Mollie Tibbetts

I run every day. Sometimes in the dark. Often alone. Of course we are taught as girls/women from the start to be afraid. It is why we cross the street when approached by a stranger and the hairs on the back of our necks stand up. It is why my daughter called me while she was walking home from work over a bridge in Seattle because some creep was there too and she needed to make a human connection. It is why I call my husband when walking out of the hospital at night. Not that someone on the other end of an iPhone can intervene, but at least someone will know when the line goes dead to do something.

The other day I was running out on the Bottom. I was going to head on this back road I like because the traffic is light and it adds some miles but ahead of me were two guys and a loose big dog and it felt wrong so instead I took the highway shoulder home with cars whizzing by, thinking death by automobile was preferable.

I have had 3 or 4 close calls with creeps in my life, and most were in my teens and 20's, I suppose because I was a better target then in terms of my naivete and my looks. One advantage of growing older as a woman is the cat calls reduce, and the guys looking to hurt you are not as interested. So now I mainly worry about my daughters.

As I think about Mollie Tibetts, I think about her family. I think about her fear. I think about how pissed she must've been to have a nice solitary run destroyed, her young life taken, the confidence of women everywhere again shaken. I wonder how she would feel about becoming the justification for hate though?

Personally, I think what should outrage all of us is misogyny. And the fact that girls, women, mothers, wives, sisters face inequality in many realms, including safety from abuse and assault.

I wrote a poem about all this. It is a little angry, I admit. It comes from a place of heartbreak and fear and true concern for this country that I want to love. It comes from bewilderment that hate seems to elate rather than deflate our populace these days.

To the family of MT, peace and healing.

Mollie Tibbetts

When a white girl is killed by a Mexican
Boy who came here illegally
When a white girl is killed while out
For a run in Iowa
When a white girl is killed
My country shouts
"Ok now let's talk about separating families."
When a white girl is killed, statistically
There is better than half a chance
Her boyfriend or husband
Or father or brother did it
When a white girl is killed on a run
My country suggests all us girls carry guns
Soon running holsters will sell
In every color
When a white girl is killed in Iowa
By a Mexican boy
My country shouts about an overdue wall
She was just trying to run
She was young
And he was an illegal alien so
My country's collective mouth contorts
And spits rage
At bleeding hearts like mine who
Still think children in cages out of line
With who we ought to be
Like lynching and Japanese internment
Slavery and smallpox blankets
Wrapped around unsuspecting original American babies
A white girl is killed
The white house seems thrilled
She could have been my daughter!
Or my other daughter who is brown
From another place
Her adopted country would be up in arms
Should any white girl born here come to harm but
A brown immigrant girl killed
Probably asked for it
Bad luck
And anyway who gives a fuck

8/23/18

Mussels

The day I knew this would be home
I met Norm. He carried a cauldron
Walking a path to the beach
With purpose, dog at his side.
We landed on the Lost Coast
My children ran wild.
Son found a pelican skull,
We flew kites. Whacking rocks
To dislodge mussels brought as
An offering to Norm, cauldron aflame,
Reflected in eyes, blue skies
A gathering tribe welcoming
My orphan soul, twenty years ago.
The other day I sat with Norm
On the window seat with the dog
We ate Good-N-Plenty’s.
Fog engulfed the expansive view
Anyhow our backs to the window
Two doctors shoulder to shoulder
Discussing how it feels to breathe today.

8/14/18

So Far

What I have learned so far in this running streak, today day 306, is to listen to what my body has to say, nod sagely, then run anyway.

So far, it is easier than I expected, and I think I am in love.

It is slowing me down. Recovery might be the key to speed. I feel strong though.

I get out into nature every day, rain or shine or fog or heat, even when my dog raises an eyebrow to the thought. Nature is an even better drug than running.

Do dogs have eyebrows?

Rotating shoes is keeping my feet happy, or maybe just keeping them on their proverbial toes, constantly confused by new surroundings so they cannot complain about 300+ days of running. Current foot clothes I prefer include Nike Terra Kiger, Asics GT something or another (whichever model Mike at  Jogg'n Shoppe always gives me) and Hoka One One ATR. I do not have a sponsorship with any of these shoe companies for some reason. I keep waiting for the call. It is possible they are intimidated by my prowess.

I do not get backaches anymore.

I do get hamstring aches, butt aches, restless calves, sciatica, and gnarly wounds when I inevitably fall on some root during a downhill on a single track trail because my head is in the clouds and not looking at the ground.

I can plank like a motherfucker.

This streak has led to so much laundry. If I literally streaked, maybe that would be better.

My resting heart rate is not infrequently less than 40 beats per minute.

So far, I have learned that I am privileged. Some morning I might wake up with a stroke, or trip on my dog and break my neck, or find out the government has outlawed women running in public. I might have to be a refugee and think only about how to feed my children and keep them alive, without the time or energy for the folly of a run. I might meet that mountain lion in the forest and all that will be left are whichever shoes I wore that day, which I imagine he will spit out, because--gross.

