At 6:30 pm it is still light out enough for my long awaited run. I take my swirly belly and bloodshot eyes and raw nerves out into the rain. The snow now sits in melted puddles on top of frozen ground. My feet are wet almost instantly. I duck beneath branches and hop over the small stream in my dad’s backyard, disappearing through the bare tree limbs toward the fields. I am out of shape. My ability to prioritize fitness has been hindered by the rhythm of the past 4 months and I miss it. I miss pushing myself and feeling strong. I miss the smells and sounds of my Ripton woods.
Each day before opening my eyes in the still dark or just becoming light room I play a little game with myself: which bed am I in? Which house? Which town? It usually takes a beat or two before I remember. Little by little my morning routine has wasted away to a shadow of its former robustness. More often I prioritize sleep. My body aches for the morning movement of yoga or weights but I push snooze and roll over. I am wrung out, exhausted, raw. I cry easily and often.
On weekends I have more time so I visit Pine Hill Park – a network of trails that wind all over the side of a hill in downtown Rutland. A gem in the middle of an otherwise unpleasing city. The trails are built for walkers, runners, and mountain bikers. They snake for miles up and across the ridge to Rocky Pond. It is many weeks before I cover the same trail more than once. I now have my favorites: Svelte Tiger, Rembrandt’s Brush, Lonely Rock. I almost never see people. Running the trails is happy-making no matter what, and I expect solitude. It surprises me if I come upon another person and luckily that is rare.
Rocky Pond is still frozen but the Canada geese fly over it low, looking for open water on their migration back north. Yesterday I saw a great blue heron, its spear shaped body matching the blue gray late afternoon sky. Water runs across the exposed ledges of rock, freezing into treacherous little frozen rivers. Trickles of sweat run down my spine, warm under my many layers from running uphill. I spook a barred owl from her perch. I freeze in my tracks to watch her drop and glide silently between the bare branches, disappearing from sight almost instantly.
During our afternoon walk up the street, Dad and I hear the cardinals calling to each other. A bright red male sits on the wire across the street, making its weeeeeeeeet -weet-weet-weet-weet-weet-weet song. A female answers from a well hidden spot. I hold my Dad’s two canes so he can pull his hood up and tie it snugly under his beard of white.