I’m running after work. I run or ride every day at 5. (It’s the only way I stay sane in desk job.) The sun is shining, warm, though falling fast. Shadows creep and fields glow, golden. But as my feet hit the pavement, my mind is miles away — Dr. Haluska is gone, and gone far too soon. How many years do I have left? What will I do with them? . . .
Suddenly, I glance left. I gasp at the glorious scene. It’s a mad world we live in, but there is always beauty to be seen.
I could go on.
With obesity rates skyrocketing in the United States, many people are asking, “Why?” Why are we fatter now than, say, fifty years ago?
Some look to fast food chains for their answer. “It’s all your fault!” they like to say. “You’re too cheap, and you taste too good!” Others blame more healthful foods. “It’s all your fault!” they’re apt to say. “You’re too expensive, and you taste like wood!” Some others blame traffic and a commuter lifestyle. “You take too long!” they often say. “You crawl along; you’re in my way!” And, still others, the weather. “By gosh, it’s hot. Too hot to go; I guess I’ll stay . . .”
Occasionally a bright-eyed individual will examine their use of time throughout the day. They walk when they could drive, move when they could sit. They actually enjoy exercise — or, at least they try to find ways to exercise that they enjoy. And they put their phones down. And turn off the TV. And have real conversations. And go outside.
They see more. And breathe more. And feel more. And live more.
Our bodies were made to move. When we render them stationary — be it by a desk job, TV addiction, video game, social media, or what have you — we compromise them, and our minds, and our lives.
One of my favorite poems by William Wordsworth sums up my thoughts well:
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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After writing about writer’s block the other day, I did my usual. I cleaned my apartment (surprise, surprise), did laundry, responded to emails, hung out with Jon, and decided to “man up” and get over my dislike for riding in the city. I took off on my bike (Jon wanted to go for a run instead) and rode thirty miles up the Berkeley hills — to here.
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View from Grizzly Peak
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On the backside of the mountain, I saw these guys:
Looking at San Pablo Reservoir. California has happy cows!
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And then on my run down by the water last night, I saw this:
The Bay
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Nature really does have it, folks.
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I’m waiting in line at the drive-thru at Starbucks the other day. It’s a beautiful evening and, after rolling down my window and turning off the radio to order, I don’t bother to roll the window back up or turn on the radio. My mind is a million miles away, but, suddenly, I hear sounds. Zweet-zweet-zweet! I look up. Birds are flitting to and from nests built into the STARBUCKS sign. Zweet-zweet! And then . . . Buzzzzzz. A bumblebee meanders near my window as a soft breeze creeps into my car and tousles my hair.
Suddenly, I know: Everything’s going to be all right . . .
Except, Honk!! Oh sh-t! What happened to the line?!
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“The earth has music for those who listen.”
― George Santayana
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If songs of old,
our futures told,
would all our dreams be dying?
Would in the mist,
our lovers kissed,
we only be goodbying? . . .
Would there in space,
be time and place,
for fighting and for flying? . . .
Or would it be,
on easy sea,
that all we are is sighing?
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If ancient lore
and tales of yore
would tell me where I’m going —
I’d tell them back
to hold their flack:
This girl will keep on flowing.
For dreams of old
our futures hold,
what ever keeps us growing.
Uncertainty’s
a friend, you see,
and far better than knowing.
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For an audio recording of this poem, click here:
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Emerald Bay at Lake Tahoe on January 3. This place should be BURIED in snow.
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There’s a story often told about the Eskimos. In the dead of winter, when out hunting caribou, hunters plant blood-covered knives blade up in the snow around their camp at night. The blood on the knives attracts wolves who, rather than attack the camp as they would have, lick the blades excitedly, thus cutting their tongues. The wolves are so excited about the blood, however, that they ignore their pain and go on licking, not realizing that they’re drinking their own blood . . .
The truth is, this story isn’t true (Google it if you don’t believe me), but there’s a lot of truth in it — at least in parallel. I am thinking particularly of the drought in California. Continue reading
Truth is, I’m struggling.
I’m reaching and falling.
I’m hemming and hawing.
I’m trying and failing.
I’m rowing, now bailing.
Stop!
Another day.
— from my poem “Writer’s Block“
My mind has been going a million miles an hour in a hundred different directions lately, and it’s making writing difficult. I’ve been working on a new poem (which I love) for the past several days, but I’m having a hard time finishing it. What am I trying to say? It’s a question I haven’t been able to answer . . . Continue reading
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I’m riding my bike beneath the ink sky. The air is cool and my jacket, thin. I shiver. Glancing up, I see dust and glitter — the Milky Way. I turn off my headlight and pedal in darkness. Brighter this way.
Suddenly, I see him. To the east, just coming up over the top of a hill — Orion!
I squeal.
Fall is coming. Continue reading
Empty streets, and she awake,
the one who walks alone.
She will not the world forsake,
and she’ll do it on her own.
There’s a love, it is an ache —
it’s all she’s ever known.
While her love the world did take,
to her, it’s never shown.
Not to say the world’s a rake,
or one she would disown.
But the moonlight makes her quake —
it’s here her heart is flown. Continue reading
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