to my internal world.

After posting, in one of the endless ways I’ve been distracting myself from other things I should be doing lately, I went down the rabbit hole of my own writing and read a bunch of posts from all those years ago, back when writing on this blog was one of the ways I saved my own life.

Looking back, I felt a flush of pride about who I was and how I saw things (still am, still see). I also felt nostalgic for all the grasping and searching I used to do (still do). And grateful that I wrote it down because reading back on it is like flipping through a photobook of my mind.

Back then, I would often feel anxious putting my thoughts out there in the world for other people to read. What would they think? What if it was stupid? What if no one even read it?

In the end (and this is something I suspected but didn’t really care about at the time) the most important reader I could have is ME – now. And me – years and years from now. It feels important to acknowledge that (to myself).

I’m currently working on a novel. Did I ever tell you that? I suppose that’s what made me stop blogging, back then. This project has taken up most of my writing energy, in a good way.

I’ve been trickle-writing it for four years now (four!!!), and it’s nowhere near being done.

But I’m still doing it.

Why?

Not for any delusions about publication. Not for some imaginary future readers.

No – It’s for ME.

There have been frequent times when I’ve fought with myself over this project, one side saying why bother, honestly. And the other side stubbornly repeating because I’ve always wanted to.

Thankfully, I have a supportive writing teacher and feedback group that help bolster that stubborn voice, and I’m optimistic that someday, eventually, I’ll finish it.

It will be really something to hold the completed thing in my hands.

But maybe more than anything, I’m curious about -- and motivated by -- the experience of looking back on the process of writing this novel. Of seeing how I’ve grown as a writer and a seer. Of noticing how I’ve evolved as an observer of my mind and in my commitment to putting this story on paper. Even from the middle of it, I can start to see some of the ways I’ve grown.

I suppose in a lot of ways, writing, for me, is akin to running. It’s more about the process than the product (though it’s certainly rewarding to see the product unfold). It’s more about the journey than the destination (though I’d like to get where I’m going as well).

Or maybe what I mean is – it’s okay for the product to change over time or for the destination to end up being somewhere other than what I first expected.  

All this to say – maybe I’m not totally done with this blog. Maybe there are more tracks I might want to lay down. We’ll see. But I know this for sure: I'm happy to be able to look back. And grateful for all the ways I can move forward.

Every Single Street - Middleton

I’ve lived in Middleton for 11 years. I’ve been an active runner for 4 of those years. During that time, I’ve traced ruts into the ground of my preferred routes. I’ve run hundreds and hundreds of miles in the Pheasant Branch Conservancy.

More of the same often becomes stale.  

A few months ago, I happened upon a film called Every Single Street, about ultrarunner and photojournalist Rickey Gates who came up with an idea to run all the streets of San Francisco.  I was instantly intrigued. His project covered over 1,300 miles and he pushed through it in 47 days, logging double digit miles daily. 

The scale of what he did is incredible and not practical for my location or situation. But still, the idea fascinated me and seemed relevant even in a small city like mine, even for a regular runner like me.

I had, however, already signed up for my first 50K trail race, so it made more sense to focus my efforts on trail running as I trained for this event. It wasn’t long before I put the idea out of my mind.

But then the race got postponed because of the pandemic, and all at once it seemed like the right time to take on this project in my small city.

I did some research and discovered that a lot of runners who are taking on their cities use a website called City Strides that can pull in running data from apps like Strava to show you which streets in a city you have left to complete. The site uses “nodes” on individual streets as data points, which show up as red boxes on incomplete streets.

I was surprised to see how my running ruts looked all overlaid together on the map of Middleton. Each activity shows up as a purple line tracing the route run, and there was a thick band of purple over my usual routes.

There are 315 streets in Middleton, and it turns out I had traversed less than 15% of them during the thousands of miles I’ve logged as an active runner while living in this city.

It was time to change that.

I laced up my road shoes and got to work.

The first time I set out to tackle a new neighborhood, I glanced at the map on my phone and headed out. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that maps held in my head don’t stick, and my navigation skills are lacking. Once I had gone up one block and down another, then this way on a cross-street and that way on another road that curved away from the neighborhood, I discovered that it was hard to remember which streets I had already done and which streets I had only thought about doing.

I started mapping my route ahead of time, jotting street names on a small slip of paper I carried in my hand. The paper was usually crumpled and sweaty by the end of the run but was so useful in helping me complete streets in a more organized manner.

Long runs posed a problem because normally I need to take at least one pit stop over the course of hours of running. On the trails, I can just hide behind a tree, and on road routes I have a good sense of where the public bathrooms are located. Even when local parks close their bathrooms for the season, I can always use a gas station, and the Madison zoo actually has a really nice facility. There’s a pit toilet open year-round off the Picnic Point trails on campus.

I have no problem with planning routes based on bathroom location.

