A note about this post: Until this recent training cycle for my first ultra, I only occasionally ran trails. It’s been an interesting and humbling transition to slower paces and feeling new again. Nearly every time I hit the trails I get a feeling like I don’t belong out there, mucking up and disturbing the natural beauty. And at the same time, I’m so grateful to be out there. The time on the trails and with the trees is good for my soul.
I wrote what follows at Oiselle’s Bird Camp in a writing session with Lauren Fleshman. She shared a poem with the line “Take what slips in” as a prompt, and this is what came up for me. It started as an ode to an early morning where I felt like I stole a glimpse of a secret world before everyone else woke up, then morphed into reflections on my time running the wooded trails. I’m not sure how often I’ll write something like this, but I’ve added a new blog category for running odes & poems.
Takes what slips in. The steam rising off the lake, like spirits letting loose at the crack of dawn. I tip-toed to the water’s edge, not wanting to disturb the deep quiet.
There must be hidden messages, some soft magic at work lifting the white drifts. If I listened hard enough, would I hear the steam rising up, up, up? I tried to make myself still, so still.
Stillness does not come naturally, so I run.
Take what slips in. A wild heart beating, my breath out of synch. Reminders that say: you are no beast of this land.
Running the trail around the lake, this much was clear. Awkward human. Heavy steps. Clodding through, dodging rocks and roots. Each stone, a possible ankle twist. Or a mountain that once was, crumbled and scattered, making a new life where the pieces land.
I can relate to that, at least. I’ve left parts of my former selves in some of these wilder places. I go with my doubts and worries and grief into the wood, unload what I can. The trees take whatever’s on offer, break it down, filter it through leaves and limbs, into the air, the earth. I go home lighter, but somehow sturdier too.
I am myself a mountain now who won’t stumble on such small rocks.