"Not what it seems..."

I suppose some folks think I'm exercising - by god, look at all that sweat you're dripping! - when I pass them at their moderate stroll, while flinging sweat in my wake like a draft horse in his traces.
Truthfully, running is my excuse to play...soaking in the same southern summer sights of my childhood days. A time when we played outside until the fireflies flickered, ran barefoot from May to September; toughening our soft little feet that rarely went to bed entirely clean. Summer with its never-ending optimism...waking with the first robin stalking his worm, and gleefully gloating about it to the rest of the world.
I suppose it was a kind of optimism that the day's would always be that long, that playful, that full of life; summer always seemed to last a year itself...
Running is my excuse to play in, and explore the outdoor world; a world that shaped me as a child, rooted me in soil, flora & fauna and a sense of who I am that comes alive each summer when I hear the cicada's chirring or feel that dusk-time release when the sun begins to slide away, and the heat's grip, like a sigh lifts a little...Running keeps me from getting lost. Otherwise all the 'grown-up' duties - jobs & bills and every hour of the day packed from dawn to dusk, would fossilize a soul that needs to play - aired out and given time to to contemplate the tracks of ants, and patterns of wildflowers. I may wear shoes, but I'm still a barefoot girl hunting salamanders along a stream bank.

Keep an eye out for brother red-tailed hawk!

A clutch of black-eyed susans, thriving in an unexpected place.

Elaphe obsoleta - a.k.a. Black Rat Snake
http://www.herpsofnc.org/herps_of_NC/snakes/Elaobs/Ela_obs.html

After the ascent...

...the sky opens...

"Simple Gifts"

Each day the thermometer's mercury has crept higher: 95, 97, 101.
In this crucible of heat and languor nature ripens; a lush unfolding - the marriage of fecundity and decay - climaxing to an equinoctial solstice.

I take to the woods with anticipation; never has the forest been so alive. 

Yesterday I chanced upon a Oxydendrum arboreum / known as a Sourwood, Lilly-of-the-Valley or Sorrel Tree. Exquisite creamy, bell-like flowers, dripping decadence at the end of each branch. If a sourwood tree's branches are arms, her sleeves of green are edged with ivory tassels.

Going a little deeper into the woods, I scrambled off the path and into a brambled mess for I'd seen the winking black-eyed berry.

***

Picking blackberries must be a tactful conversation

of gloved hands. Otherwise your fingers will bleed

the berries' purple tongue; otherwise the thorns

will pierce your own blank skin. Best to be on the safe side,

the outside of the bush. Inside might lurk

nests of yellowjackets; rabid bats; other,

larger hands on the same search.

The flavour is its own reward, like kissing the whole world

at once, rivers, willows, bugs and all, until your swollen

lips tingle. It's like waking up

to discover the language you used to speak

is gibberish, and you have never really

loved. But this does not matter because you have

married this fruit, mellifluous, brutal, and ripe.

-Stephanie Bolster

***

Later driving, I pull over on the shoulder of the highway to pick a bouquet of Daucus Carota / Queen Anne's lace with my daughter. This 'wildflower/weed' is not particular to cultivated gardens alone; she can be found holding her lacy head high along the fringes of ditches, if not, coyly weaving around & softening the metallic guardrail's glare.

I've read of jams made with Queen Anne's lace - translucent jars revealing kaleidoscope blossoms sealed in time. 

***

In three day's time, we'll reach the summer solstice. In this peak season of simple gifts, running becomes a treasure hunt - my pace has slowed down as the temperature's risen, and perhaps that really is just as nature intends. 

"Like a Thunderbolt She Falls"

I was 12, and something grabbed me in Lord Alfred Tennyson's Eagle poem; the language is sensory food: crooked hands, azure world, wrinkled sea - delicious!

***

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.

***

Yesterday, the last line ran through my mind while I brushed off grit & leaves sticking to sweaty skin, and tried to stanch the blood running into my sock. Two scraped knees, an abraded thigh, and banged up forearms. But no broken bones; grateful!

Friends note I'd be safer running with an air-bag, or at least on sidewalks. 

Hard to assure them that the terrain doesn't trip me; okay, it was a branch that hooked my right foot mid-flight - but mostly it's a simple matter of forgetting I cannot fly, forgetting that my feet are earth bound. 

So for a time I will be more cautious when running steep trails, I'll keep my eyes locked on the terrain within a couple of yards, I'll slow down on a steep descent, I'll even stop skipping over rocks, and actually ensure I can set my foot down without twisting an ankle - I will. But I can't promise that it won't happen again, because when I'm in that moment of flight - somewhere between heaven & earth - running without any thought or care - movement, breath, sky, trees, grass - legs becoming inhales & exhales, soaring in my mind's eye - well, I can't promise I'll remember there's ground below.

I'll heal these scraped knees & watch where my feet land because my mind will remind me of what it feels like to fall when you're all grown up - ouch; however, the next time I forget I've no wings - except those in my heart - the skin will be a little tougher, and I'll laugh at the exhilaration of flying - if only in that split second before like a thunderbolt I fall.

"The Work of the World"

This is the second year I've joined Police Officers from Carrboro, UNC Campus, and Chapel Hill in carrying the "torch" from Orange County to Durham County, NC. 

North Carolina's Law Enforcement Torch Run for Special Olympics is now in its 33rd year, and more than $17 million have been raised for Special Olympics.

These torch runs are a unique experience bringing together men & women who put their lives on the line every day, and also symbolically unifies communities across the state, as the torch is passed & carried on.
For me, it's an opportunity to support the local police department I work for. And it's an honor to run with this fierce group of officers who have taught me what service is.
I work behind the scenes at a desk, supporting their work. I witness the human condition at its lowest from a distance; the officers witness it hands-on daily - they are asked to fix it, help it, mitigate it.
The torch run is a respite, a bit of hope in the common rhythm.

This past Wednesday morning just after 9am, with the temperature creeping up towards the 90's, we gathered, the flame was lit and raised - thus began our 7.1 miles run from the Carrboro Plaza Shopping Center on Hwy 54, through downtown Carrboro & Chapel Hill, up 15-501 and across I-40 to where I job would end with the passing of the pass torch to the Durham Police Department.

Flanked by NC State Troopers, and Police Cars, we ran in formation; some people waved from the sidewalk & curbs, others gaped, but we just kept running; we had a job to do.

***

I want to be with people who submerge

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest

and work in a row and pass the bags along,

who stand in the line and haul in their places,

who are not parlor generals and field deserters

but move in a common rhythm

when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.

But the thing worth doing well done

has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.

Greek amphoras for wine or oil,

Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums

but you know they were made to be used.

The pitcher cries for water to carry

and a person for work that is real.

-Marge Piercy