I sometimes get disgusted that I cannot do a sub 7 pace anymore. Then I read the paragraph right before this and put my whining back in my back pocket. I doubt I will ever actually completely discard my whining. I have probably permanently discarded any hope of winning though. Oops, there I go whining again.

What I have yet to learn is what happens on day 366. I cannot picture it. So far, I am thinking I might try for a PR in the half marathon (doubtful, see above). Part of me thinks I would be a natural ultra marathoner, except for my nonexistent night vision and my tendency to fall spectacularly even in bright daylight. I sometimes think of doing a fast 5K. Or another marathon. Or or or

What I have learned from running over 300 days in a row is it is better not to plan too far ahead. Open the eyes, if lucky enough to do so, in the morning. Look outside and determine which clothes you will run in today. Then run. Or pack the clothes and run at lunch break. Or after work. Simple.

If I run too long at lunch break, the nurse at my clinic gets frustrated with me.

Forgetting your running bra is no big deal. That's what Coban is for.

I have learned to run every day. So far.

Queens

Queens

Trump is in London, he makes me sick
Why did we elect a total prick
Stupid, evil, dangerous as hell.

Turned his back on the 90 year old queen,
Rudely ignored her, he looked mean
Does he treat his own Grandma like this as well?

More Londoners showed to protest his ass
Than came to his inauguration, alas,
"Fake news! Paid actors!" spewed the imbecile.

He'll take away our right to choose,
Our health care, gay rights, and science too-
Are you still perseverating on her email?

It will get worse, it will get real
Stolen children, Nazi apologists, tell me-how will we heal?
Pretend things are fine, then we shall fail.

Paralyzed by fear in this slow motion crash
My son is in prison and we have no cash
Best curl in a corner and moan and wail.

Get up! Stand up, America, and scream!
Do not let haters destroy our dream.
I propose we crown Ruth Bader Ginsburg our queen.
Let justice shine through and kindness prevail.

7/14/18

Another Morning Run at the Beach

Another Morning Run at the Beach

Stretched together spine to spine,
vertebrae an old folk art wooden child's puzzle,
the kind you would get in Asheville, North Carolina,
dog to woman, as the sun creeps in.
Light's fingertips brush eyelids
inviting them to lift,
which, once done, introduces day's discomforts
to the fleeting night.
Her hand reaches, settling on his fur,
making his head lift, nose checking air.
And he follows her down the stairs
curling up nearby while coffee brews.
She charts last night's calls from worried patients
and studies poetry.
Maybe William Carlos Williams did this too.
Sun up, two cups drunk,
she moves into action,
into clothes and shoes, light t-shirt
brushing spine and ribs.
He already has his clothes on,
always prepared for this very moment,
uncurls like a spring released,
awake.
For the first time or seven hundredth time
or the last time.
A precious, mundane mystery,
how she can never fully get the sand out of her shoes,
or off of his tight curls.

7/3/18

Morning 7/3/18

Museum of Anthropology, Vancouver, BC

Totems, weather-worn, and potlach bowls in the shape of humans and seals and several different creatures at once. Baskets by a woman's great-great grandmother, with her name and picture right next to her work there, great-great granddaughter proud to share. They called her Granny7.

One of my best friends calls me Jen7. We are not sure why but now I feel I am in good company.

History interests me, but most exciting was the modern art by members of the many tribes of this region. A short film by a young woman for her thesis, about respect. A symmetric black metal raven, folded and enormous, really two ravens or a raven and her shadow. When I sat in this one red chair and leaned my head back, Bill Reid started speaking the story into my ears as I looked at his carving of the Raven finding men in a clam shell and letting them out.

I am beginning to wonder if that was such a good idea.

Another room was divided by gauzy curtains into many rooms, each holding Resistance Art, "Politics and the Past in Latin America". In defence of maize, honoring the devil, and drawings by refugee children in El Salvador who depicted running from the US-provided helicopters that bombed their relatives dead.

The thing I cannot dislodge from my mind's eye: Three large paintings that are held by a wall with nothing else on it. They draw you in, so colorful and marvelous. Three self portraits of people with HIV who live in South Africa. The woman in the middle, her painting next to a small photograph with her eyes intently on you while you gaze at her work, got HIV from her boyfriend. She could not tell him or her father she had it, for her own safety. Had it, because although she was born a decade after I, she is dead now. Not of AIDS though. Her boyfriend murdered her.

At this point, I had to go to the gift shop and regroup. There was a spectacular orca mask I pictured on my very own wall, but it was $2000.00. I opted instead for two reproduced prints by two artists, one dead and famous, the other a young member of a local tribe. I also chose a small wood plaque with a raven carved on it, holding the sun (abalone) in its beak.

I wondered, as I walked through the rooms of the MOA in Vancouver, BC, which also had things from Europe and Africa and Asia and the United States of America, what the museum of anthropology will make of our era in 100 or 1000 years. It is possible we are, right at this moment, living through the downfall of the American Empire and there will be a small room dedicated to this.

