i heart mud

Now that my semester has officially ended, the Friday morning trail runs have resumed. We meet at my house, at 6am sharp (yup, that's right--6am), and jog the mile or so to the DeDominicis trail, which the town opened up to the public about six years ago. Our run begins with a brutal wake-up: a steep climb up Old Lane Road to the trailhead. (It's less brutal for me, as I have my own personal rope tow in the form of my hyperactive Lab, Sasha.) A few minutes later, we are deep in the woods, ankle-deep in mud, and, if we've all had enough sleep (which was not the case this morning), deep in conversation. Despite the hour, it really is an invigorating start to the day.

I've always preferred trails to roads. People have often asked me, "Why do you run? Why would you do something so painfully boring?" I don't know. I've been running since I was ten or eleven; it's always been something I felt driven to do. But I see their point. When running begins to feel like work, it loses its purpose. On the trails, especially in the company of my witty and garrulous cohorts, I'm distracted from my task. Instead of muddling, I'm soaring. My brain is working furiously, calculating the best way around this rock or that root. My thighs are burning as I climb the hills, which always seem taller in the woods. Sasha stops to take a swim in a pool of fresh rainwater and we catch our breath, marveling at the dramatic change in the landscape now that spring is here. The ferns have sprouted up everywhere; the leaves are a deep, fertile green; the dead foliage has been reborn as rich brown soil. The woods are alive. Pete, our resident Audubon member, identifies birds by their songs. When we pause to tie a shoe or find the trail, the bugs remind us of their presence.

When we get back to my driveway, we're covered from thighs to soles in mud. Spring, our legs announce, has truly arrived. We don't hose off right away; we must first compare calves. Who has played the hardest? The mud is our elixir, our holy water, our badge of honor.

"Yuck!" my kids say when I enter the house, but I know they get it. There's a small hole in our sideyard that fills up with water when it rains, and they take great pleasure in dirtying themselves there. When they're done, their toes are grimy and black. They hold their hands up proudly, half-wondering if the muck will win them a smile or a reproach. I'll admit I'm not always thrilled (who wants to clean up that mess?), but inside, I am pleased. In a small way, they're in touch with nature, and in that moment, it's way better than toys!

letter to spring

Dear Spring:

Since you haven't returned any of my calls, I can only assume that you caught wind of my love letters to Winter a few months ago. Yes, I took pleasure in his hardy embrace, and yes, I find him irresistible at a certain time of year--I mean, he's so burly and rugged and exciting. But we're not exclusive, Winter and I, and really, Spring, I do just wish I could look out the window and see your colorful blossoms, moist with dew. I mean, come on, Spring, is this silence, this evasiveness, really necessary? It's April 22nd, and my toes are freezing in my wool socks. The tea in my hand can't even take the edge off the chill. Winter has departed, but you, Spring, stubbornly hide yourself away, leaving us here in a seasonal purgatory.

And come on, Spring, I mean everyone sings your praises. In literary terms, you are Rebirth, Regeneration, Love; poor Winter has to get stuck with Death and Dying. Poets muddle through the cold season, pouring their darkest humors into their winter poems, in order to find their way back to you, Spring. Nobody looks out his window on a fragrant, sunny day in May and mutters, "Oh, God, it's warm and clear again."

So, with all due respect, Spring, I think a little perspective is in order.

