Chatting with the Postmasters

I had the pleasure of speaking with Audrey and Lacy of The Postmasters Podcast about writing, running, and writers' workshops. Our conversation was a bit of a kick in my own pants to get back to my neglected novel. If you know me or read this blog, you know I've been in a state of transition lately. I'm so ready to dive back into my writing.

Subscribe to this podcast on iTunes, or check out their website. The episode featuring yours truly airs December 2. In the meantime, catch up on all the other episodes to date. You won't be disappointed!

Poiema

I have been thinking about this idea of poíēma (ποίηµα) for a few years. It’s one of my favorite Koine Greek words, meaning a work, something that has been made, crafted, fashioned. It appears in the New Testament twice, first referring to all of creation: “God’s eternal power and divine nature have been clearly observed in what God has made;” and also referring to humankind: “We are God’s masterpiece.” If you hadn’t guessed already, it’s the word from which we get our word poem.

My husband got me this Etsy bracelet, and if I ever get a tattoo, this is what I want stamped on my skin forever, as a reminder to myself about myself, other people, and everything around me: ποίηµα.

“So every day

I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth 
of the ideas of God,

one of which was you.” 
― Mary Oliver

Yesterday I followed my nephew, with his wife and five-month-old daughter watching, as he ran the Boston Marathon. I tracked his bib number online, and I watched the livefeed of the elite runners, those men and women who ran 26.2 miles in just over two hours. Nate finished in 2:47:51, which amazes me. I'm so proud. poíēma

My heart was in Boston already, for many reasons.

Others have written beautiful words, like here and here, about yesterday’s marathon, about Boston, about the explosions and the human spirit. The glimpses of poíēma in spite of awful circumstances.

I think of Anne Lamott’s three prayers: Help, Thanks, Wow. I’d tuned in at 3:00 to find out about the Pulitzer Prize announcements but instead I saw the first few tweets about the explosions in Boston. Minutes passed and more tweets picked up the news, links posted, pictures, stories. I tried to get in touch with Nate’s wife. More minutes passed; friends who’d read my posts about him running checked in with me: “Have you heard from him yet?” HELP

My brother talked to Nate’s wife, they were fine. THANKS

And yet, HELP.

And yet, WOW. There were helpers, there was mercy. There is still help needed, still mercy needed.

ποίηµα poíēma

It is a constant struggle to keep my heart open. Some days easier than others. Yesterday, I wanted to be angry, yes, at the person who set explosives at the finish line. But even more at people who would conjecture, who would joke, who would cast blame, who would from their own pain and fear lash out unjustly.

Yesterday felt personal. Even if I hadn’t had a family member in the race. I’m a runner. I’ve been in a marathon and I know what the finish line is supposed to feel like. A celebration of life, of commitment, of family and community. For someone to intentionally ruin that… I have no words.

Yesterday felt personal. I’ve spent lots of time in Boston, most recently at a big writing conference (AWP). From the convention center one month ago, I watched people throng a snowy and beautiful Boylston Street, and I myself trudged across Boylston to a restaurant. Before that, I attended five 10-day residencies in Cambridge and fell in love with the neighborhoods of Boston. Watching the marathon made me feel nostalgic for one of my favorite cities. To have that city and that street that holds recent memories marred makes me sorrowful.

It makes me wonder whether the person or persons who inflicted this pain are actually poíēma. How could they possibly? Why would someone? Why? It is ugly and hateful and evil. Not poíēma, not ποίηµα.

Nine months ago, my husband’s cousin was killed defending his girlfriend in the Aurora theater shootings. For that tragedy we have a face, a guilty party, to throw our grief and anger upon. But somehow back then, I forced myself to see his hurt, to imagine what went wrong, went wrong, in his life to glaze him over. He is a marred poem; someone or something evil redacted what was supposed to be, creating evil instead of poíēma.

When the pain gets personal, it turns my thoughts and prayers to the people around the world who face the possibility of violence like this every day. It shouldn’t be like this. Yesterday shocks us because we aren’t inured to the danger and the risk of violence. Some are. It shouldn’t be.

HELP.

