One year in: an ode to running

Preface: Once in a while when something's important, I gotta write it out. (Bear with me and the ensuing emotional ramble. Veering from the creative for this one).

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It was one year ago, on a shitty Saturday night at 2am, that I impulsively signed up to run the 2012 NYC Marathon in honor of my mom's battle with hodgkins lymphoma (happy to report she's been in remission for about a decade at this point). I had never run a day before in my life, but I knew I needed something to lift me out of some shit I was dealing with. My mom had been a runner for years before her diagnosis, and I have significant memories of her always being outside and training with her friends around Missoula. I was desperate for a change, and inspired by my mother, I dove head-first into the unknown.

 

Despite not seeing my efforts come to full fruition, the real result of this endeavor has been much more profound. I'm totally hooked on this high. I feel, for the first time, that something has helped fill the void that dance left in my life. It's also been the greatest form of therapy. I've found such confidence and mental clarity from this exercise. Putting in work, seeing tangible results in both my body and in numbers/miles. Running has been a therapeutic way to push myself both physically and mentally, and has given me new perspective and brought me back to what feels like the part of myself I lost when I lost dance. While I once struggled with body image issues, running has given me new perspective. It's brought me to some of the greatest people I've ever met, made me part of a f-cking amazing community and given me a new way to socialize. Despite having lived in this city for 7 years, I've gotten to know ny better in the past year than the previous six, all because of running and the exploration that inevitably goes hand in hand with exploring new routes. The creativity boost has been exhilarating, finding the points where visual ease meet function and self-expression. Oh, and I have a whole new appreciation for bacon, oh ma gawd.

 

I'm totally hooked and entirely grateful.

Do what makes you happy.

 

With peace and love,

 

Lindsay A-N

 

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(The dancer in me still finds solace in music. Sometimes, the best way for me to find the words is by surrendering to a sound. This is that sound, and those are the words. Enjoy)

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three days from 99 is a long time to live. this man, this wild wild west man, was the toughest man i knew. he'd survived more harsh times than my fair hands will probably ever know. but not everything was difficult. he jumped boxcars to chicago, and rode to the top of the space needle everyday. was hit by a car three times, and walked to tell the tale. sturggle, and in turn, triumph were his greatest pursuits. never rode the elevator, only eight stories tall. the photos, the booze. i went grocery shopping for him once, i got him sugar coated doughnuts and milk, and dad bought him bananas just to twist his arm. there was a theater down the road, and every time we drove past we'd pull in and pretend we had tickets. "ta' hell wit ya!" was the response to this innocent mischief.


once, he was Perkins in the Anaconda County jail. gramps always said it with the most sneaky smirk. bohunk style. brother style.

every holiday there was football and bullshit. always bullshit, thats what norkies do, ya know. after years longer than my lifetime, i was the first to sleep on his couch. pulled it out, dust went a'flyin. that night, bedtime 9:30, i had springs stuck in my back but it didn' matter, cuz i was on that eighth floor high and had a morning of eggs and pancakes awaiting down the block. black coffee.

sugar talking waitresses. that was his flair.

as he got older, he kept telling us the tale about that time in anaconda when he was a kid, how everyone gathered around and gave that funeral to the neighborhood dog. every kid in anaconda was there. down by the river. flowin'. funeral. flowers.

lamb and raisins was his preference, except that time we tricked him into eatin'em. never did tell him but just sat back and watched. george told me once that johnny ate lamb that mammie cooked without knowing. he'd never admit it. kuma anna spoiled that man down to her last day. we make povitica now in their honor, an all-day event to commemorate our ancestors who slaved for their food and picked dandelions by the ditch.


she was a saint, and so was he.
lakanuch.