If that isn't enough, then I'm willing to get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness. Please come back, Spring. Please?

unplugged

Over Easter weekend, the family and I trekked up to one of my favorite towns, Burlington, Vermont, to stay with some friends. On Saturday, my buddy Paul and I donned our shorts and running shoes, exposing our legs to the chilly northern air, and ran the Unplugged Half Marathon. Much of the course was familiar, as it ran mainly along my old stomping grounds, the Burlington Bike Path, with lovely views of Lake Champlain and the Adirondack Mountains just beyond. The wind was frigid and even aggressive at times, especially as we made our way in and out of Oak Ledge Park, where Dylan, Alexa, and Paul’s son Nico were waiting with outstretched hands, but in the photos taken by the race photographer, Paul and I are laughing, unfazed. Maybe it was the endorphins, or maybe it was the laughter that comes from shared pain. Or maybe it was the bliss that comes from uninterrupted conversation, a luxury when one has small children. Paul and I shared an office for two years when we were Teaching Fellows at the University of Vermont eight years ago, so we had lots of time for impromptu chats in those days, but since becoming parents, our communication has consisted mainly of email conversations, occasional postcards, messages on Facebook, and two or three brief annual visits.

I tend to think, though, that, more than anything, my smile in the photograph is a direct result of the tension that invariably drains from my neck and shoulders when I cross the border from Massachusetts into Vermont on I-91. Something happens when I see the “Welcome to Vermont” sign. “Keep it Simple” is Vermont’s state motto, and while a number of friends have expressed their frustration over Vermont’s lack of billboards (“How can I find the nearest McDonald’s?”), over the miles and miles between exits, and over the state’s general defiance of convenience, this is what I find most endearing. “Simple, dammit!” the sleepy hamlets and villages seem to snap back at the tourists who bemoan the elusiveness of the Taco Bell. “You want lunch?” Vermont asks. “Come and find it.”

Of course, with small children in tow, one needs to allow for extra travel time in planning a drive through this under-populated state. Once, when Alexa was a colicky infant, we realized, too late, that we had left her pacifier at home. She began to grow desperate and irrational. We pulled off at the nearest exit (which was probably 10 minutes up the road), and then drove for a good 15 or 20 minutes, Alexa practically blue and our nerves completely fried, until we found a general store which, mercifully, had binkies. Whew.

Despite the potential for maddening incidents like this one, I still prefer Vermont’s dogged simplicity to the bustle of the lower New England states. And Paul and Meredith’s house is an extension of this simplicity. Many of Nico’s toys were made by Paul himself: wooden blocks and a playhouse and a makeshift see-saw. The sandbox. The TV is nowhere to be seen, and even if it were, they don’t have cable. The “playscape” in the backyard is a twisted tree trunk laid on its side. Perfect for climbing, and no assembly required. Downtown is a fifteen-minute walk, and though Church Street, with its charming cobblestones and fountains and climbing structures, has succumbed to such chain outfits as Old Navy, Starbucks, and Borders, downtown Burlington is still home to some thriving independent stores and restaurants, including my old favorites: Stone Soup, a cafeteria-style vegetarian café; Outdoor Gear Exchange, where you can find new and consigned gear and clothing for adults AND kids; and Muddy Waters, where a grad student can spend hours sipping coffee and cramming for comps exams, and then finish the night with a microwbrew. And, of course, there is Nectar’s, former home to the band Phish. What I wouldn’t give to be back in Burlington, unplugged.

Like many idyllic cities, Burlington has its drawbacks, of course. For one, it is blindingly white (and not just because of the snow). For a small city, it’s culturally diverse in terms of restaurants, theatre events, and social justice; in terms of ethnic diversity, however, B-town leaves much to be desired.

Still, the sense of community is palpable. I often wonder what my town, Cheshire, would be like if the town would just put in sidewalks. Cheshire has potential: there’s a town green, there are a few shops downtown. But we don’t walk anywhere (or, when we do, we have to say a prayer before and after, because cars are so unused to pedestrians that they can barely swerve out of the way in time to avoid having you plastered on the front of their SUVs), and we’re so busy, running our kids off to one activity after another, promoting structure but inadvertently adding chaos. There’s a sense of immediacy here, especially when it comes to kids: get them involved now, or they might fall behind. And what falls through the cracks in the process? The ability to slow down, to engage in unstructured play, to appreciate the natural playscapes that really do abound here—even from New Haven, there is easy access to trails.

