Running Up a Big Hill

There is a buzz in the back of my head making me feel like I should be chasing my tail. I did this week, as I drove to Chicago, back to Troy, home to Ann Arbor where others joined me and busied myself with the preparation of food. I even dropped a pecan pie and watched the glass base shatter. My three year old stood over me, saying, I want to eat it. To be honest, I considered trying to salvage a section just for myself.

It is Cyber Monday, Nano month is ended. I don't know what to do with myself in my free hour for the week. If you need anything, now is the time to pick up the phone, dial 818.4694 and ask me for a favor. "Yes, please," I will say to avoid the real work of writing goals, partnering with Christ in something bigger then my coffee mug, my feet pounding pavement for another 10 mile run, my long list of Birthday parties, Christmas presents and neighborhood commitments.

What I want to do is draw a bare tree in ink washes. Felt little animal heads I can mount on wood (as they have in this months Anthropology catalogue shown here). Drink latte's all day without feeling caffeine's dizzying effects. I suppose a massage would be nice as well. I have lost connection with myself, with my Chapel sanctuaries, with my words on a page, with myself present in the dialogue with anyone else.

I am at risk of falling into the abyss of regret, just considering the work undone, blank MFA applications, half started NANO. But I don't want to live in the rear, to look backwards, to see my shadow. Rather, I want some brilliant new mind, me living right now.

There is this poem sitting on my coffee-shop table that I love, with the following lines:

I’m tired . . .
of how the old beggar
makes me think that
rowing across the river is
somehow richer, more serious than,
the center of a pomegranate…

then later 

I want life’s ragged way
of getting along, the wasted
afternoon and empty morning, the
sloppy kiss. I want to stagger
along between innings. I want
the burnt toast, the forgotten note,
and the lost pillowcase, the dime
novel, and the Silly Putty of it all.

As I ran up a half mile hill in Barton Hills Saturday morning, trying to keep my eyes on my friend always just ahead, I decided that life is all about hills. It is running up something with no foreseeable top. I taste a bit of iron in my mouth, I see green bushes to my right, and I live within creation during this step. There is an energy in focusing on making my legs push off. I want to be in my penduluming arms and let their momentum propel my chest towards lasting hope. 

I pray that my hill could be a great one, ever reaching higher and a way to experience myself in God's world, with whatever upward grade he provides, trusting that I can enjoy the muscle burn in this step.