love thy neighbor.

"As the years go by and I watch my children already being better versions of me, as I continue to add names to the list of people I wish lived closer, led lives that managed to overlap now and again with my own or, worse yet, were simply still living, I get better and better at being mindful of all there is to appreciate. Focus drifts for periods of time, moods darken and the weight of day-to-day existence shrouds the holding up of all the good things now and again, but few days pass without my remembering my blessings."

I wrote those words more than five years ago, as Lil and then Pipe emerged from infancy and began to show the innate kindness and sensitivity inherited from their mother as well as unveiling their own unique traits. Each new day I see more to celebrate in their emotional and intellectual growth.

I wrote those words in reflection of lost loved ones and dispersed friends. Migration from this world and across the planet has continued.

Blessings still abound and my appreciation of them has only deepened.

I cannot effectively express, at least not fully, how loved and worried-over we've felt the last few days and how much it has meant. If circumstance is equitable enough to find us in the same place again, I hope to have the chance to pull many of you close in shared embrace, look you in the eye, and tell you directly of what your gestures have meant. Depth of emotion even then will probably make me bumble and fall short on the words, but I'll get the hug right.

Thank you.

Know that your kindness is noticed and cherished. Know that we anxiously await the opportunity to pay it back and pay it forward.

Know that the love we feel is love we hope that each of you feel from us in return and from others around you.

The news in all its forms points to our differences of politics, of religion, of heritage, of social or economic status, of interests, of lifestyle, of opinion and would have us "know" that all is lost. I look to my broad circle of friends, diverse in politics, religion, heritage, social and economic status, interests, lifestyle, and opinion and choose to see not "sides" but individuals trying their best to make sense of their short existence. I KNOW all is not lost.

Doubt, anger, and frustration are human inevitabilities but they need not steer entirely our perspectives.

"Love thy neighbor as thyself." It is a biblical imperative, but, you need not espouse Christianity or any other religion to understand that in the broadest sense, this is basically a natural inclination.

A child is faced with a life-altering (at least) medical diagnosis, a family sags beneath the burden, and instinctually you want to know how you can help. You don't run through some checklist to make certain that the girl and her family are on your side. You act. In those moments, we know there are no sides. Too often we feel otherwise.

From one neighbor to another, thank you. I love you and I thank you for loving me, loving Lily, loving all of us.

We've received an abundance of support of every kind, but, if we can, we ask one more favor. We ask that you remember the rest of your literal and figurative neighbors over the likely contentious weeks ahead.

Disagree.

Debate.

But please don't let differences of opinion stand in the way of the need to care for one another. Don't let fictitious divisions become absolutes.

It's hard, but it's not as hard as we make it if we put love and human decency first.

Do glad.

less restless.

“All things look good from far away and it is man's eternally persistent childlike faith in the reality of that illusion that has made him the triumphant restless being he is.”

-Rockwell Kent

In a technologically advanced world, tantalizing images of exotic places blip onto our computer monitor, television screen and our very consciousness with startling frequency.  It's a blessed exposure and one that, coupled with the transportation available to us in this modern age, enables us to get up from our seats and if motivated actually visit the "reality of that illusion". The message, like it or not, is also a persistent promise of greener grass and can all too easily erode the appreciation of the soil beneath our feet and the landscape within view.

I am certainly not immune.  Not hardly.

All the more reason to turn from those presentations now and then to view our actual surroundings, perhaps even revisit the sown seeds from which we sprang, the under-appreciated environs that fostered us and the ancestors that came before, the predecessors who breathed the very life into us and nurtured us in childhood and beyond, both while living and long since gone. 

My mother and stepfather recently purchased a cabin and several acres of land in Juniata County, Pennsylvania less than 10 crow-flown miles from the original homestead of my grandmother's family, once treasured parcels that slipped from the Van Arts when the burden of physical upkeep and taxes outweighed the resolve to keep the last remaining plat of a vestigial retreat from the outside world.