It is possible the Raven will decide to shove us all back into the shell of a clam. Then future museum visitor will hear the same story I did, but in reverse.

Complementarity

Sometimes the top of the ridge, a hill that is a grueling 9 mile climb by bike and harrowing by car, is enclosed in fog. When it is sunny, it presents mountains on three sides, the ocean on the fourth. But the earth is not four-cornered, rather it is a panorama, so what one sees on a sunny day is a circle of fields, hills, mountains, water, endless horizon. If foggy, you might see your hand stretched out in front of your face while cool fog-drops cover you in mist. Either is my favorite.

Frank Wilczek was discussing complementarity on this podcast from last week. He's a nobel prize winning physicist. "When people ask me what religion I practice, I say complementarity".
I could not really understand all of his thoughts, but I think the idea might be something like: either, both, at the same time but not observable at the same time, mutually exclusive but interdependent. Having the perspective that other perspectives exist and can exist even if they are different than yours might just be the key to surviving these harrowing times.

When running on the top of the ridge yesterday, I was riling up the cows. Not on purpose, but given there is not a lot of foot traffic up there, when someone comes running along it warrants at the very least a huffy "moo", and often induces mass hysteria (hysteeria?). It is all what you are used to I suppose, because the cows on the Bottom where I also run keep chewing grass nonchalantly and push their muzzles through the gate for a better sniff and maybe a pat as I trot by.

I wonder when what once seemed an improbable evil becomes so normal that we forget to name it as wrong? Standing in a long line in Amsterdam a couple of summers ago, I awaited my turn to walk through the house where Anne Frank and her family hid. The lines are always long, I hear. People from all over the world want to see where this young diarist dwelt and stuck magazine photos on her wall and ate potatoes and had crushes on boys and was dragged out of bed into a stock car on a train that separated her from her family and housed her in filth until she died, still a child.

It is now a policy that in order to deter families from coming here illegally, we kidnap their children at the border and put them into camps.

Where I work, as a physician in a government supported program for vulnerable elders, we cannot even make a "policy" about where we store our number 2 pencils without getting the OK from the state and feds who monitor us for quality and ethical care. So how the hell did this "policy" get into place without some kind of discussion first? What country do we live in? Was someone blogging about this very question during WWII as well? Were they, as I, feeling like writing and thinking about it is not helping but maybe there is no hope and I guess I will just finish this cup of coffee and go to work while my own children are safely tucked away, sleeping in on the first day of summer vacation?

Beauty exists and does not exist, depending on your perspective. Love exists and does not exist, because sometimes it is invisible like that point past your fingertips in the fog where the world seems to end.

Yesterday a dog bit me on the ass when I did a house call. Later, dog was curled on the floor near my feet while its person and I watched Fred Astaire and Rita Hayworth dance. The movie was playing when I arrived, muted during our visit, then as I unmuted it before leaving, I was drawn into the scene along with the elder I had just doctored. Elder used to dance, can now barely move. Fred and Rita are dead but on the screen immortal, and my ass lives to see another day and I love dogs no less.

Today will be day 268 in a row of running for me. I was wondering recently what it means but got the advice to stop thinking and just keep running. Dory from "Finding Nemo" had similar advice. She had very poor short term memory. But her past exists as does her present and future and they are all happening and happened and about to happen. Might as well keep swimming through the waters of despair and absurdity, intelligence and inanity, deep love and resounding hate. When you mix it all together it makes life soup.

When I get a mouthful of unexpected hate, I immediately spit it out. It tastes so rotten and my biological system knows it is toxic. Yesterday when I was driving to hospice, a guy pulled up behind me as I was waiting for traffic to clear to make a turn, and laid on his horn and leaned out his window and screamed the f bomb at me. I think he was in a hurry. I felt my heart pound in fear for a moment but I managed not to get angry. I felt a little sad and I had to do a proverbial spit out the driver's side window to rid myself of the taste. I think he would've beat me to death, right there on my way to hospice, just because I existed. I was wondering if the "READ" sticker on my car pissed him off. Or maybe he just found out his child has cancer or his wife is leaving him or his dog died and I was just the target of his innermost pain. Either way, I drove on to hospice and went about my day.

Which brings me back to he concept that contrasting theories and realities can exist simultaneously to explain phenomena. Other perspectives and ways of being exist. But I propose there are times when going about ones day is not the answer. Are there angry people out there who feel disenfranchised? Yep. Does that make the current normalization and acceptance of racism, sexism, violence, school shootings, and ripping children away from their parents who came to our country for a better life OK?

When I run on top of the ridge on a foggy day, I know the beauty is still there. It resides in my mind's eye and it reassures me that I can run and run and not fall off the edge of the earth. We live in the foggiest of times. We need to run toward the beauty, love, kindness and ethical correctness as fast as we can.

As fast as we can.