A New Path

I went for a run. Walked down the driveway, heard the GPS watch beep, trotted into the street, and turned left up the hill. My plan was to do reverse my cemetery run. Five miles. My happy distance. In reverse, I begin uphill for a mile, pass behind the public school, cross the street, and head into the new section of the cemetery.

Cemeteries are great places to run. Quiet. Gently curving, narrow roads without traffic. In summer, fellows work string trimmers or ride mowers, but on April's first Saturday I met only a couple walking their dogs then an old man wearing two hats who told me it was a good day.

The cemetery is divided in two by a stretch of forest on a hill. An eroded dirt road connects the new section to the main cemetery. I was a mile and a half in at the top of that road. Fifty yards on is a turnout where workers dump brush and, if they're anything like me when I worked at a cemetery, hide from the boss for a moment's peace. I usually pass the turnout, wondering about a trail there that flows up over a hillock and into the forest, but pass on. I'm a creature of habit.

Last week, on a different run, I followed a muddy trail through another forest and felt I could have run it for hours. Today, I went into the turnout, up over that hillock, onto a new path.

It led up through the forested hill, wound between trees with occasional detours out of muddly low points. A quarter mile in the path forked. Left, the main path. Right, a narrow trail I chose immediately, leading up higher through more mud, behind the private school, and around to the suburban road.

I didn't want to leave those woods but knew that just down the road was a back entry to the main cemetery. I trotted down the unshouldered road, grateful for drivers that moved over, trying not to curse those who didn't. I turned left onto gravel, passed an old shed with no doors, into the upper section of the main cemetery, set to run up to the highest point, breathe in the view, come down the other side and rejoin my usual path.

Then I noticed a trail through the grass toward the trees. I turned onto it. The mud there was too wide to avoid. My sandals squelched and the mud and puddles coated my feet, sprayed my ankles and calves. I kept going up and found a narrow trail, firmer and drier that I soon knew would lead back to the turnout where I had begun.

I kept going through the turnout. I have no boss and I was at peace. I went down the eroded dirt road into the lower section of the main cemetery, around my usual turns, up and out onto the busy street. I turned left into the small neighborhood bordering the cemetery, back to the busy street, across into another small neighborhood, to the school, and down the road following the brook, onto our street, into our driveway. I stopped the GPS watch, stood beneath the grey sky, and felt overfilled with joy. A few moments later, I walked my muddy feet inside and up to the shower.

After showering, I read the following koan:

Yunmen taught, "I do not ask you about before the fifteenth of the month. Come, say something about after the fifteenth." And then he responded for himself, "Every day is a good day."

The fifteenth of the month on the ancient Chinese calendar is the full moon, a symbol for awakening, so the question is really I don't ask about before your awakening, but rather for you to speak out of your awakening.

I won't pretend to understand that any more than how running a new path filled me with joy. But I wanted to say something about after the run. Maybe tell you how every run is a good run but especially those on new paths.

The Flesh is Willing

You'd think I ran a hundred miles.

Not because I'm tired — I'm not tired at all — but because I feel so good. I'd say four and a half miles never felt so good, but it almost always does.

Like most winters, I've not been running much, but the last few days have been clear and almost warm. Yesterday, I got feeling like getting out on the road a bit. I had limited time but went anyway, figuring even a couple miles might feel good. They sure did.

Before this week, I'd gone six and a half weeks not running. I've done the stairmaster, elliptical, and erg at the gym, but the Y won't allow me to run in huaraches or barefoot, so I don't run there.

After six and a half weeks, my body, overweight as it is, allowed me to comfortably run two miles yesterday and four and a half miles today around the neighborhood and through Morningside Trail. Back home, showered, having some lunch, my body feels great. Ready for more even. Wondrous!

I've been considering a long run this summer, thirty to fifty miles. Who knows if I'll do it, but for now the flesh is willing and that's enough to fill me with joy.

I'm Going

I wrote Morning Pages with my fountain pen like every morning for almost ten years. I've refilled the pen from glass bottles of ink for going on five years. It saves money and feels good to use less disposable plastic.

It's the same with my morning shave. I use a shaving mug and brush, safety razor, and metal blades. No plastic involved. Again, it's more frugal than canned shaving cream and crazy-expensive plastic razor cartridges. Feels good to poison the world that much less.

Yay, me.

Writing all that, I thought two things: I should get everyone to do this, and I need to do more.

"Get" everyone to do this? I hate holier than thou preaching. No evangelist convinced me to take these paths. Instead, someone told me their story and I felt inclined to move toward these practices. Now I write and shave in these ways. Simple as that.

As for needing to do more, part of the practice is learning the next thing. Twenty years ago, I used a fountain pen with disposable plastic cartridges. That led to a pen refilled from bottles of ink. And that led to a refillable and repairable pen. One thing leads to another. It was the same with the practice of shaving.

These thoughts had me wanting a heat pump, induction stove, solar panels, and another electric car. There's so much more to do that I felt a little anxious.

I finished Morning Pages and then read this from Jane Dobisz in Daily Doses of Wisdom:

I'm not a perfect bodhisattva I have a long way to go, but it's all right. I'm going.

I am going. If it's not too holier than thou, I'll imagine this brings others along. If it doesn't, maybe I can be satisfied to just go\ on my way, imperfect and incomplete as everything in life must be.

Only A Game

Starting in 2012, Dad and I bought season tickets for Syracuse University Women's Basketball. We went to most every game for three years, but then Dad died toward the end of the 2015 season.

I've kept the season tickets. My wife and girls attend almost every home game. We stay 'til the final whistle no matter what.

This year, SU was a top-four ACC Tournament seed, riding a double-bye. They came into tonight's game rested, but sleep-walked through it.

They got crushed and I'm crushed with them.

I should know better. It's only a game, but it hurt. SU Women's Basketball can do that to me.

Back in 2015, on a Wednesday night in February, Dad called to check what time to meet for Thursday's game. I told him, same time as usual. He said, okay. "G'night, Dad," were the last words I said to him. He died the next morning.

That night, my brother took me to the game. SU against North Carolina, who was good that year. Not much chance for the Orange, but they won anyway, as if just for me. The final whistle, I almost felt Dad with me.

SU Women's Basketball can do that to me too.

So maybe I shouldn't know better. Maybe it's more than just a game. Right, Dad?

Let's go Orange.