resolved in children.

Someone asked me recently about the tattoo on my right bicep, artwork that depicts Lily's footprint at birth encircled by cursive text.  The writing is the final two sentences of lyrics from a defunct, but forever favorite band of mine from Baltimore, the oft overlooked and most certainly underappreciated (not by me...to a fault, perhaps) Lungfish.  I've written of them before and spoken of them ad nauseam.

Yes, I know that band lyric tattoos have become a modern day cliche but this world as inhabited by humans, frankly, is a magnificent bundle of such things and she who is without guilt, well, you know what to do.

Digression.  As the years pass, the words of Creation Story mean more not less to me.  Like any well-written lyrics, the words are widely open to interpretation, to bending, to repurposing as fits the listener.  This song continues to help tell the story of civilization as I believe it to have been, its evolution and regression throughout the millenia, while helping to explain and express the teensy part I feel I play in its current production.  With each passing day, I find more truth in the song, more connections and even closer connection to "now".

I will share the lyrics and a link (from the title) to the song.  Know that it is poem, more than song, but filled with rhythm and music that earns it, in my eyes, the title of song.

You may read or not, listen or not, but know that when you cross my path, be it on the trail, in the workplace or on city streets, these very words dance behind my eyes and interweave around the voices and sounds I hear, the images that I see, and help to filter my processing of those messages and instruct my responses.

Songs are rarely written expressly for any one listener, but the best of them seem to be uniquely adapted for every listener.

Resolved in Lily Harper and Piper Bea I shall live.

-----------------------------------

Creation Story by Lungfish (lyrics by Daniel Higgs)

Paranoia warped into a gravity.

Which spread a smothering blanket on an evolutionary launch pad.

Vision was tested on blank sky and voice said, "Let me tell you about the time that something occurred."

Medication caused an ear to hear and a conflict of interpretation arose.

Landscapes were drawn from a plague of particles, and the burden was distributed.

The law would return as inflated skins.

While music initiated architecture.

Animals, living through a velocity of fear began to modify their behavior to comply with human observation.

Thus dropping a keystone into the eggshell honeycomb of anthrocentric history since.

As for the plants, they had been with the music.

Science procured a steepled shell dressed for immortality, hollow to hold the music.

Emotion repelled all opinion and refused to consider it's origin.

Apples happened bringing acids and enzymes, the spinning recorder disguised as an endless bouquet.

Things became erotic at the drop of a hat.

A tyrant placed an apple on a table and lorded over it.

As a fish realized it held a monkey inside itself and expelled it on the beach in a larval salamander form.

The voters clamored for more circles and the whole rig began to rotate.

Books were used for fuel and money and everybody was writing them.

The planets turned inside out to expose their freight.

No charges were pressed because all involved agreed that they could die.

These are secrets a world sung to me truer than the truth.

A young order of birds that eats the eyes of believers.

Science predicted forms of worship and reveled in them.

An orgy of mutation took place for many years.

Between stones, near water, and inside clouds.

The people bound their feet with the skins of the animals to trample their own cities and each other.

They developed external organs like guns and television sets.

They believed that they owned things.

One mind in a generation will hear the eternal broadcast of the voice saying, "Let me tell you about the time that something occurred."

And that mind's body will be strapped down and that body's mind will subject to testing or electric currents rippled through the brain.

But the music pervades.

It was music that gave the shove.

And resolved in music we shall breathe.

It was children that crafted a parent.

And resolved in children we shall live.

thanksliving.

Thanksgiving is over and for many thoughts have turned to the next big day.

No, not Christmas.  Sooner.

On Saturday morning, Placer High School in Auburn, California will play host to the annual lottery for the Western States Endurance Run.  Thousands of applicants, having completed at least one of the official qualifying 50 mile, 100 kilometer or 100 mile (or some distance between those three) races in 2013, will wait expectantly, fingers crossed that theirs will be one of just 400 (or so) names drawn to take part in the storied race in June of 2014.

This past year has been by far my favorite year of running but I didn't actually do much racing and what racing I did do was rather forgettable from a competitive standpoint.  The posted results were pretty underwhelming and there were even a couple of DNFs along the way.  It wasn't until late October that an official Western States qualifier was eked out with a sub-11 hour finish at the Tussey mOUnTaiNBACK 50 mile race near State College, Pennsylvania.

