Sunday's good word(s) :: peeling potatoes
A fellow baseball watcher yesterday mentioned the road race that would be taking place near us today. He wondered if I’d be participating in or cheering on the runners. I was weather-dependent in the latter, and a good many strides beyond the former.
Once upon a me had a two year running streak—one mile minimum each of those long ago 730 days. It was a glorious, crazed, personal pursuit that put me on a few paths of processing a good many things, namely the grief around my sister-in-law dying of cancer.
I remember running around Bucktown when we family converged, later around Lincoln Park when we took up a summer residence to be near in the end, and then back home in the aftermath of it all. I found routes and ways to hammer out the hella hard all while keeping my two young kiddos in eye’s sight. I loathe tracks, but many a circle was pounded in a futile effort to change the course before all of us.
This past week I took my last walk in this pair of socks.
It’s the only pair that had a touch of blue, the rest were all marked with a bit of gold. She had a collection of the most comfy socks that I acquired as we went through her things. They motivated every single step I ran, walked, labored in her name. One by one, I’ve surrendered a worn out pair. I think this set took me by surprise because I didn’t even realize their time had come until I went to untie my kicks and spied the worn thread on my heel.
When my friend asked about the run this morning, I told him how I ended my running streak of two years—to the day—with that very race a good many years ago. Injury had set in and it was time to stop—so I could physically heal my leg, so I could maybe stop pushing off the other painful parts that needed to find a more grace-filled pace.
Knowing that a mile minimum is what I everyday had to keep to maintain the streak, I parked my car a mile from the start, ran that distance, then walked the race’s distance. It was as bittersweet as one might imagine after two years of making sure a commitment was kept.
I’ve missed the last few days posting here, but the spirit of what this space asks of me has not been lost. Instead of hammering out in obligation, I sometimes offer a day’s reflection, image captured, or sentiment held to a person or space where it’s meant to land. In my heart, the 365 effort remains, maybe magnifies.
As I pulled my morning journal out the other morning to pen some thoughts, the following slipped out and into my hand. I love it so much… may we all be gifted with a friend who catches us up on what we missed, who saves us a seat of knowing.
May we all know a Mrs. Nelson.
I am. We are.
Threadbare socks ‘n’ all.
What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade
—by Brad Aaron Modlin
”Mrs. Nelson explained how to stand still and listen
to the wind, how to find meaning in pumping gas,
how peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer. She took
questions on how not to feel lost in the dark.
After lunch she distributed worksheets
that covered ways to remember your grandfather’s
voice. Then the class discussed falling asleep
without feeling you had forgotten to do something else—
something important—and how to believe
the house you wake in is your home. This prompted
Mrs. Nelson to draw a chalkboard diagram detailing
how to chant the Psalms during cigarette breaks,
and how not to squirm for sound when your own thoughts
are all you hear; also, that you have enough.
The English lesson was that I am
is a complete sentence.
And just before the afternoon bell, she made the math equation
look easy. The one that proves that hundreds of questions,
and feeling cold, and all those nights spent looking
for whatever it was you lost, and one person
add up to something.”