"A tree that fills the span of a man's arms grows from a downy tip; A terrace nine stories high from handfuls of earth; A journey of a thousand miles from beneath ones feet."

-Lao-Tzu

After three months of training and anticipation, tomorrow morning I race. This past week has been challenging due to a lingering bronchitis virus. Breathing compromised, I've had to take it one day at a time all week...I am a little worried about how well this half-marathon will go, but I know that if I let go, surrender and accept - tomorrow's run will provide / instruct / and inspire me with what I need for that moment /this moment now.

Today, I ran 5.6 miles along the Mountain to Sea Trail on the Blue Ridge Parkway; just a leg stretcher.

I'm fascinated by the variety in native plants just 3.5 hours away from my usual running habitats.

Came across the Downy Rattlesnake Plantain, not a plant but an orchid. 

The only "rattlesnake" I don't mind crossing my trail path!

I cut my running teeth on the trails that border, and cross the Botanical Gardens in Chapel Hill. I thought I knew every inch of trail, but today I took an unmarked turn -  down the ridge - along Morgan Creek, and deep into the woods to find a breathtaking detour...the lighting was soft, the sun gentle, and a breeze stirred the leaves. All along the way signs of spring unfurling, waking, being reborn. I chanced upon a field of daffodils off the main path.

The trail abruptly ended at Morgan Creek, but an irrigation pipe was broad enough to do a bit of tight-rope walking, and on the other side another mile of forest magic.

It's rained most of the past week, and the low lying trails are still a mushy quagmire...not that mud every deterred this runner! Can't help but pull out e.e. cummings' poem this time of year..next time you land in a mud puddle up to your laces embrace your "mud-luscious" runner self, and bask in this "puddle-wonderful" springtime.

*****

in Just-

spring          

when the world is mud-

luscious

...it's

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

-e.e. cummings

Printing Peace

When you run, do you think about the ground beneath your feet? Really think about the earth...not just watching for a curb, rock, root, pile of slippery leaves, or pothole, but the earth as a living organism sending up energy as your feet touch down.

In Thich Nhat Hanh's book Being Peace, he writes, 

"We have to walk in a way that we only print peace and serenity on Earth."

Run in a way so that each step prints peace and serenity ... 

Getting excited...

Small Things with Great Love

Thursday night, winter gave one last gasp and sleet and ice fell; in the morning, the trees were bent under a burden of millions of icy crystals.

All day Friday, the rain fell hard, and the skies remained leaden and heavy.

I determined I would run in the forest as long as I could endure the rain and cold, and promised myself, that the initial discomfort would be worth the effort.

It's challenging to run on trails that are slick with rain, but the forest canopy filters the heavy raindrops, and buffers against the wind. 

I chose the trails in Briar Chapel, close to home, and the hot shower I would need after I ran. I noticed Briar Creek was swollen and had flooded its banks, and carefully chose my route around the high waters encroaching upon the low-land trails.

I witnessed a heron, close to five feet high, standing as a sentry at the edge of the flooded marshland. Keenly he watched me, as I ran by. I ran along the roads, then threw caution to the wind, and chose the trails into the woods, I needed to commune with the trees. The narrow hiking path was ankle deep in rushing puddles most of the way, and my shoes filled with rain and mud splattered up to my thighs. Around a bend, I heard the twittering of a Tufted Tit Mouse, busily winging his way through the foliage. A small Golden Finch, was resting near the trail, his wings sopping wet, and I worried for him, but when I approached, he took wing, and I wished him well, as I ran on. Deeper into the woods I traveled where the hard woods bent by wind, rustled their branches and creaked as limbs rubbed against neighboring trees. A sound that sounds like ice cracking.

A beautiful hickory lay toppled across the path, roots exposed and naked, as it leaned into the arms of an oak that had stood against its falling. A pine blocked the path, anothre great tree, now uprooted and vulnerable.

Slivers of ice clung to the leaves, and rocks, and as I left the trail head and returned back to my car, I found a little square of thick card stock with writing nestled in the sopping pile of leaves. I put it in my pocket, and kept going, relishing my wild and beautiful run. I'd witnessed the forest bruised and resilient, I had communed with it, shared its story, and celebrated its strength and continual growth and losses.

Once home, I took out the soggy tile I'd found and discovered it unfolded to reveal a poem and drawing in ink. 

"Not all of us can do great things, but we can do small things with great love." - Mother Teresa

The artists signature gave me a clue for finding out more; Angela Gage resides in Ohio. The back of the card states: "You have found an artistic piece of human kindness...Enjoy!" crediting The Tangled Kindness Project: http://tangledkindnessproject.blogspot.com/

I will find another trail to leave this tile of human kindness on for a runner or hiker to discover and marvel at the serendipity of being at the right place, at the right time.

How this tile made it to Pittsboro, North Carolina, from Ohio, I'm not sure. But it's a simple reminder of our interconnectedness and what is possible when we step out of our comfort zone, and embrace the storm. 

Do you smile?

"Life is both dreadful and wonderful...

To meditate well, we have to smile a lot.

Breathing in, I calm my body.

Breathing out, I smile.

Dwelling in the present moment.

I know this is a wonderful moment."

-Thich Nhat Hanh

Running is not easy. There are good days, and bad days. Days when your legs feel like wings, and others when they feel heavy and earth bound.

When I feel earth bound and heavy, I focus on my breathing, my inhale to calm - yes, this is hard, and I feel tired, but it will get easier - and with my exhale, smile.

I smile when a squirrel darts across the trail ahead, and flicks his tail before scurrying up an oak.

I smile when a bluebird flashes through the forest in undulating grace.

I smile when I've reached the crest of a winding ridge, and below me imprinted in the forest floor the silvery ribbon of a stream or river.

I smile when I see the yellow-green moss clinging to rocks I'm running across and leaping over.

I smile at the roots of hardwoods that seem like fingers holding fast to soil.

I smile when I come to a steep hill, and I dig down deep and throw my mind and body over it's precipice. 

I smile when my shoulders relax, and my body is straight, and my lungs expand and drink in the fragrance of pine trees after rain. 

I smile when the croaks of frogs in a marshy lowland fill my ears with cacophonous melodies. 

I smile when the red-tailed hawk flies across my vision, and I follow her determined trajectory across the sky and out of sight.

I smile because I am, in this present moment, nothing more than another creature of the woods.

Intimacy With The Hill

"This mountain of release is such that the 

ascent's most painful at the start, below;

the more you rise, the milder it will be.

And when the slope feels gentle to the point that

climbing up a sheer rock is effortless

as though you were gliding downstream in a boat,

then you will have arrived where this path ends."

-Dante

As a beginner, I dreaded hills and inclines. Faced them grimly as if they had to be conquered.

Each hill a test - I resisted them.

I've learned the truth of nonresistance.

Of surrendering to the hill.

Is there anything sweeter than reaching that crest and feeling your body straighten and your lungs expand and everything below sweet for what was earned on the incline?

Before I begin the ascent I mentally check my posture, my form. No hunching or straining in the upper body, staying straight with chest wide open and shoulders down. As I lean into the hill, I shorten stride and keep a steady cadence, no force nor putting all my weight on my toes - I continue to land in the middle, and making contact with the ground, I swing arms forward/and up.

Mentally, I visualize being pulled forward up and over and into the descent below. 

If you can do this, you will become intimate with the hill. 

With my intentions clear, my body follows, and sometimes I forget I'm running uphill - moments of reaching a crest and feeling I have "arrived where this path ends."

Today, I ran 12.75 miles, and counted 25 hills - hills that reminded me to empty my mind, and be one with the earth's curvature.