Each consecutive year that an entrant fails to have his or her name drawn in the lottery, she or he is assured of a second "ball" in the next lottery so long as a qualifying race is again completed in the preceding calendar year.  Such was the case for me in not having been drawn last December, so the finish at Tussey increased my odds from poor to slightly less poor.

All I had to do was complete the registration.

Back in early November, I logged into Ultra Signup and found myself staring at the monitor, fingers hovering over the keyboard, thinking about the path that had led me there.

Back in 2009, I ran my first ultra, the New River 50K in southern Virginia.  At the time, I hadn't actually met anyone who had run that far at one shot.  For the life of me, I can't recall what made me think that I could nor can I remember how that race had been chosen as my first.  The start of a bad habit never really broken, I ran too fast early and faltered late...but I did finish and obviously have continued to come back for more.

As I suspect happens to many people who get hooked on long-distance trail running, I started seeking out races all over the country and, upon learning about the race and its history, immediately moved Western States to the top of my must-do list.

The increasing popularity of trail running and ultra racing has made Western States more and more exclusive.  The number of applicants jumps exponentially each year without further expansion of the field due to caps put in place in 1984 with the enacting of the California Wilderness Act.  That act helped to create the Granite Chief Wilderness through which the course passes as well as many other wilderness areas in the state of California and that same act continues to protect these areas today.

I, for one, am a huge proponent of the race cap even if it means that many runners must wait years to get into Western States and some will never get in at all.  It will become even harder next year as 50-mile qualifying races are eliminated entirely and folks scramble to register for the longer events that will be the only way to earn entry into the lottery.

All of which was rattling around in my head as I sat in front of my computer.  I wanted in, but so did many, many others.  Why should I be allowed in over anyone else?  Was it really MY dream, THE race that I simply had to do over all others?  Did I really want to toe the line MORE than anyone else?

"This past year has been by far my favorite year of running...."

It's been my favorite year of RUNNING, but that doesn't necessarily have much or anything to do with racing.  My done-in-a-day run of the Black Forest Trail in May was an incredible experience and I've revisited that day in my head, in storytelling and in writing many times.  
A couple of morning runs with friends in and around Boulder in July stand out in far greater detail than most of the organized events in which I participated.  So too do so many solitary runs here at home as well as numerous small group outings with friends on the nearby Horseshoe, Conestoga and Mason-Dixon trails.

I had a blast for the second year in a row at TransRockies this past August but, honestly, my favorite moments at TRR consist not of the race but of minutes of the days and nights spent there in conversation with friends on and off the course.

Pacing for my dear friend Kelly at the Leadville 100 was another experience that will remain vivid for the rest of my years, but I was there for him, not for me, not even for the race itself.  I was there with a friend, trying to help him achieve his dream and that was what made it so meaningful.  It's a cherished memory, but the race itself wasn't and isn't one I ever need to do myself.

Sugar Pie, my four-legged companion, arrived late in the year and has transformed every outing into something special.  A late season through-run of the Old Loggers Path with her and a handful of new friends confirmed that I would take that type of adventure over an organized event any and every day.

I dream of running, not of racing.

And it isn't all I dream of...not nearly.  In fact, much of what I dream of doesn't involve running at all.

Yes, I would love to run Western States and may yet one day, but, honestly, I would be lying if said I actually dream of it.  But I know others do and sitting in front of my monitor I realized that I needed to leave those dreams to others until or unless the race becomes that for me, especially if my bowing out increases the chances of someone else's dream coming true.

On Saturday morning, Placer High School in Auburn, California will play host to the annual lottery for the Western States Endurance Run...you can bet I'll be paying close attention to who "wins" their way in even though I've removed myself from the running by deciding against registering.  I'm excited to send congratulations to all who see their dream come true and can't wait to see how those dreams continue to take shape between now and next June.

I'll keep dreaming too, but of other things.

And, holiday or not, I'm going to keep on giving thanks as well.  Giving thanks and hoping for the future.  I have much reason for both.

I am thankful, immensely, for my wife and hopeful that she and I will both still be drawing breath together decades from now and hopeful too that every now and again her hand will reach out to me or squeeze back when I reach out to take her hand in mine.

I am thankful, boundlessly, for my daughters and hopeful that they will never let what they know (or think they know) or all that they've experienced get in the way of striving for what they don't know and have yet to experience.  I am hopeful that they are never unaware of the love and faith in their abilities that their parents have for them.

I am thankful for my immediate, extended and adopted families for shaping me, accepting me and reshaping me anew when necessary (often) into a me that I too am able to accept.  I am hopeful that together we grow, flourish and continue to celebrate the myriad of ways in which we are different and the same.