But now is not the time to use public bathrooms if not absolutely necessary, so I used my home as an aid station, designing routes that paused at my front door at least once over the course of the distance I needed to run. While this limited how many streets I could complete in a single run and made me weary of the two-mile radius around my house, stopping at home had its perks. Aside from the much-needed bathroom break, I could change socks if needed, drop off unnecessary layers, and refuel with foods that would be difficult to carry with me for a longer distance. It worked out pretty well.

When I had nearly completed all the streets, my years-old GPS watch started to go wonky on me, tracing routes that didn’t line up with the streets I had traversed or crashing entirely, erasing the physical evidence of the progress I had made. The lost or inaccurate data is something that might have really upset me a few months ago, but here I took it in stride. Honestly, what do I have but time? My own lightness surprised me.

There is a neighborhood at one corner of the city that I ended up running three times before it finally recorded as complete. I wondered if any of its residents noticed me as I ran, oddly, around their courts and down their dead-ends yet again.

I will admit to having prepared a mini-speech I might give should someone stop me with questions. I never needed to use it, of course.

The completed map (minus the 0.63% of nodes that fall on heavy-traffic streets that I deemed unsafe for shoulder-running) doesn’t look all that impressive – it is a small city, after all, and it only took a few weeks of effort to complete.

But the project has meant something significant to me.

Planning routes, eating up nodes like Pacman in running shoes, seeing streets and houses I never would have noticed otherwise – it all felt light and fun. A project. A game. An antidote to all this heaviness and uncertainty. It has kept me motivated during a time when motivation can be hard to find.  

Whether we like to admit it or not, motivation often has something to do with comparison.

Comparison with other people. Comparison with our past selves, even.

But running every single street in my city was a project that had nothing to do with comparison, for once. Not to anyone else. Not even with myself.

It was not about pace. It was not about finishing time. It was not about how I placed in a pack.

Instead, it was about laying down tracks over every inch of the place I live, leaving nothing concrete behind but learning that adventures don’t have to be limited to interesting locations. Adventures can be had right out my front door, within the limits of my own city.

This project turned out to be more of a process goal rather than an end-point goal. Sure, I set out to complete something. But it was more like putting together a puzzle than summiting a peak. Yes, it felt good to put that last piece in, but it was actually equally satisfying to watch the picture emerge.

Working on this project has really helped my mental space over the past few weeks. Everyone copes in different ways, and I am by no means a champion of productivity as the best solution. But for me, finding a way to apply running to a different kind of purpose has really helped.

Now, excuse me while I go chip away at the streets of Madison.

With nearly 3,000 streets, I guess I’ll be busy for a long, long time.

I wonder what I’ll see.

Hannah

I first saw Hannah at the 14-mile mark, I think. I already had my eyes on the 4-hour pace group. I knew I’d be able to catch up with them within the next mile or so, as I had started out conservatively and had been steadily turning up the pace.

I saw a girl in a turquoise jacket dart out of the port-a-potty at Mile 14, and I noticed right away how strong she looked: she wasn’t melting back into the crowd. She was going for it. I could tell she had her eye on the 4-hour group, too – probably to catch back up with them after her bathroom break. My mind singled her out as someone it might be nice to try to catch.

But when I did catch up to the 4-hour group and eventually the girl in turquoise, I discovered that she was a talker.

She was chatting it up with another runner, and I spent a mile wondering if they knew each other.

Also I was judging her.

She was too chatty, too energetic, too casual, too familiar for this introvert. I wouldn’t want to run with her after all.

Other runners got between us, and I forgot about her for awhile. But after another mile or so, she was near me again, talking with a different runner. But that gal veered off to use the bathroom, too, and soon I found myself running next to the girl in turquoise.

I think she had noticed me, too, that I wasn’t dogging it at this point, fading like a lot of others around us were doing. I was, in fact, picking up my pace -- and she was, too.

So we started running together.

I don’t remember the first words we exchanged, but it wasn’t long before she knew my name and I knew hers. She told me her first marathon was two years ago and she had walked a bit of it with a struggling friend. She was hoping to break four hours today. I told her my first marathon was six weeks ago, and while four hours was my goal, my main indicator that this race went well would be whether I’d have the wherewithal at the end to get the food bag. Last time, I told her, I was so sick and out of it that I staggered past the food bags, and my sister told me later that the orange in her food bag was the best orange she had ever eaten. So I wanted my food bag this time, I told Hannah.

“Six weeks ago? Gosh, Sarah. I’m proud of you for trying again,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I am, too.”

“Panera is doing the food bags this race,” she said.

“Oh believe me, I know,” I laughed.

We talked about what we wanted after the race. “Coffee,” she said.

“No way,” I responded. “Coke for me, please.”

“Look how fast we’re going,” Hannah said later.

“We’re killing it,” I answered.

