She Lives to Run
Oct
30 2013
When I was a runner.
When I was young
and time would never run out.
I performed a daily meditation
of hard breathing
feeling the burn.
Transcending, on that rare occasion
into disembodiment,
while I went along for the ride.
My body
an auto-pilot machine;
distanced, effortless
sometimes even bliss.
I preferred running alone
after dark.
When I seemed so much faster
as if the world had contracted
down to just me.
Up on my toes,
shrugging-off gravity
in the cool night air.
Back when my cartilage glistened
like smooth mother-of-pearl.
My muscles
When I was a runner.
When I was young
and time would never run out.
I performed a daily meditation
of hard breathing
feeling the burn.
Transcending, on that rare occasion
into disembodiment,
while I went along for the ride.
My body
an auto-pilot machine;
distanced, effortless
sometimes even bliss.
I preferred running alone
after dark.
When I seemed so much faster
as if the world had contracted
down to just me.
Up on my toes,
shrugging-off gravity
in the cool night air.
Back when my cartilage glistened
like smooth mother-of-pearl.
My muscles
were lean and sinuous,
elastic tendons
attaching them
to dense indestructible bone.
And my joints
buttressed by ligaments
that cinched them taut.
Now all I do
is watch,
tossing balls for my dog
who lives to run.
Who has no small talk
or second thoughts
of existential angst.
She is pure physicality,
all touch, and movement
and fierce pursuit.
Her vocabulary
consists of body parts
at all-out-speed.
While her inner life
is a mystery,
at least to me.
Although looking in
to her soft brown eyes
I get an inkling
of the unknowable other,
and wish
for the lingua franca
that would let us speak.
Unlike me
she will run until she stops.
An old arthritic dog
chasing rabbits in her sleep,
legs twitching
emitting sharp excited yelps.
Every once in a while, I indulge in a "dog" poem; inspired, of course, by my beloved Skookum.
As much as we resist, we often end up anthropomorphizing our pets. But when I see the pure joy she has in running, I am reminded that we inhabit parallel universes that hardly intersect: ours, where most things are intellectualized and abstracted; and hers, where everything is pure physicality. When you live without language, there is no other way to express yourself. And language becomes a metaphor here: in "small talk" and "vocabulary" and "lingua franca".
The current version of me, with my querulous knee and hip, envies the smooth pearl-like cartilage of my younger self. And recognizes the truth in the old cliché about youth wasted on the young. Although while I may have given up running, I still walk and swim and paddle. Anyone who does regular exercise should identify with the first stanza: when you cross over into effortless bliss, fatigue and pain disappear, and you feel you can go on forever. When I'm lucky, I still get that; but in the water, these days. The feeling is somewhat similar to the immersive flow I get when the writing is going well: time vanishes; and it's more like taking dictation than coming up with anything original.
Skookum will sleep on the couch beside me, and dream. Her legs twitching, emitting little yelps, she is clearly running: chasing rabbits in her sleep, I always think. Even when she can no longer run, she will still have an inner life in which she never stopped.
elastic tendons
attaching them
to dense indestructible bone.
And my joints
buttressed by ligaments
that cinched them taut.
Now all I do
is watch,
tossing balls for my dog
who lives to run.
Who has no small talk
or second thoughts
of existential angst.
She is pure physicality,
all touch, and movement
and fierce pursuit.
Her vocabulary
consists of body parts
at all-out-speed.
While her inner life
is a mystery,
at least to me.
Although looking in
to her soft brown eyes
I get an inkling
of the unknowable other,
and wish
for the lingua franca
that would let us speak.
Unlike me
she will run until she stops.
An old arthritic dog
chasing rabbits in her sleep,
legs twitching
emitting sharp excited yelps.
Every once in a while, I indulge in a "dog" poem; inspired, of course, by my beloved Skookum.
As much as we resist, we often end up anthropomorphizing our pets. But when I see the pure joy she has in running, I am reminded that we inhabit parallel universes that hardly intersect: ours, where most things are intellectualized and abstracted; and hers, where everything is pure physicality. When you live without language, there is no other way to express yourself. And language becomes a metaphor here: in "small talk" and "vocabulary" and "lingua franca".
The current version of me, with my querulous knee and hip, envies the smooth pearl-like cartilage of my younger self. And recognizes the truth in the old cliché about youth wasted on the young. Although while I may have given up running, I still walk and swim and paddle. Anyone who does regular exercise should identify with the first stanza: when you cross over into effortless bliss, fatigue and pain disappear, and you feel you can go on forever. When I'm lucky, I still get that; but in the water, these days. The feeling is somewhat similar to the immersive flow I get when the writing is going well: time vanishes; and it's more like taking dictation than coming up with anything original.
Skookum will sleep on the couch beside me, and dream. Her legs twitching, emitting little yelps, she is clearly running: chasing rabbits in her sleep, I always think. Even when she can no longer run, she will still have an inner life in which she never stopped.
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