I am joyfully thankful for this planet for both possessing natural, untrammeled wonders and for hosting the triumphs of civilization.  I remain cautiously hopeful that distinction and balance can be made between the two and that the failures of civilization aren't mistaken for triumphs and allowed to render nature extinct, not in my lifetime nor the lifetime of any creature that comes after.

I am thankful for hope.  Real hope.  Not sloganeering, not wouldn't-that-be-nice daydreaming, not wishful thinking without effort made toward realization.  Real hope with real effort.

I am thankful for dreams and hopeful for dreams, realized or simply sought after.

Dream on.

but the music pervades.

The kids had nabbed my phone, their two little heads fighting for best position as they huddled around the 2" x 3" screen.  I knew what they were up to immediately.

I don't have any games loaded onto my phone, but I do use the maddening little device to snap photos and handily capture the movements of my children that I want so desperately to be able to view whenever the mood strikes.

As it often does.

The girls too like to revisit their adventures, the mysterious sounds of chirping voices that they refuse to believe as their own.  I know just how they feel.  To hear your own mutterings cast back from a recorder instead of filtered solely through your own skull is to know distortion.  Lily and Piper are truly mystified by this disconnection and I, after nearly 4 decades of pondering, still often wonder what I "really" sound like.

And so they giggled as they replayed over and over a short clip of the two of them darting about a nearby park earlier in the year.

I asked them, for the thousandth time, if they enjoyed running and they dutifully recited the "yes" that they expect I want to hear.

Later Lily asked me, also for the thousandth time, why I like to run so much and I stumbled through the clumsy responses that I have offered her before but that always fall short of fully conveying ALL of my reasons and by doing so fail to actually answer the question.  

Regardless, I know Lily doesn't actually doubt that I love running, instead, as with everything she encounters, she simply seeks a thorough explanation and a deeper comprehension.

Her follow up question was a puzzling beauty.

"Daddy, what does if FEEL like to run so much?"

There are so many words in our confounding language and endless, truly endless, combinations in which those words can be positioned, making it that much more aggravating to be unable to select the right words and/or juggle them into the appropriate order to properly express something you know so intimately.

I tried.  I really did.  But, the knit brow and pursed lips were giveaways that Lily hadn't been brought any closer to understanding.

And then I heard the answer.

And that answer answered another lingering question.

Music.

Our entire household is captivated by the music of Iceland's Sigur Ros.  Their music had helped me make sense of my existence, or at least cope with not being able to make sense of my existence, through my father's accident and eventual death as well as the subsequent slow dissolve of my first marriage.  Years later, a recording of the band had served as musical accompaniment as Lindsay progressed down the aisle to an anxious-to-marry-her me.  The odd soundscapes have proven for me to be the only lullabies capable of delivering restful sleep on long continental flights.

The music infiltrates, brings tears, cleanses and in the end elicits smiles, even inexplicable but welcome laughter.

And late in long runs, certainly in the final hours and minutes of races that have truly tested my endurance, I hear this music.

I FEEL it.

As do my daughters.

Learning that by closing her eyes and REALLY listening to the notes of Olsen Olsen she could experience what it feels like to run so much, Lily unfurrowed her brow and a smile spread across her face.  She even flushed a bit.

She felt it.

She's loved Sigur Ros from the first time that we played them for her, but she's always asked why we like it.  The dilemma is that there aren't words to explain why, only feelings, only emotional reactions not describable, not really, in words.

There is just the music.

And there is movement.

Euphoria.

Joy. 

The same joy that I experience while watching my girls run.  And smile, And laugh.

And be.

learning.

Because of backpacking last weekend and letting the days that followed slip away, I stepped out the door this morning well aware that it had been over a week since my last run. I had been doing a good job of maintaining mileage, but as has happened in the past, I'm amazed by how quickly discipline can falter.

Turning the sound down low and turning my body over to the running that it loves was long, long overdue.  I love my job but it has no right to consume every waking minute much less some sizeable portion of my non-waking minutes.  I adore my children but they're sure to have a better father at their disposal if I manage to get in some exercise and clear some mental fog.  My wife is a treasure and, as such, she deserves a husband who isn't diminished by a lack of physical exertion and an inability to get out from under the weight of everyday stresses.  Even the dog stands a greater chance of some attention if I get in a run.

So, with the support of the whole family, off I went.

