Buried

Here we are once again in the literal depths of winter. Leo disappears into a snowdrift in our yard as the infinite grey sky continues to quietly, delicate flake by delicate flake, add to the growing mountain range of snow. Despite all the burdens this mass of never ending frozen precipitation brings, there is something to be said for all that it covers up. The starkness and barrenness of the winter landscape feels softened by this additional element and the city’s profile, left unbalanced by the vanishing of vegetated greens, feels a little less stark, paved, like the pulse of the natural, albeit in a far different form, is still present.   

Who doesn’t welcome being able to use the snow as an excuse at this point? I know I have. An excuse to barricade ourselves indoors, eat like we’re about to enter hibernation, never change out of our full sweatsuits. But one thing I’ve never used the weather as an excuse for is skipping a run. Anyone who is from New England and has run the Boston Marathon in the past understands this as well: when you register for the race, you are signing up for more than just one attempt at 26 miles in April. You are also signing up for the four unromantic, grueling months of training that precede it.  

The running for me is that salt you throw on your sidewalk and steps. It melts away excuses and makes me dig out of that dangerous mental toxicity snowbank. Without realizing it, I was doing some serious burying as I inaugurated my seventh marathon training season at the end of December. Coming off of a month of traveling solo where the only daily goal was staying present and engaged in the day’s activities and going to sleep every evening with a clear mind, November and December were tough. On December 27th, the sad winter sun hit its pathetic apex as I gently strode over the BU Bridge and happily settled into the route I’ve run many, many times before. Just beginning mile 2, I pulled off the paved sidewalk and onto the packed dirt path, and I tripped on a rock and hit the ground hard. I avoided slamming my knees down at the cost to my hands. It hurt. And I was bleeding, which was annoying. But I was most annoyed at the fact that I had tripped a few years ago along the same exact section, and probably on the same flipping rock. I hopped up and thought about how complacency is dangerous; never stop respecting the course. 

Leaving a small chunk of flesh and blood behind, I continued along with my heart beating in my palm. This place has taken its fair share of blood, sweat, and tears over the last decade. And after about a half a mile, I decided to acknowledge the significance of the day since no doubt the trip and fall, the pain and the blood, was a little tisk-tisk from the universe. Nine years ago to the day, my mom had died early in the morning. Although she had been unconscious for the last several days of her life, her timing was purposeful. She found that small pocket of time between our late night departures and early morning arrivals, and that’s when she chose to leave her sick, useless body behind. The news was delivered in a brief phone call and it was the most painful, devastating relief. 

I began to understand the acute pain would be my companion that day; the dirt and blood embedded in my hand a reminder of why I started to run in the first place a decade ago. I gave my hand a few hard shakes to break the surface tension and allow some blood and dirt to fly off. I closed my fingers back into a fist and picked up the pace.  

I don’t sit and stew in that dark time when our mom was sick and dying, but I also don’t try to pretend it didn’t happen. I think it’s important to return to the bottom of that ravine now and again. The many years that have passed and the slow trek out means Maia and I sometimes forget to turn around and look back at all the ground we have covered together. As the distance grows, it sometimes feels like my mother never existed; she floats in my mind like a character for a story that never gets immortalized on paper, a figment that never ages. I dream of her happiest childhood moments and her proudest accomplishments as a young woman. They become indistinguishable from my own moments. And now days, even weeks, may pass without specifically thinking about her or a moment with her. Or maybe I’ve allowed pieces of her - mannerisms, approaches, opinions - to become a part of who I am on a daily basis (both the good and the bad).

The drop in temperatures, the unending snow, and the careful strides I take along a frozen river path trigger the muscle memory from when it all both ended and began. The first training season was when I learned to love the burn that lines your stomach when you are pushing boundaries. Making the choice to let the grief fuel you. And while the training for the race will forever be connected to my loss, it more importantly represents my journey after it.

Let the digging out begin!