Having made the pilgrimage there a few months ago, I can attest that the old farmhouse and a few stubbornly standing outbuildings still huddle in the shadow of Shade Mountain.  That afternoon the ghost of my father in boyhood flitted about the premises with other apparitions whose living names I couldn't place but who were adorned with physical features easily recognized as family heirlooms.

In time they dashed off into the neighboring woods in search of critters, footpaths and escape.  I wanted desperately to follow after them but posted signs warned against my trespass and confirmed that this was now very much the place of others.

But the whispers of those ghosts are audible if not wholly coherent throughout the valley below, whirling over each hilltop and straying deeply into each of the many forested hollows.  Just this weekend, I chased after them, muffled as they were by the crunching of fallen leaves and the arias sung by the flowing west branch of the Mahantango Creek.

I chased too the very real giggles and worry-free chattering of my very real daughters and wished to be nowhere else in the world but there with one foot in the past and one foot firmly, happily planted in the present.

For those fleeting moments, at least, the fading hue of the Pennsylvania grass was more than green enough for me.

along my journey.

"Along my journey

through the transitory world,

new year's housecleaning."

-Basho

The sun was shining brightly this morning and the temperatures crept higher than plausible for the last day of December.  It was as though 2011 was asking forgiveness for all of the sickness, lost loved ones, strained relationships, financial struggles and other hardships of the last 12 months.

Heavy skies and dipping mercury seemed more befitting but the day's offering was too good to pass up.  The air smelled of promise, if only in my hopeful imagination,as it tends to in the context of new year anticipation.

It gave me pause to reflect on the fact that the negativity while ever present hadn't managed to outduel the countering positivity that also coursed throughout the year.  Balance was struck and, in the sieve that is my memory, many of the details were replaced by general impressions of "wasn't that great" or "please, never again."

I revel in blacks, whites and grays and purposely employ them in my journaling.  Beauty rests there and demands that imagination do the coloring should it feel the need.  In the darkest of memories, all remains gray and there arises no temptation to paint anything more.  Those most precious moments, however, easily come to life in the full bloom of color.

And there was color in 2011.  Much color.

Shared experiences with friends old and new.  Celebrations of life lived well and pain escaped.  Births and rebirths.  Invention, reinvention and paths altered.  New connections, reconnections and necessary, healthy disconnections.  Adventure into new landscapes and physical challenges.

The children grew taller and wiser and thirsty for more, more, more of everything.  Of every single thing.  And the momentary quenching of that thirst (thankfully only momentary) was joy and reward unmatched by a paycheck, a bill paid in full, a conscious-clear accounting of one's purpose.

Color, color everywhere.  And more to come.

Photo courtesy of Bianca Cordova Photography

Photo courtesy of Andrew Rebeiro

Photo courtesy of Eric Harvey Brown

Photo courtesy of Jo Weakley Agnew

Photo courtesy of Dan Martzall

Photo courtesy of Dan Martzall

Photo courtesy of Dan Martzall

Photo courtesy of Jack Anderson

Photo courtesy of Mike McMonagle

No need to clean the house (why start now?) at the end of this year.  Sure, it's less than pristine, far less, but it is also surprisingly, comfortingly livable despite its blemishes and imperfections.

Thank you, friends and loved ones (and what joy it is to have the lines blurred between the two!), for the flawed but glorious year that it was.

I could not be more excited for all that lies ahead.

"Happy, happy.  Joy, joy."

-Stimpy

it's complicated.

Been pondering the "why" of running quite a bit lately.

Not due to any doubts or second guesses, but because I've been incredibly inspired as of late by what folks have tackled, are tackling or are planning to tackle (and I'm not just talking about running) and, in turn, I have been wondering how far, how high and how hard I might try to go on foot before my body gives out on me. 

When I consider the motivations of others in doing something I love doing, I find it impossible not to look inward for what drives me.  At the same time, I've had friends and family ask me to explain the fascination.

It isn't the easiest thing to do.  Not because I don't have reasons.  In fact, I started making a mental list and ran out of paper.  But no single reason holds the key and the words I come up with fall woefully short of capturing everything I want to convey when pressed to explain myself.

Frustrated by my inability to express myself properly, I've been devouring other people's writing of running and marveling at their abilities.