I want to close my heart off sometimes, to rail in anger against the people who offend me and the ones I love. Against people whose words are small and beliefs tear apart rather than heal. Against those who hurt through ignorance and pride. Against those who would set out with intent to kill.

It is a bitter fight not to be marred or to mar.

To remain a poíēma. To see the poíēma in everyone. To grieve lost poíēma. To keep my heart open and my mouth quiet. To keep looking. 

Keep looking.

This is my evening

Home alone. Improvised ratatouille (what's ratatouille if not improvised?). Laura Van den Berg's collection which just arrived from Powell's. The latest Letters in the Mail I have yet to read. And catching up on writing blogs.

The trailer for the new Wuthering Heights movie coming soon to the US. (With the Mumford & Sons song, this trailer gave me chills, in the best way.)

An interesting, synchronistic blog post over at Ploughshares about writing/running/marathoning/novel-ing.

A quiet, cool night to sit in my back yard and listen. Last night I heard coyotes howl. It's nice to feel a sense of wildness even on my patio slab in the middle of suburbia.

sometimes it's easier to train for a marathon than to write

OK, I'm going public. I'm in the third week of a marathon training program.

True, the most I've ever done is a 5K, and I've only been running off and on for three years. But I like to set my goals high.

Before this my motivation to run was non-committal. I'd take weeks off, then have a good first run back, but if I ran again within a few days, I'd struggle through it. So I'd take another week off or more. I mean, it's no secret that to improve or at least stay steady in running you have to be consistent. So now I have a training program that emails me the morning of, letting me know if it's a rest day, a run day (and what kind of run), or a cross-training day. Three days a week I'm up early, trying to get in a run before the sun makes it over the trees and houses to mock my attempts.

Big surprise last week when I ran for an hour straight for the first time  —  and felt great! I kept my pace really slow so I wouldn't die. But still. Each time I've run, I've been rewarded with the feeling of having improved, gotten stronger, been more disciplined. As opposed to the times when I ran sporadically: when at best I got some much needed exercise, but I'd be sore the next day, not to mention feeling headachy and queasy during the run. Being consistent makes a big difference.

Come November, I still might not be a great marathoner. But one day I will be able to say I ran a marathon. Maybe I'll run more than one, and each time I'll get better.

Can you smell the parallel to writing yet?

corrugated tin clouds, or a perfect day

High a.m. clouds like corrugated tin precede rain. Rain comes, goes, and with it the clouds and with it the heat. Perfect powder sky running above me into the west as I run east, home.

running with blinders

After a spotty winter's season, I just started joining my husband about every other day for a short 2.5 to 4 mile run. He's run all winter because he has a gym available at work, and on top of that, he's just faster than I am. But bless his heart, he's run at my pace with me.

So on one of our runs this week, I felt my legs start to drag early on. I saw myself slow down, as measured by the passing mailboxes. I looked ahead at the long climb coming up, and I wanted to quit. My breaths became sharp and wheezy. Andrew put his hand between my shoulder blades and gave me a little turbo boost up half of the hill. Coming down the other side, partly out of exhaustion, I closed my eyes. I asked Andrew to warn me of any low-hanging branches or mailboxes, or, say, cars I should look out for. I was just going to coast down and return some oxygen to my rubbery legs.

It felt good, so I kept running with my eyes closed, or otherwise open so the only slit of pavement I could see was what was right in front of my feet.

I was surprised to find that a little bit later, I hardly noticed I'd been climbing another hill (granted, they're not that steep around here, but long). With my eyes closed, I'd maintained a faster pace, my breathing was much easier, and my legs didn't feel as weak. By tuning out all the discouraging cues around me--the hill coming up, the passing mailboxes--I felt much more zen and I finished better off than I started.

The only way I could describe it to Andrew is that by closing my eyes, my world is forced to shrink into the only things that matter--the mechanics of my legs and upper body and my breathing (in-two-steps-out-two-steps), and my mind hones in on the musicality of running.

I'm going to make running shades that block everything out except for the two feet of road right in front of you and market them as "Zen Running Glasses," or "Running Blinders," (like for horses?). How do you think they will sell?