Strength

It seems like everyday we look for strength. Some people need strength to get out of bed and go to the job they hate.  Others require strength to tackle a project they've been procrastinating.  And some simply need the physical variety.

Since our loss of Leo (still born in July at 8 months), I've been specifically asking him for strength.  It's as if by virtue of his ephemeral physical presence the power of his absence is vastly amplified.  Rather than a low wattage current running through me, his life is a lighting bolt that has permanently electrified my soul.  I am not religious, but I am spiritual.  I don't ask God for help, answers, or forgiveness.  I had come to believe that if I want any of those things that I must to do something to merit it.  However, since Leo's passing, I now find myself looking to him, and for him to lend me the strength I both desire and need.

My alarm went off at 6am yesterday - a Sunday - a day traditionally meant for rest, for sleeping in.  And while many still were, I had the dawn to myself.  I had 22 miles to run in preparation for my first marathon (The Baystate in Lowell, MA on October 18th).  It was a cool 52 degrees, foggy, rainy.  I drank a cup of hot black coffee, ate a single piece of whole grain toast with strawberry jam and quietly patted the floor as I gathered items for my bipedal trek.  I filled up my water bottles, stashed my Gu packs, and put my MP3 player in a plastic baggy to keep it dry.  In silence, I applied band-aids to my nipples so they wouldn't chafe and bleed.   I applied Glide - a vaseline like roll-on - on my inner thighs and on the soles of my feet to prevent chaffing and blistering (too much information, I realize). I strapped my Garmin Forerunner GPS watch to my wrist and drove the few miles to Putnam, CT.  I'd plotted an 22 mile course down RT. 12 and back, which winds through the formerly prosperous mill towns of Putnam, Killingly, and Danielson.  It roughly parallels the Quinebaug River and the railroad tracks that connect Norwich to Worcester, but upon which few trains still roll.


View 22 miler in a larger map

As I set off through the deserted streets of Putnam south toward the surrounding greener fields, a cool mist lingered low to the ground and nestled next to the hillsides.  A light drizzle fell and with the exception of an occasional car it was just me and the two lane road.

I took in the quietude and let my mind wander.  Soon I felt that Leo was with me.  Or rather, I asked that he join me.  I've taken to spending time with him on these long runs.  I ask him to give me strength, to help me on my journey.  I ask him to come forth from nature - from the mist, from the green (and now red and orange) of the leaves, and from the breeze.  I ask Leo to fill my lungs with oxygen, my legs with power, and my mind with stillness.  It's not a constant conversation, but as my thoughts drift from topic to topic, often too quickly for me to hold on to any for long, he occasionally returns to run alongside.  He'll wander off for a time and then sometimes - like yesterday morning - he slams into my chest like a linebacker.

At mile marker 8.34 (I looked at my Garmin to note it), near the Civil War Statue that welcomes you to Danielson, Leo came directly at me, forcefully, with no warning or discernible precipitation.  The power of his presence was as visceral as the day he came and went and brought me to the precipice of collapse. He brought on powerful tears of grief and caused me to gulp for air.  I continued to run, my breath short, my face contorted.   And I welcomed the sadness that overfilled my heart, pain that while intense somehow provides comfort in at least letting you know you're alive.  The severity didn't last long (.16 miles to be exact), fleeing as quickly as it came, but it was an abrupt reminder that for as 'normal' as most of my days are, the ache of the loss I feel for Leo hasn't substantially dissipated.

When my patience is thin, when I'm anxious or short tempered, when I am aimless and restless I feel certain it's rooted predominantly in my grief.  My sorrow waits inside me, waits and waits, and then pounces fiercely on my unsuspecting consciousness.  Leo, Leo, Leo.  Physically absent and wholly present; sometimes a cause of acute paralysis and at others the source of tremendous strength.  I welcome you in whatever form you choose to appear.

The Chronicles, No. 3

Greetings from Pomfret, Connecticut. 

In the span of the 12 days since my last entry we/I:

• Packed and inventoried the contents of exactly 100 boxes.
• Ran two road races.

• Unpacked and found new places for the contents of exactly 100 boxes.
• Ran a 21+ mile marathon training run.
• Arranged and rearranged several pieces of reasonably heavy furniture.
• Hosted two family dinners.
• Spent countless uneasy hours listening to Max cry himself to sleep while he adjusts to his new home.
• Got Max off to his first day at his new day care.

• And perhaps most importantly, set up the internet connection in our home.

While these are all worthy and necessary efforts, none of them means nearly as much to me as the feeling of simply being here.  I stand taller and breathe more deeply.

The breeze blows the absolute sweetest scent of blackberries through the air - so strong you'd swear it was the cloying odor of a Yankee Candle.  But, my God, it's just the smell of berries!  

I took a deliciously fresh bite of an apple - from a tree in the backyard. 

Jogging these roads, I can clock quarters of a mile between the houses - if I can see them at all through the trees or over the crests of the intervening hills.  The ubiquitous hills afford magnificent panoramas of the fields, forests, and farm houses that dot the Pomfret and surrounding towns' landscape.  Running them is tough on my muscles which had grown accustomed to flatter terrain.  And while we live on a Connecticut designated scenic route you don't need a state or a sign to tell you what you can simply see.

When we went to the local post office the other day, the postal worker was not only friendly, but recognized Linda's last name.  "Oh, you're Nick and Polly's daughter.  Welcome to Pomfret!"

Max has seen his Grandma more in the past week combined than he had in the past several months.  He also gets to go to "Bampa's" house to see his motorcycle.  Max also enjoys picking flowers in the field behind our house.

As yet there is no such thing as 'traffic.'

The morning air is cool; the grass drenched in dew. Crisp autumn leaves flutter to the ground and swirl behind the cars speeding down the empty road.

Idyllic as it is, peaceful as it is, there is a certain restlessness that continues to linger.  I know it will take a few more weeks of unpacking and settling in before I can truly relax and focus on the larger questions that have yet to be answered.  Now that we are here, how will we actually go about shaping the life we want to lead?  And practically speaking, how will we finance it?  Will outer peace facilitate the inner peace I seek?  What compromises will have to be made?  

And perhaps the most stultifying question asked everyday about an hour too late:  What should we have for dinner?

But for now we just have to figure out where to keep our shoes, some winter coats, and the clothes that used to fit Max, that fit him now, and that will fit him in the months to come.

I'll be able to write with more frequency in the coming days so stay tuned.