PERFECT SPRINGTIME
Last week in D.C. they celebrated the cherry blossoms, but it was still fairly cold and gray just a few towns north, up here. Today we caught up. Pear and cherry trees were in full bloom. I could barely comprehend the color of the spring grass on the fields around me, electrified by the sunlight. The air was balmy with the slightest of breezes. On the roadside there were bright yellow forsythia and unintended patches of grape hyacinth. Small white butterflies meandered with great intent but without great efficiency toward some goal just over the hill.
At the bottom of the road lay, of course, a river, and it moved thick and slow in the afternoon sunshine, its banks strained though happily containing the bounty after the recent rains. In fact everything around me appeared grateful.
A HILL TO QUELL THE INNER CRITIC
Though my overall pace was less than impressive, my run downhill on Gillis Road truly felt like flying. The return trip was more challenging, to be sure, but gave me time to appreciate the quiet and placid day. Above my heavy breathing I observed a Canadian goose staring motionless at a small pond bordered by cattails - still brown from the winter - but with reed shoots fresh and green enough to - maybe - protect a small nest of hatchlings.
On the south side of the hill there was a large swath of tall pines, under which grew the first of the may apples, unfurling their leaves like little beach umbrellas. Closer to the stream were the beginnings of tiger lily leaves, bright and hopeful.
As the minutes dragged on and my legs began to burn with my lungs, I observed the cornfield on the north side of the road. Its trimmed dead stalks from last year were softened by the grass and weeds filling in the lanes between the rows. What just a week or two ago appeared like a graveyard of sorts now looked like a renewal, or a burst of something about to happen. I pictured pulling on those stalks to get me to the top of the hill.
A REMINDER OF THE SOCIO-ECONOMIC CONDITION OF MY ZIP CODE
As I neared the crest of Gillis, I heard a chain saw making short work of trees felled by recent storms. Its smoky, oily scent carried me quickly back to my childhood, and I could see my dad, sweaty and dirty in his t-shirt and shorts, cutting through large chunks of poplar, queuing them up for chopping on their inevitable journey to becoming firewood.
Further on I noticed a teenager pushing a lawnmower for perhaps the first time this year. He was fish-belly white and shirtless, and his capri-length baggy denim shorts covered the front of his privates (though precariously low) while allowing his entire ass to be exposed. Lucky for his boxers. But the effort to keep his pants from falling off entirely made his gate bow-legged and awkward. In front of his trailer, his progress was slow.
Closer to 94, I noticed a young woman emptying out a storage shed behind a squat and square cement house. Next to a mangled bike of unknown vintage, in place long enough to have grass growing tangled through its bent spokes, she set a poorly framed airbrushed rendition of a lion's head, tinged lavender. An older woman (her mother?) sat bra-less inside her red car, door open so her feet could rest on the ground. They spoke in animated tones.
GIFTS UNCLASSIFIED
As I approached my neighborhood, the sun's angle became low enough that its rays illuminated long spider webs, recently laid then liberated from the grass and floating like baby's hair in the afternoon air.
All the houses in my development sat prim and clean, nestled in their freshly-mowed lawns and landscapes trimmed with willows and knockout roses. Their cookie-cutter visages seemed excited for the weather like three-year-olds at a princess birthday party. They welcomed me.
Days like today make me want to name crayons and hug strangers and kiss the sun. Runs like today make me deliriously happy and thankful for my strong legs and lungs and heart. What a treat that I didn't miss any of it by taking myself for granted. Amen.
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