“Mile 20, whoo hoo!” she said.

“I’m proud of us!” she said.

“You are so awesome,” I said.

“There’s a huge hill in Mile 22, did you know?”

“Ohhhh no, I didn’t. But we’ve got this.”

“Yes,” she said. “We totally do.

“Keep going, you’re doing great!” Hannah called to a runner doubled over on the side of the road.

Halfway up the huge hill she had mentioned (and it really was huge), my lungs and legs were asking to stop, but Hannah wasn’t stopping.

“I’M A BADASS WOMAN, RUNNING UP THIS HILL!” she shouted. And I marveled that she was able to force that much air through her lungs. But I didn’t walk either.

Hannah was the embodiment of hope on that run. She was positivity and sunshine. She was a helpful distraction and a personal cheerleader. She made me laugh and helped me pull the best out of myself that day. I crossed the finish line with her with a smile on my face.  (And – yes – I got my food bag.)

In the finisher’s chute, I thanked Hannah, and she thanked me.

We both rang the PR Bell.

I hugged her.

I’ll probably never see her again, but her voice is in my head.

I’m proud of you.

We have a lot of voices in our heads, yes? The loudest one is often the Inner Critic. That’s the one that tells us we’re not enough. But there’s always another voice in there, too. It’s usually quieter. But it’s there. It’s the voice of the Inner Mentor. The one who whispers encouragement. Shouts it sometimes, too, if we’re tuned in. But isn’t it true that we sometimes shut that voice down? Be quiet. You’re wrong. I don’t need you and I’m NOT enough. I’ll do this by myself or I won’t do it at all.

I’ve been working to stay in touch with my Inner Mentor more this year. Maybe I should name her Hannah.

Voices

I ran a half-marathon recently.

It was hard.

The air was extremely humid and knee pain shadowed every step. I didn’t run as fast as I had been training. I had to walk a few times. But I was able to smile and wave (albeit weakly) at my family and friends who came to cheer me on. I finished and it felt so good to sit down, pour some water down my back, and rest my head on my knees.

I knew I wasn’t at my best, but overall I was proud and happy. 13.1 miles is a long way.

A couple days after the race, I received an email link to the pictures of me the race photographer had taken around at various points around the course.

These pictures were a visual confirmation that I was not at my best.

I recoiled when I saw them.

And a familiar voice started rattling in my mind:

"Wow. I look like shit in pretty much all of these. Why didn't I even try to smile when I saw the camera guy? What's with that look on my face? Too bad my shirt was riding up the entire time. I look so pale and just done. And look at this one. I am only at mile 7. I really looked about as garbage-y as I felt. Wow. Ugh."

This self-deprecating rant is one I'm familiar with.

It’s usually one-sided dialogue. I usually just sit there listening to that berating voice, that mood-crushing voice. And I shrink.

But I've learned to make this a two-way conversation, that I actually have the option to come back at that voice with kindness:

"Look at you, how hard you were pushing, how tough that really was, how you didn't quit even though you wanted to. Look at how strong your arms look, that's definitely new. And then please look at this second picture, and don't say a word about your goofy smile. Sure, it's not one of the "official" race pictures, but let's talk about a different lens. How do you think the kids saw you? Not ugly, not skinny, not terrible, not struggling. They saw: strong, amazing, proud. And you know that's so much more important than analyzing these race pictures for every flaw you can find."

I've never been friends with pictures of myself, but I'm starting to find ways to be okay with them.

Essential

I feel like I've gotten things pared down pretty well lately, fitting into my day all the essential extras that have become important to me. I've got my morning pages (sometimes), walking the dogs (all the time), working out every day, extra writing time when I can squeeze it in between the lines of everything else, a few stolen minutes of meditation, and some pages of reading at the end of the day.

These things are largely done before the day starts or after it ends: these essential-non-essentials book end my days. Sometimes one thing or another is woven into the regular flow of the regular day, but I get a pulling sensation whenever I do this. Hand my four-year-old the iPad so I can meditate, ask the 11 year-old to babysit so I can run. I trade things, negotiate, sometimes steal time to make space for these things I need-don't-need to do. Because these non-essentials are really as essential as eating, sleeping, working: they keep me engaged, keep me from imploding. They are the bracing joints that keep my lungs inflated.

But I don't like for there to be tightness around these things. I don't like when I'm making dinner and it's taking longer than I thought because --

step 1 cook the chicken,
step 2 make the sauce,
step 3 remake the sauce because it burned in step 2,
step 4 the seasoning,
step 5 the other sauce,
step 6 roll the enchiladas,
step 7 do so many dishes,
step 8 figure out what else to feed the kids because the enchiladas are definitely too spicy too cheesy to red-saucy --
               
-- and I thought this wasn't going to take this long and the window I had for running is closing and I'm about to slam it on someone's fingers, the next person who asks for a glass of juice while I'm cooking dinner in my bare feet wanting my socks and shoes to be laced and already carrying me out the door.

