Here we are, over six months into the pandemic. According to Clue, it’s been 141 days since my last period. In the Baltimore Flow meeting this morning, I said that Mary Elizabeth Garrett is out here, doing her best.
I am thinking about the tension of stress, grief, and joy. My heart has been worn. Today, the focus will be on ways I have found small joys, as I scream along to the acoustic version of “My Heart is the Worst Kind of Weapon.”
Running again, while listening to music that externalizes my emotions, has been such a joy, even though I gravitate towards decidedly not joyful 2000s scene music. Are you ever really a retired emo kid? I grew up loving Fall Out Boy. Yes, I saw them live during Warped Tour before they blew up. I forget about the gender while diving into their melodic rage.
I’m still moving slowly in adding back weight-lifting and circus arts. Being able to at least add the endorphins of running has been such a mood shift. Even on bad runs, I still get a runner’s high. A little over three weeks into the process of rebuilding, some runs have been rough. The humidity had come back in full force earlier this week, I was struggling to maintain a 10:30 mile pace. I had to give myself constant pep talks: you are running! You are running! Not every day is a good run!
Yesterday, with no humidity and weather in the 70s, I cruised easily at a 8:54 average pace for five miles. The pacing change in gentler weather is huge. My body has a hard time adapting to heat running, so in Baltimore summers, I just survive.
It’s pumpkin spice season—I bought three dairy free pumpkin spice creamers yesterday, so yes, I have strong feelings about this time of year—perhaps the weather will start to cooperate?
Because racing is ages away and I’m not comfortable running in groups, I have been working with my run coach to come up with some fun solo goals. On Halloween, I’m going to dress up and fly in a mile time trial. I am just so happy to have found a way to enjoy Halloween within a pandemic.
For the first time in years, I have been able to start drafting some poems. To Tracy / To Like / Like was released by akinoga press right after my first excision surgery. I finished the chapbook before I was diagnosed, and now it stands as an artifact of suffering I was trying to find language for. I had so little relief after that surgery. To see myself finding some snatches of time to write has been monumental. A lot of things are tough right now, but I would be remiss to not mention a small creative victory, to be able to document again and feel more than exhaustion.
Books I’m thinking about:
- Black is the Body: Stories from My Grandmother’s Time, My Mother’s Time, and Mineby Emily Bernard
- The Carrying: Poems, by Ada Limón
Stay sweaty and glittery. Black Lives Matter.