After a sustained period of temperatures hovering at or well below freezing, today's mid-40s felt almost Spring-like.  The sun was shining and the winds had lost the aggression of the preceding weeks.  I pointed myself in a direction with a vague notion of which roads I planned to turn onto and how far I expected to wander.

Once upon a time, I felt the need to time every run, to go further than the time before and to do it faster than the day before.  I learned the hard way that "success" by that definition is unsustainable and a fool's goal.  Other than an occasional glance at a clock on the way out the door, I can't remember the last time I purposely timed a run.  And, not surprisingly (at least to me), I've never enjoyed running more.  I'm consistently reminded that every run--short or long, flat or hilly, fast or slow, trail or road--is a learning experienced.

Early hills brought on a welcome fatigue that I was able to power through and embrace.  After the first 4-5 miles, I enjoyed a sustained stretch of downhills that were followed by rolling, manageable miles.  Before I knew it, I'd put nearly 11 miles and several days of anxiety behind me:  http://www.usatf.org/routes/view.asp?rID=344286

I stepped through the front door in need of hydration and food, but all my other needs were fulfilled by the run and the three sets of smiling faces that awaited my return.

Clouseau's wagging nub added to the welcome.

Another lesson learned.

piper's inaugural run.

And so today it became official:  my daughters run.

Or, at the very least, they've both been taken for runs by their father.  And, thankfully, they seem to enjoy it.  At two-and-a-half, Lily Harper has been out with me in Pennsylvania's unpredictable spring, the all too predictable heat and humidity of summer and the cold chill of autumn and winter.  She's accompanied me on empty and crowded paths.  Even raced (if you checked my times, you'd challenge my right to use the term) in a 5K that began with an after-the-gun-had-fired-dash-from-the-men's-room start (a candidate for its own post).

This afternoon, (almost) eight month old Piper Bea experienced her first run on a cold and breezy November day.  I'm actually disappointed and slightly embarrassed that this is the first I've gotten Piper into the jogging stroller and out on the trail.  Lil and I used to get out frequently and today served as a reminder to not allow Piper Bea to miss out on special experiences now that my home and schedule have become even fuller.

I've had Lily laugh and chatter throughout a full run, but often early enthusiasm fades to a rhythm-induced nap.  Such was the case today for Piper and it was a blessing for us both.

 Poor Pipe has had (count 'em) one, two, three, four baby teeth pokily creeping toward poking through for what's now going on three weeks.  In the last day or two Piper's discomfort has increased tremendously and she'd struggled with a restlessness that has taken a toll on her, Lindsay (her mother) and myself. She hadn't gotten the uninterrupted naps that she craves and requires at this age.  Between a busy week of pre-holiday work, Thanksgiving engagements and attending to Piper, I hadn't been in running shoes since last weekend and both my mind and body were all too aware of that fact. With big sister Lily away for the weekend on a trip to the mountains with her Memma (my mother) and Lindsay putting in a rare weekend shift at the hospital, Piper and I had the afternoon all to ourselves.

All to ourselves and the teeth.

And that's when the solution became obvious.  A quick trip to the local gas station and its "free air" reinvigorated the tires on our lovely jogging stroller.  While Piper wasn't exactly laughing and chattering, she had stopped crying and was watching quietly and curiously as I hung up the air hose and lifted the stroller back up into the van.

A few moments later we arrived at the Lancaster Junction Rails-to-Trail to find a nearly deserted trailhead.  With a stiff breeze making mid-40's temperatures feel closer to freezing, I tucked a blanket around Piper (which initially made her angry), affixed the transparent weather shield to the stroller and off we went.  Settling into a comfortable pace and paying close attention to the path which fluctuates seasonally from a muddy track to a pitted, hard stroller-bumpfest, I attuned my ears for the sound of crying that thankfully never came.

We put in a slow but steady 4-and-a-half miles, cheerfully (and in my case, proudly) accepting the "isn't she adorable" compliment from the sole dogwalker braving the wind.  After a bit, traffic thinned out entirely and we had the path all to ourselves.  I heard barely a peep out of Pipe and suspected that she'd been lulled to sleep somewhere along the way.

I reveled in the fact that much like Lily and Daddy, Piper seemed to find her own brand of escapism in logging a few miles.  There's certainly a chance that neither one of them will have any interest in running as they get older and perhaps its being "Dad's thing" makes that likely, but I hope they'll at least have warm (even if foggy) memories of our time together.

I know I will.