-Stephen Dobyns
Running in Tryon Creek Park in Portland last week, I dodged a few banana slugs. The slugs and the ferns and the rainforesty feel made me feel at home, though the trees were different.
Tryon Creek Run. Tree. 6/2012
Whilst dodging slugs, a couple of thoughts crossed my mind:
1) I am tired.
2) I am not liking it enough.
I did truly enjoy the beauty. And when I ran in Tryon Creek Park with my kiddo, I also enjoyed the beautiful company. In any given moment, I can like it so much it is absurd. But the grander Like is getting harder to grasp, probably mainly due to Fatigue with a capital F.
Tina Fey quips about her problems, noting simultaneously that for people with real problems she must appear ridiculous. I can relate to this, as a well-fed, employed, happily married mother of 3 stunning children. Still, it is hard sometimes (see prior post), even for a WFEHMMOTSC. No one escapes grief, I have noticed. Or fear. Or vomiting children during long car trips. Or disappointment, disbelief, disconnectedness or dummkopfs.
I cannot imagine running a marathon in a month, as I am so tired I can barely keep my head balanced on my shoulders. At any second I expect my head to fall off and roll across the floor like that meatball in the song.
If this was being written by a child of mine, I would be pulling the world's smallest violin out of my pocket and playing for them. They love it when I do this. They have grabbed and stomped many of these violins of mine into tiny little pieces, but I have a lifetime supply so I just let them stomp with abandon. Cry! Stomp your feet! Decide to quit everything and take up organic farming on a plot of land in the middle of nowhere while living in a shack and reconnecting with the deeper meaning of things. Then, come to your senses regarding your medical school debt plus that annoyingly and deeply ingrained need to take care of sick people, and go for a (pathetic) run. Go through the motions, and, perhaps, discover How To Like It.
I cannot imagine running a marathon in a month, as I am so tired I can barely keep my head balanced on my shoulders. At any second I expect my head to fall off and roll across the floor like that meatball in the song.
If this was being written by a child of mine, I would be pulling the world's smallest violin out of my pocket and playing for them. They love it when I do this. They have grabbed and stomped many of these violins of mine into tiny little pieces, but I have a lifetime supply so I just let them stomp with abandon. Cry! Stomp your feet! Decide to quit everything and take up organic farming on a plot of land in the middle of nowhere while living in a shack and reconnecting with the deeper meaning of things. Then, come to your senses regarding your medical school debt plus that annoyingly and deeply ingrained need to take care of sick people, and go for a (pathetic) run. Go through the motions, and, perhaps, discover How To Like It.
I found one of those violins in the upstairs bathroom... I,m hanging on to it, never know when it will come in handy around here! And...Jen... Hang in there, remember that we are here... Always and forever!
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