The other problem with Burlington is, of course, that jobs—and houses—are nearly impossible to come by. Whenever I whine and envy Paul and Meredith’s “good fortune,” I remember what they sacrificed to have their House in Burlington. It was in an almost incomprehensible state of disrepair when they purchased it: a former crack house, with barely a roof to speak of. They homesteaded: they took jobs as Resident Managers at Champlain College, living in a dorm while they spent a year building their house (Paul even built the cabinets himself, and recently, he refurbished the second floor, even adding a little window in Nico’s bedroom that allows him to look out over the treetops at Lake Champlain).

It’s no secret that I’ve wanted to move someplace “more simple” for quite some time (not that Connecticut doesn’t have its charms—it does). Recently, though, I decided that for the moment, I need to embrace my surroundings, because living with one foot out the door isn’t productive or enriching. Still, when I return from Vermont, there’s always a bit of a post-Green Mountain-funk that follows. Hence this rant. Thanks for listening.

for dylan, turning five

"Jesus, he's beautiful."

Your grandfather breathed these words when he first beheld you, lying in your plexiglass hospital crib sporting a onesie and diaper. Grampy's voice exuded love, surprise, disbelief (and not only because he had begun to believe his daughter would never have a baby), and joy. He watched you closely, took in your wide wide eyes, your delicate olive skin, your slender fingers and toes. "He looks like he's looking around at stuff," he said, as if you possessed gifts other babies did not.

And of course, for us, you did. Many, many times have I silently echoed Grampy's words: "Jesus, he's beautiful." There's beauty in your appearance, yes, but also in your interactions with your friends, your family, and with the world. A beautiful soul: gentle, loving, quietly (and sometimes not so quietly) forthright. You are a perfect balance of natural empathy, stubborn determination, restless curiosity, and boundless energy.

Your fifth birthday has arrived, and as I reflect on the years that have brought us here, I see a slideshow in fast-forward, and I am struck by the need to slow it down, to pause, to record everything so that no part of your wonder years are forgotten or overlooked. I recall your dark eyes probing my face as we rocked in the glider. You're in a yellow sleep sack, sucking on a pacifier, and I'm reading "Goodnight Moon." Your gaze is so deep it's startling. "He's a very intense little baby," your dad said around this time, and this intensity is something you carry with you in everything you do: I see it in the complicated narrative of your play; in your face when you are troubled; in your dogged focus at the skating rink; in your concern for others' feelings.

I remember the first time you went to daycare. We did a one-hour trial run: I stayed for the first thirty minutes and watched you play; then I left, slowly, hesitantly, amazed at the depth of my emotion as I drove away. I cried. I had stayed home with you, not working, for fifteen months, and the guilt I felt in this moment was overbearing. And I don't think it helped that you waved good-bye, or that you were smiling. When I returned, you were playing happily. The sight of you, all baby fat and fine curls, wearing your red overall shorts and Carter's sandals, made me cry all over again. "Mama!" you shouted. As I embraced you, I thought, "I've never known love until this moment."

Your intensity is most remarkable in your relationship with your sister. What great friends you are! This, of course, after an initial transition that was rocky at times. Our first night home with Alexa, you stood crying in your crib, clutching the blue Patriots football my parents had brought for you. In the morning, you climbed into bed with us, your expression at finding the baby still here a mixture of confusion and excitement. "Hi, bee-bee," you said, crouching down to see her as she slept. "Good moanin!"

Last year, on Valentine's Day, your teachers asked you to answer the question, "What is love?" You responded, "Loving my sister." This year, your response was the same. And it's no empty phrase. Dianne, our neighbor, once commented that you carry your sister "by the scruff of her neck." You jump when she drops a book, you're sad when she's away from you. You derive great joy from teaching her new things, and she prefers your company to anyone else's. At night, when I kiss you both while you sleep, I see that Lexi is covered with stuffed animals and extra blankets, and I know that her brother-angel is looking out for her.

