A letter to Atticus Poetry

Dear Atticus -

Today I ran, what was quite possibly the the slowest seven miles I have run since I started running again (almost four years ago). I could blame my time on the wind, a possible ear infection, allergies, sore knees and ankles, an inadequate diet and water intake, or an interrupted training schedule. And I am certain that those things probably contributed, but the truth is my heart just wasn't in it today. The marathon I had been so faithfully training for over the past five months has been canceled and I don't really know when my next race (of any length) will be. We live in a time of uncertainty, with no certainty to be seen, even on the distant horizon.

During the past three months, as the world has effectively shut down in many countries, I have seen some of the best and worst of humanity. There are those who have pulled together, doing their best to continue to live and help others to live, also. They are the lights in the darkness and I can only hope to be a star to their sun. Then, there are those who seem to thrive on petty bickering - finding fault without even considering the bigger picture. I know some are green with envy, but I still believe most mean well in their own way.

You have suffered significant backlash because of a marketing decision you made. I don't believe those who have commented negatively regarding your method of donating are considering that you still have to make a living during this time, just as much as anyone else. I also don't believe they've considered that Atticus Poetry is more than just one man. That you have employees working for you - depending on you for their livelihoods. And perhaps, I am the one who is wrong. Perhaps, all that fuels you is greed. But I have read all of your words that I could lay my eyes on, and they have saved my life more than once. I refuse to believe that those words came from anyone other than who you have always claimed to be - someone who cares, and is trying to help in the best way they know how.

I remain your humble fan,

eL Smith

Yesterday morning, I stood in the shower a little longer than usual, letting the warm water cascade, like a waterfall, over the soft curves of my body - hoping it might wash away the lack of motivation that had settled deep into my aching bones.
 

*****

They say "the days are long, but the years are short," but this past month has felt like a year, all by itself. Without our usual scheduled busyness I find myself looking for what I should be doing, and being overwhelmed by all that needs to be done, but can't.

I remind myself that we are all in this together - all swimming through this sea of uncertainty with no sight of safe shores in the distance. And I wonder, how long can we tread this water, before we sink beneath the relentless waves that continually crash against our already chaotic minds and souls.

Then, I stop. I tell myself to just breathe.

No, everything is not going to be okay. People have died and people are dying. I cannot simply dismiss their deaths as "part of life." Their lives had value, and meaning. They were someone's lullaby singer, hand to hold, first kiss, lifelong love, and final goodbye. Humanity suffers from their loss. I do not subscribe to the notion that "everything happens for a reason." Sometimes, things just happen, and sometimes they suck.

But, with a little bit of luck, and whole lot of human solidarity, I have to believe we can get through this, together. And maybe, just maybe, we will rise to fly a little higher, when we emerge from the ashes on the other side of these flames.

The gyms are closed, but the trails are open, and on Saturday, I laced up my shoes and went for a run. The sun shone brightly (as it does most days now) but the temperatures are still cool enough that snow and ice linger in the longest shadows. Along the warmest, most sheltered sections, I saw a chipmunk scurry across the path into the trees, butterflies fluttering about in golden streams of light, a small garter snake bathing in the warming rays of the sun, and a blue heron lift majestically into the air above the river, flowing parallel. I couldn't help but wonder,"What if we are the infection, and the Earth is just trying to heal herself?"

*****

I am a runner, and have been since my Freshman year in high school. You'll never hear my name in association with winning any medals, or breaking any records or once thought human barriers. But those feats, although impressive and worthy of admiration, do not make one a runner. It's something infinitely more personal and far more simple, and yet, complicated, all at the same time. I run. Therefore, I am a runner.

My legs become restless when they have gone too long between miles. My feet ache as much to feel the Earth rising up to meet them, as they do when she has met them over and over again and again, forming callouses on their soles and blisters on my toes that never seem to heal. For the Earth has never failed to catch me when I fall, as so many others have. And so, I return to her trails, and roads - the scars we have carved into her face - to feel her rising up to meet me, again.