The June issue of TrailRunner ran an article about Diana Finkel's amazing second overall (1st woman) finish at the 2010 Hardrock 100-Mile Endurance Run and the subsequent kidney failure that she suffered in the days following the event.  The account was penned by Ben Woodbeck, her husband and pacer for the last 40 miles of the race.  Turns out he's also a gifted writer and insightful runner.

To wit:

"Asking about running is just another way to wonder, what is it for?  Just as ineffable as why one would climb a mountain, or kayak a river, or jump from an airplane, I guess.  Running makes life worthwhile, maybe; it gives a little definition outside the confines and strictures of work and family.  It offers a community, one in which we can be individuals, ourselves, sometimes our best selves.  It reminds us what is important, somehow, even if it does so by reminding us that running is not really that important.  Relationships are important; another truth that we know but sometimes forget."

I love that.  Love it.

It speaks so beautifully to the "escape" of running without saying (as I would have) "running is such an escape."  Whatever it is that we turn to in order to get momentary respite from the weight of the world is valid only so long as we remember that while it's a lovely gift it isn't "real" in the way that the rest of life is and must be.  The danger is to get so fixated and so lost in that step away that we fail to come back to what really matters.

The best of escapes, and for me that is a gorgeous, inviting strand of single track, sharpens the focus upon returning on what truly is important.

And that, friends, deserves ice cream.



last call.

The final daylight hours of the last day of the year were slipping away.  My had arrived to watch the girls while I snuck out onto the Horseshoe Trail for one final run in 2010.  I was moments from stepping out the door when Clouseau misunderstood Veterinarian Lily's waving of a tongue depressor with a too meek "say ahhh" command and ended up giving her a pretty scary double swipe to the face that barely missed delivering damage to her right eye.  I'd eventually soother her with two calming (though thankfully unnecessary) band-aids and gotten her to agree to my departing.

Pulling into the trailhead parking lot just off of Route 72 South, I glanced at the dashboard clock and realized that I had two hours of light left and I'd forgotten to pack a headlamp.  No time to waste, I fired up the GPS and headed up the abandoned but paved road on the far side of the gate and hoped that the yellow blazes would soon deposit me on unimproved terrain.  Nearly half a mile later I got my wish.

The next few miles wound through Governor Dick park lands on a path that wavered between technical and smoothed-over single track that allowed me to move briskly.  I passed a number of small access points that harbored parked cars but I never did see the people who had piloted the vehicles there.  Not that I minded.

Other than pondering Lily's near miss, I'm not sure my mind was terribly active with anything other than taking in the unseasonably mild weather, the rhythmic crunching of my feet and the periodic called complaints of woodland birds as I clambered by.  In other words, I was enjoying myself.

Crossing Pinch Road and entering into PA state game lands, the single track gave way to overgrown abandoned logging and fire roads, open meadows and woods-ringed farming tracts.  While not technical in the least, this portion of the run was a blast as I could push the tempo a bit without worrying about each footfall.

Reaching what turned out to be Colebrook Road, I peeked at my wrist and discovered that I'd traveled nearly 6.5 miles.  The sun was definitely riding low on the horizon but I decided to cross Colebrook and go far enough to ensure that I'd have covered half-marathon distance by the time I got back to the car.  I wasn't sure what time it was but I knew I'd need to maintain pace to finish with any light remaining.

On the return trip I was overcome with gratitude for the luxury of health and support at home that was enabling me to do what I was doing.  The shoes I was wearing had been Christmas gifts as was the camera I was carrying.  My boss had been generous enough to give all his employees the day off and my aunt had been kind enough to tend to her nieces so I could spend the time I was spending in the woods.  I silently thanked all involved and vowed to pass along my appreciation at each available opportunity.

Minutes passed swiftly and, relative to the limits of my abilities, so did the miles. I arrived back at the trailhead with a few moments of light to spare.

As far as running was concerned, the year was over.  Proof that it had been a good year, I would be able to step into 2011 injury-free.  I undid the laces on my shoes and grinned at the realization that I'd be lacing them right back up again in the morning.

Thanks.