Today you said to me, "I think Lexi and me might wanna get married when we get older, because we don't want to live far away from each other." Already, you are thinking of your future, and planning ways to keep your sister close by. I hope you will always share this bond.

Dylan, you are beautiful. Jesus, you're beautiful. And yet, beautiful can't even begin to capture all of the things that you are. My greatest pleasure has been to watch you grow, to share your brightest moments, and to comfort you when you have needed it. I enjoy watching you line up your cars as much as I enjoy watching you skate ferocious laps around the rink. Always, I am proud of you. I could easily lament the swiftness with which these years have passed, or beat myself up about how I haven't lived in the moment, or played with you enough, or appreciated you as I should. Instead, I would rather smile on the moments we have now, on the rich and wonderful years that await us: days and weeks and months and years filled with camping trips, hikes, skinned knees, amusement parks, trips to the city, broken bones, t-ball games, shouting matches, conversations, movies, et cetera, et cetera.

You've been here only five years, but I can hardly remember the years that came before.

Happy birthday, beautiful.

not with a bang, but a whimper

Signs of the impending apocalypse (heard during my elliptical workout at the Y yesterday morning):

-- It rained dead birds in Esperance, Australia and then Austin, Texas, within the span of three weeks.

-- The latest teen fad is a game called "punch out," whose rules are self-evident.

-- Joe Torre, baseball's Gentleman Manager, just published a tell-all memoir. Guess that's what living in L.A. does to your sense of ethics.

ushers of the new dawn

for the love of cold

Time for the weather report. It's cold out folks. Bonecrushing cold. The kind of cold which will wrench the spirit out of a young man, or forge it into steel.

(Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider, Northern Exposure: Lost and Found, 1992

There’s something exhilarating about cold, real cold, the kind of cold that freezes your nostrils and forms tiny icicles on your eyelids, that nips at your flesh, penetrating the layers of fleece and polyester and Smartwool. It is at once energizing and humbling: it reminds us that nature is both a blessing and a force.

Last weekend, my friend Pete and I set out for the DeDominicis trail in Cheshire at 8:00 am, when the thermometer said the temperature was minus-five. Before we had even reached the trailhead, which is about a mile and a quarter from my house, the wisps of hair that had made their way outside the balaclava I was sporting had become white and hard, and my teeth were so cold that conversation was nearly impossible. My feet, still warm thanks to the miracles of Gore-tex and merino wool, seemed to stick to the ground with each step, and my breath came in short, sharp gasps.

I admit that none of this sounds especially enjoyable or pleasurable. Yet, as we trudged up and down (mostly up, or so it felt!) the snow-covered hills, less packed down than we had hoped, our quads burning from the effort, I felt alive, really and truly alive. Having lived, albeit briefly, in the cold climes of Anchorage, Alaska and Burlington, Vermont, I had come to think of Connecticut as mild, disappointingly so. My heavy thermals rarely have occasion to leave the bin of cold weather clothing under my bed. My down jacket comes out two or three times a year. As a result, I felt my own spirit had become domesticated. I would shiver when the temperature dipped below forty. I would lament my “tame” geographic location (much to the irritation of friends and family, who have had more than enough of my complaining, and of my nostalgia). Now here was Mother Nature in her essence, showing us that she could flex her biceps even here in southern New England. And while I embraced the challenge of working my muscles in the arctic air, I also bowed to the power of Nature.

Such a deranged view of cold is probably a result of my obsession with Alaska, a place to which I still feel drawn. Alaska, for me, was a personal challenge, a test of physical and emotional will. While my time there was too short, I emerged a more complete person, more confident, more awake, more aware. This is the gift of adversity, be it in the form of weather, exercise, tragedy, distress, illness, or emotional duress.

Blow, blow thou winter wind;
Thou art not so unkind. . . .
(William Shakespeare)