Wall Street men always stand the same way on the downtown 4.
//
You can tell the most about a person's life by looking at their hands.

he certainly made for a very convenient king, i thought. there were whispers and looks and all that passed was some petty dialogue. but it was fun. there were bodies intertwined and a stench that wafted through the place, but it made for an atmosphere of pure abandon and reminded us of the dwindling days of our reckless youth. we put together puzzle pieces and made a sky of blue that shone above our mountainous lake. painted picnic tables and speeding cars down curvy roads was how we strung the two together, a life-line that connected a reality to a fantasy. several days, i thought how lucky this all was. free-spirited whims molded warm breezes that tickled my spine, and i thought about making a pie, or finding one at the very least. in the meantime, i did have a very agreeable tan line.

there were things about flash rain storms that i loved, and things that i didn't. those that i didn't belonged to the outside world, the commuting world, where sudden bursts of rain meant jeans turned darker shades and soggy shoes. but the things i did love belonged to the inside world, to the world that existed within the walls of my tiny manhattan apartment. the sudden bursts of spring time rain meant warm breezes that misted in through my open windows. the thing about it was, that in the spring, rain storms meant a warm sensation, a calm and balmy feeling ... but you see, in the winter, rain storms meant chill to the bone, to the marrow, to the very core. but the spring invited a nice warmth that soothed a winter body and warmed a five-month cold soul. i invited it with open arms. in fact the sudden flash rain storms dispersed throughout the day meant that i felt like i was at sea in my tiny manhattan apartment, my fire-escape lead to the outside world, which i dare not enter. instead, i chose to remain in my ship, floating and enjoying the subtly warm and sensual breeze. in my manhattan boat, the rain meant a romantic lazy morning that i enjoyed while my white curtains swayed in the breeze and the rain pitter-pattered on the pavement outside cleansing it from the weeks commuters and canine trotters. in summer, this sea time would be equally pleasurable, but in a different manner, bringing hot sweaty bodies, swimming bodies, and then i wouldn't mind walking in the rain. but this spring morning brought me to the sensual sea, with sudden jolts of lighting and thunder combo, which i enjoyed in a je ne sais quois sort of way from the comfort of the boat that was my 80th street apartment.

...

sometimes it's poetic injustice and we just gotta put soap on our heels and slide into eternity.

some oxfords made my toes tip-tap and i twirled into oblivion... for you see, there was always movement of some sort.

more than anything i'd say it was a migration eastward that made my heart pitter-patter

and the sound of ambiguous cigarette-smokers and ocean waves was all i ever could hear

we made home-made booze in our basement and had orange trees for hair.

my blood turned to blue and that girl had a nice nose ring, and wouldn't she make for a great judge of humanity?

all i ever could think about was getting out and flying and how it would be fun to learn to balance moonbeams on my finger tips.

.

what was so amazing about this particular day was the way the sky turned white. the wind made things blur together and all i wanted was the tall dark stranger that was as familiar as my right elbow. the alternative was sitting next to me and he was far from my stranger. he was rude and and reminded me of something slimy like a toad. the only thing that made sense was my stranger who lived in a faraway land, i was certain of it. the snow fell from the sky and suspended time, while the crowd roared below. i looked up and thought for a moment of stars and deserts past, then i leaped into the sky where time dissolved and snow fell like moon dust. as i raced into the white-void, i took one last glance below at the brown and green earth where i had just been seated amongst the masses, and then whisked my gaze to the stars and existed with the snow. and it was here that my stranger waited for me. he was just as i had remembered him those few years ago. that quite, pensive gaze. he waltzed while he stood still and yet had no particular fluidity to him. it was a contraction, you see, that only made sense once witnessed. but he was perfect in this particular way, for in the end it could only leave a feeling of confusion at what had just been witnessed. a rare person indeed. but i couldn't let go. and i'm not sure i ever would. so i stayed suspended in this void, this void of colorless time suspension. and we talked for quite a long while. we talked about the past. then the present. but mostly we decided to move ourselves to the abstract, for it was here that we could mold space as if clay. as we floated and talked and molded, the reality of a world of compassion engulfed us and the time suspension suddenly shattered and i fell abruptly back to earth with the rest of the snow, where time quickly caught up with me and instantly i felt cold.