Dammit babies, you've got to be kind...
800 run/200 to go
I ran my 800th mile last night. An unremarkable run, the second of two that day, knocked out at 10 pm after a night at work. I knew was headed toward that landmark mile, but didn't realize until I logged it afterward that I was now in what I had earmarked as the home stretch. I'm typically aware of exactly what miles are being run, and so it came as an odd surprise that in my distraction, I had come upon and mindlessly ran through a moment that I'd figured I might recognize with a little bit of fanfare when it actually happened.
But it so rarely happens that way. You don't get to know when you are doing something, or are in the midst of something that will last, will be a landmark.
Five days after my dad died unexpectedly, I stood, numb with shock and grief, for hours, accepting the kind condolences of mourners.
A few minutes before the wake was scheduled to end, a man rushed in. He was wearing khaki shorts and a wrinkled blue golf shirt. I watched him take the room in, get his bearings as to where our family was, as the line leading to us had finally dissipated. He walked up to me, warily, and held out his hand and offered his condolence on my loss.
He explained that he had gone to high school with my dad. Was a year or two younger than my father, but had been on the swim team with him, and though he hadn’t been a close friend, had always admired him. The man told me that he lived out of state now, but had arrived to visit his mom less than an hour beforehand. She’d read of my father’s wake and, knowing her son’s connection, had mentioned it in passing when he arrived that night.
The man stood before me, apologizing for the clothes he was wearing. He’d stood in his mother’s kitchen only minutes before, newspaper announcement and car keys in hand when he walked out the door knowing only that he needed to say goodbye, and that this was his only chance.
I watched him then walk to a chair, sink down, drop his head in his hands and begin to cry.
What power lies in ordinary life! The gestures and declarations flung in passion, the words whispered (or withheld) in moments of repose, touch offered or restrained, risks taken or not in moments of split decision. Those instances of seeming minutiae have the power to burrow deep and wither or feed a soul. Not every moment and utterance will last, but each one has that very potential.
It’d be impossible and completely lacking in joie de vivre to try and anticipate the potency of every moment, but I figure I can hedge my bets by doing a quick self check once in a while, “Can I stand by my words, my action (or more powerfully) my IN-action?”
The 8ooth mile is come and gone, more landmarks will do the same, I hope to recognize as many as possible, forgive myself when I don’t and above all, keep the words of Kurt Vonnegut in mind when he said:
"Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind."
Be well,
Jenny
I ran my 800th mile last night. An unremarkable run, the second of two that day, knocked out at 10 pm after a night at work. I knew was headed toward that landmark mile, but didn't realize until I logged it afterward that I was now in what I had earmarked as the home stretch. I'm typically aware of exactly what miles are being run, and so it came as an odd surprise that in my distraction, I had come upon and mindlessly ran through a moment that I'd figured I might recognize with a little bit of fanfare when it actually happened.
But it so rarely happens that way. You don't get to know when you are doing something, or are in the midst of something that will last, will be a landmark.
Five days after my dad died unexpectedly, I stood, numb with shock and grief, for hours, accepting the kind condolences of mourners.
A few minutes before the wake was scheduled to end, a man rushed in. He was wearing khaki shorts and a wrinkled blue golf shirt. I watched him take the room in, get his bearings as to where our family was, as the line leading to us had finally dissipated. He walked up to me, warily, and held out his hand and offered his condolence on my loss.
He explained that he had gone to high school with my dad. Was a year or two younger than my father, but had been on the swim team with him, and though he hadn’t been a close friend, had always admired him. The man told me that he lived out of state now, but had arrived to visit his mom less than an hour beforehand. She’d read of my father’s wake and, knowing her son’s connection, had mentioned it in passing when he arrived that night.
The man stood before me, apologizing for the clothes he was wearing. He’d stood in his mother’s kitchen only minutes before, newspaper announcement and car keys in hand when he walked out the door knowing only that he needed to say goodbye, and that this was his only chance.
I watched him then walk to a chair, sink down, drop his head in his hands and begin to cry.
What power lies in ordinary life! The gestures and declarations flung in passion, the words whispered (or withheld) in moments of repose, touch offered or restrained, risks taken or not in moments of split decision. Those instances of seeming minutiae have the power to burrow deep and wither or feed a soul. Not every moment and utterance will last, but each one has that very potential.
It’d be impossible and completely lacking in joie de vivre to try and anticipate the potency of every moment, but I figure I can hedge my bets by doing a quick self check once in a while, “Can I stand by my words, my action (or more powerfully) my IN-action?”
The 8ooth mile is come and gone, more landmarks will do the same, I hope to recognize as many as possible, forgive myself when I don’t and above all, keep the words of Kurt Vonnegut in mind when he said:
"Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind."
Be well,
Jenny
love back, baby
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