My mind finds more clarity with each familiar step, as I reach my stride, and then

peace as thoughts, which once plagued me, fall away and I am left with only the task of navigating the terrain that lies immediately in front of me.

My heart beats within my chest, and blood flows through my veins, rich with the oxygen my lungs take in with each carefully trained breath. My entire body, makes the transition from my usual momentum to the pace of my run as easily as a fish slips back into the sea, when released from the fisherman's hook. Running is not my second nature. It is not just something I do. It is something I am. It is as much a part of me as the very body which makes it possible. I am a runner.

For two years, in middle school, I woke up early every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to attend a voluntary "conditioning" program, facilitated by a beloved gym teacher and high school basketball coach. My Dad would take me, on his way to work, and when the season was right (so that the sun was rising during our ten minute drive into town) he would tell me how he'd painted the sky just for me. It is one of my fondest memories, with my Father.

Last night, SJ told me he wanted to watch the sunrise. So this morning, I quietly crept into his bedroom, at a quarter to seven, and woke him. Wrapped in blankets, to keep the cool morning air from kissing our still bed-warmed skin, we sat together, faces turned to gaze at the horizon through the big east facing windows in our front room.

I found myself watching him, more than the soft orange glow slowly rising above the hills, surrounding our sleepy little town. He watched the birds flitting about in the trees nearest our front windows, and those across the street in our neighbors' yards. Their songs filled the quiet where the usual sounds of a neighborhood waking up, to get ready for work and school, has faded away with the world we lived in yesterday. And then it happened.

*****

I have watched the sunrise over the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean Sea, and I have seen its first morning reflection in mountain lakes, surrounded by evergreen trees. But, for as long as my lungs alternately fill and empty of air, I will remember the magical moment when that bright golden orb first peaked over the horizon, and my seven-year-old stood in silent awe. If only for a second, I swear this beautifully chaotic world stood still. Then, as quickly as it stopped spinning, it began again.

Life is just a series of Earth stopping moments. Wake up and paint the sky.

I was a freshman in college, before I understood how accustomed to the noise around us we become. Moving from a house ten miles outside of a small rural town, into an apartment near a university, and then back home again for the holidays, made me aware of this truth.

At the beginning of the school year I found it difficult to sleep. The sounds of traffic and unknown voices, so close to my window, were completely foreign to my mind. But, eventually, I acclimated to my new environment and presumed I'd have no trouble sleeping when I returned home for the holidays. By then, however, I was so accustomed to the sounds around my apartment, that the silence which enveloped my parents' home was deafening.

*****

Last night I was reminded of this, when something woke me, just before midnight. My legs felt restless, wanting to run, as they haven't been able to for days. And although they certainly didn't help me fall back to sleep, I knew they hadn't interrupted my slumber. It was the deafening sound of small town America being all to quiet under a prescription of social distancing. 

And I suddenly understood why the people of Italy sing from their windows and balconies. My heart aches for them and the people of other nations, already hit harder by this nightmare. The silence of empty streets is temporary, but the silence of loved ones gone is forever.

This morning, the sky felt heavy - dark and overcast in a thick blanket of gray - as I desperately tried to explain to Liv why she couldn't play with her friends today or any other day in the near future. And while the clouds were able to hold the weight of the water they carried, those words were just too much for her slender little frame. With each tear that fell silently down her porcelain cheeks, my heart unraveled a little more.

"But I just got better," she whispered through muffled sobs.

*****

We'd already been doing our part. I'd kept her home and inside while she ran a low grade fever. For a week, she'd missed dance class and playing with her friends, when they came home from school. It's not easy to slow down, when you're ten-years-old and so full of passion for life and living.

But, by noon, the sun emerged from the curtain of clouds that had covered it and, even though it's still cool outside, we opened the windows for fifteen minutes to let in the light and fresh air. 

In the garden, the snowdrops are blooming, and they remind me that, just like winter, this new storm can't last forever. And when it's over, we'll bloom again, too.