That's the tightness.

It doesn't let up until I'm two miles into my run and I realize I started out too fast and I'm pushing against the ground instead of floating over it and the heat is high in my face and the blood pounds in my ears and

I notice this and --

pull in a deeper breath and --

work against this tightness like a knot: drop my shoulders, open my fists, shake my head a bit.

I look around. It's a beautiful evening.

When it's time to walk I let it be slowly. I watch my breath come down. My heart rate slows enough to wait for me. I walk back into myself. I had been hanging onto the backs of my shoes, carried along almost against my will, a shadow glued there.

When I come back in the house I'm dripping in sweat and something else too, something that's melting. It feels good running down my spine, down the backs of my arms, dripping and pooling on the floor.

I could even smile.

I could even wash the rest of the dishes without breaking any at all.

Not even in my mind.

memory lane

Snow cakes the treads on my shoes. I have no traction. I hope I don’t slip.

With Claire secured to my chest in the carrier and my coat zipped around her, my body temperature rises as I walk. I take off my hat. The cold air feels good against my neck.

The playgroup starts in ten minutes. I underestimated how long it would take me to walk two miles on these snowy roads. Claire shifts in the carrier, pressing her hands against my chest and leaning back. 

She looks up at me, blinking against the snow flurries that want to settle on her eyelashes.

“I know you want to get out,” I tell her. “But we’ll get there much faster if you just let me carry you, okay?” Claire is 14 months old. Walking is her thing.

She starts to whine. We still have a long way to go. Sweat trickles down my spine and I wish we would have stayed home. But I know getting out will be good for me. For both of us. It’s been a long year.

still practicing

The dogs are staring at me. They are willing me to take them for a walk. But I’m going to finish writing these morning pages first. It’s something I need to do. All three pages today.

Sawyer’s eyes are locked on my face like he’s influencing my thoughts with a Jedi mind trick. Harley thinks a simple Force choke will make me drop my pen.

Sorry, guys. I’m not done yet.

But they’re not settling into their waiting. Harley paws at me. Sawyer yawns at me. They pace.

The dogs are like my mind, moving around, anxious about something.

I’m working on noticing when I get distracted. I’m working on reeling my mind back into my body. My breath turns the wheel, 

   reminding, 

       grounding, 

            pulling me back in until I am close enough to focus on the scrap of light living in the center of my chest. The moment I recognize that light, it begins to expand to fill my body. It spills out into the space around me. It radiates in all directions.

I’m trying to see that light as infinite, limitless, but my mind presses up against boundaries. Solid walls it doesn’t know how to climb or dissolve. I keep practicing, though. Pushing.

I believe that at some point I’ll be able to experience the vastness of my own mind, how big I really am, how little I have to fear.

Because –

Why?

I don’t have the right words. My time is up. Three pages almost full. I’ve hit the outskirts of my imagination and my mind cascades back into itself. The spell has broken.

But I’m not done practicing.

When I walk, I see the full arc of the sky. The sun is still low, still climbing out of bed, and the light angles through the trees and warms the color of Sawyer’s fur. The dogs sniff and zig zag across the path in front of me. My lungs are full and I am right here.

seeing, looking, noticing

The wind comes from every direction. Any direction. Strands of myself are blowing out, billowing, wrapping across my eyes, getting stuck in my partially open lips.

My mouth is dry.  I am at the center of a tornado. It is loud. Chaotic. Dark. But I'm not fighting. I'm not trying to get away.

I am still, in here.
I am still in here
I am still.
I am here.

I can see
even though my eyes are stuffed with sand
because
I'm not looking with my eyes.

When I look with my eyes I see:

laundry
  dog hair
    a very patchy lawn
      lunchboxes
        coffee cups
           my computer

When I look with my Self, I see:

the grain of wood on the floorboards.
the wrinkles in my pillow,
       crumpled crisscrossing lines
           that I wake up with on my face.
the faint lines on the bottom of Rose's foot when I check for slivers.
   life lines
      lines that will stay with her for life.

This is the kind of looking that makes me feel alive, unclenches my jaw.
__

A child is crying. My blood pressure is rising. A backpack needs to be zipped, hair needs to be braided, the bus stop needs to be arrived at. But my eye falls on the bookshelf with its evenly spaced boards and the books leaning at every angle. Order and the disorder existing together. I take a breath a remember that I am here. Now.

Seeing, looking, noticing like this is a lot like dropping my fists when I'm running, opening my palms, stretching my fingers, shaking my hands out like I'm letting something go, so when I fall back into my stride there is a looseness where tension used to be, clarity where the fog had been settling low, and a few full, long breaths that go all the way to the base of my lungs before settling back into a rhythm that's comfortable again, a rhythm I don't have to think about for awhile.