July 2023

July 2023 - Random Musings

I’ve been here before. The days that you are deep in it and it smothers you from every angle. It’s impossible to believe that you will ever surface. And then slowly you see the sliver of light and there is hope that you will escape the darkness. Eventually, you’ll float along the surface, waiting for it to come grab you again and pull you under. Part of you will miss the struggle, wondering how to go about life with this thing forever etched in your memory. 

It’ll feel too forced at first. But you hope that one day, you’ll be able to tuck it away and feel so far removed from it that you don’t feel tempted to be pulled again with the same intensity. As the months trickle by, it does feel a bit easier. The memories slowly losing details and intensity over time. 

_________

They were deep in the pain cave, their eyes sunken from the effort, blinking through the driving rain. There is a connection of endurance, our spirits intertwined by this innate thing that drives us to see what our bodies can handle. As much as I enjoy a warmed, flaky croissant and thousand thread count sheets, I also am drawn to scraping my soul by moving my body when everything is screaming to stop. 

And I wonder just how much darkness you can handle. I wonder how much darkness I can handle. 

Maybe there are the good ones out there who have fewer demons to battle. Maybe they are able to separate their imperfections from sport and are driven by goals rather than punishment. When things are good, I think it's easier for me to walk away from the pain. 

_________

It’s our discomfort that connects us. The pain of sore feet, blistered skin, legs cramping running downhill, and lungs exploding climbing uphill. For all but a few at the top of the sport, there is no material benefit. Everyone exclaims never again and then they find themselves on a starting line, a Groundhog Day of Saturdays with no one but themselves to blame. 

For those that don’t run, they cannot fathom the distance covered on feet. It seems unreal that people not only want to do this, but they pay for it, repeatedly.

I sometimes stare at a map and wonder how I ran that far. I know my body did it, but it seems unreal that it can.  

_______

I waited for the tears to meet the raindrops. As the sky opened up, I felt vulnerable with my emotions. They surfaced briefly, the grief and anger and sadness all taking their turns, trying to push their way out. I was tired and dehydrated to start and drug myself through the warm, thick humidity. Nothing about this felt easy except the familiarity of being uncomfortable. 

Uncomfortable with my thoughts. Uncomfortable with my movement. Running from the discomfort. Running through the discomfort. Running home to the discomfort.

_______

I write about the same things over and over. Worrying about the future that I cannot predict. Feeling helpless to make things any better now and feeling even less helpless to make them better as we transgress through these stages. I am often at a standstill. The toilet is leaking, albeit extremely slowly. And my immediate reaction is to just simply walk away from it. To acknowledge it would require me to take action. 

I don’t want to take action. I’m tired of taking action. 

All the things that I must keep track of swirl about in my brain. I try to see that I’m on the fortunate side of things. But is it so wrong to wish that the dishwasher is loaded the wrong way or the lawn mowed a few days later than I wanted?

I am standing in the garage, sweat dripping off my nose and splattering onto the concrete floor. The evening is still oppressively warm. I cut a piece of trimmer string and it is way too long. I work it carefully around the cylinder, hoping that I don’t lose my grip and forcing me to restart. Part of me wishes that this is the last time that I ever have to follow through with this mundane chore. But a part of me feels a certain sense of sadness that if I stop doing even the things I loathe, will it be because I am no longer able to do them myself? 

I forget the destruction of my legs each summer. They were first covered in patches of poison ivy, the wounds fading to pink splotches over a few weeks. As they were almost cleared, I tumbled over nothing along the cruisiest stretch between Lance Creek and Jarrard Gap. My knee was freshly scraped and faint bruises covered the length of my quadricep. I somehow managed to avoid sunburn in the high elevations of the desert, but back at home, the unkempt Duncan Ridge Trail obliterated any exposed skin. A yellow jacket managed to pierce my left calf and 24 hours later, my entire lower leg swelled.

So when I finally restrung the trimmer and stood behind it bare-legged, I didn’t think twice about it slicing my ankles and shins. They were already beyond repair.

The heat is troublesome enough to run in the summer, but I forget all the other things I hate about this time of year. The extra chores that must be done to maintain the yard. The mental health walks that leave me sweating just 5 minutes in. Even with the air conditioning cranked low, it still feels hard to sleep. 

__________

Alive.

Awoken.

I was a volcano. 

Too many years had passed.

Instead of slowly seeping out.

I erupted.

You didn’t know how it would chase you.

How it would snake around your ankles.

The ash in your every breath.

I’m smoldering now, fire waiting to be stoked.

Will you idle with my soot coating your insides?

I could hurt you.

Are you afraid I will fool you twice?

__________

I imagine that your summers are idyllic. Dripping ice cream cones, shrieking laughter on a worn out dock, and golden hours splashed with lazy sunshine. It's hard to get there; packing up the car and closing up loose ends at work and at home. The kids are fighting ruthlessly in the backseat and it feels as though you're headed to hell rather than paradise.

But as soon as the brackish air reaches your nostrils, there is a sigh of relief. The days are to be spent without an agenda, save for the meals. And even those are relaxed affairs. Hot dogs, sandwiches, and bags and bags of chips. The sun and water makes everyone exhausted and the littlest ones often fall asleep before they make it to the table. Everyone sleeps well with the creaky fans cooling their warmed skin, night after night. 

Even on the days it rains, it manages to be a wholesome afternoon with board games, puzzles, and naps. It's a time to read unremarkable paperbacks while curled up on a cozy chair on the screened porch. No one seems to miss their phones, tablets, or TVs. The adults scold the children for this at home, but it's often them that need the break.

There is sand in everything and the laundry is piling up, but no one seems to mind the mess. You crack open crabs on newspapers with a towel wrapped around your waist. Glasses sweat and leave puddles wherever they are placed. By the end of the week, your feet are a little more tough and your soul a little more tender.