THIS IS HOW MY GARDEN GROWS: August

It's a bit unruly, and will need some rearranging when the weather is cooler and, hopefully, wetter, but the front bed is filling in from the street renovation work last year. 

I was worried that it was a waste of time to plant the garden as late as I did, but the basil, spinach and lettuce are a constant joy, and the peas are blooming so we will have a harvest soon. If the beans and cucumbers don't come to pass before the end of the growing season, I will do better next year. Today, I ate the first peas, and yesterday Princess Pirate said the peas reminded her of Grandma and Grandpa's garden, so that alone was worth the effort.

 

ON WRITING

Writing feels essentially a selfish act.  An attempt to thwart mortality and live on in words, that in future, you will no longer be able to speak. The opportunity to tell a story that no one else in your life is willing to listen to. It requires time away from other social interactions. Carved out from the time you could spend with others. The focus taken away from all sorts of other priorities. Time all for yourself. A pleasure only for the extremely shy and introverted and antisocial. A feeling of guilt for me. A futile exercise. A waste of time.

Living alone in covid, writing feels less selfish. With families insulating themselves at home, the extroverted demands of society dropped precipitously. Writing becomes therapy. One hand clapping in the forest, never to be heard. An attempt to refine one's thoughts. The defence you never had a chance to voice in real time. A legacy you leave without knowing who it is for, if anyone. A voice in the wilderness, perhaps sent out only to the vibrations of the vast magnificent universe itself.

Writing feels like necessity. The vice of selfishness I was taught, I now see as self-preservation. The church's idea of centuries warping the ancient ideas of a spectrum. From a balance of yin and yang, to Aristotle's Golden Mean twisted into black and white. If it's not a virtue, it is a vice. Selflessness is the virtue. Selfishness, the vice. Leaving no room for self-care or self-preservation.

Writing is self-care. Writing is for self-preservation. Writing is for me.

FRIDAY, EVERY OTHER WEEK

 I am always surprised at how low I can go on the day I say good-bye to my girl for another week at her dad's.

It's been almost 6 years since she left for a new apartment. It used to be that it was the end of the weekend, and I would dread beginning the week. A void was left in my heart every other week. 

There were many shifts I went in for in tears, with palpitations.

Eventually, it became clear to me that the schoolweek that followed depended on the weekend before, and after a few months of relentless advocacy, the day to say goodbye became Friday. 

It has evolved from an evening of tears, complete with sobbing to a recurrent disappointment with plans falling through and a bag of potato chips and a bag of licorice.

OUT WITH AN ACHILLE'S HEEL

I have been sitting on my duff for 2 days now, reading the first novel in the Apollo series by Rick Riordan. I am feeling that is ironic to be reading Greek mythology when I hurt my foot running after watching the beautiful race of Eliud Kipchoge in the Men's Olympic marathon. It also feels ironic that my thought was always that Achille's heel was a tendon rupture, but with the familiar lancing pain stemming from the insertion of my plantar fascia, I wonder if this wasn't the Greek hero's heel problem.

Turns out I should have just left well enough alone, and heel step like I had been for the last 6 weeks. None of the runners do that in the Olympics, though, and so I though I should try it out on Monday. By the ten minute mark, I had tried to correct my mistake, but then my ankle didn't seem to get any messages from my foot, and feeling disconnected from my right shin to the ground, I kept up an easy run, starting to shortcut the route, knowing that I still had about 4km left to get home. 

So here I sit, with a pair of crutches my constant companion, and Princess Pirate playing mother with glee. 

At least the ice pack is a relief in this heat wave, but I can feel my muscles atrophying and cardio dropping off, and I am terrified at how long it will be before I can get back it.

So, instead of running, I will write. I will try and get back to running as soon as I can, and not forget what I have done. And I will wear insoles and only run on trails, after I ice my heel as much as possible until I am back at it. 

I will also likely finish the Apollo series, and maybe the Heroes of Olympus, if I have too much time on my hands.

It has been quite a lesson in dependence and gratitude. I am not used to anyone doing anything for me, and I am told that I am bad patient. That being said, Princess Pirate has been very dutiful in taking care of me. She makes me meals, cleans up, carries my crutches, and generally chastises me for trying anything but moving to the couch with crutches. 

She has spent a LOT of time in the kitchen cleaning up, brings me breakfast in bed, composts every day, and revels in making a meal without a recipe. 

She made fresh pesto from the garden basil, and learned that canola oil is not EVOO. She has doctored our drinks with mint and lemon thyme, served me hot beverages, microwaved cheddar apple filled tortillas for a decent quesadilla, and, for the first time ever, boiled water unsupervised to serve us pasta with a side of corn, bean and cheddar salad.

I miss the climbing gym and waterslides and organizing the basement plans that we had this week, but I have seen a responsible side to PP that I didn't know possible, indulged in watching the first sport climbing Olympic event to debut at Tokyo 2020, and started to focus on the writing that was missing in July when I started running. 

My heel has cooled down a lot, so I hope this "sprain" calms down faster than the plantar fasciitis I got when I was in Spain and lasted for 6 months.

In the meantime, I have one more day to be spoiled and cooked for, so I booked us a swim tomorrow afternoon, and will get to bed soon. When breakfast arrives, PP has no qualms about waking me to enjoy it!

LIKE SAND THROUGH AN HOURGLASS, MY THOUGHTS AND MEMORIES PASS BY

Sometimes I have the most brilliant ideas. Mostly I am impressed by the simple brilliant ideas of others, but they inspire me to have brilliant ideas myself. The trouble is that, while they are coming up with these ideas from their memories, I forget mine.

Today, I went for a run and I brought headphones and started my podcast app to distract me from the heat and pain. The speakers were spontaneous, and funny, and brilliant, and some ideas galvanized for me. But as I sit down to try and recreate my thoughts, I am stumped.

I can't even really easily retrace my thoughts, because, in order to keep free data space on my phone, I have the podcasts that I have listened to erased.

I usually end up listening to one of two shows: Planet Money or 99pi. I think that it's funny that my favourite show is about money. It's so far from my focus, but I think I like the logic and math of it. It is also amazing that it talks about most topics in life, and so many shows seems to be spontaneously "lightening in a bottle".

So here is what I remember:

Warren Buffet made a bet for $ 1 million dollars to invest over 10 years, which he won by investing in the first index fund that ever existed: Vanguard in 1976. The index is a great argument for being average. 

This was juxtapositioned with an article about the notion of average ended up leading us to the sizes of S M L clothes. The clincher idea was at some point fighter pilots were making mistakes, and it turned out that the one-size-fits all cockpit fit no one. So that's how we came to adjustable seats that now come standard in our cars. 

Then there was an unusual economist, in that he was also socialist, who explained the problems and the common misconceptions about capitalism. Essentially, the common fear about socialism is that it is confused with the authoritarian models that no one likes. But the idea of socialism was finally put forward in a reasonable way, and the Spanish company of Mondragon (after the name of the town) is a fine example. There are still pay differences, but the highest to lowest paid is within a ratio of 8-9:1 and not the capitalist current rate of 224:1.

There was even the argument made that with capitalism, we have disparities and injustice in our capitalist society, and that the way to even this out is to broaden our use of socialism and have less employees, and more fair employers.

 

JULY IS THE MONTH I STARTED RUNNING AGAIN

The last audio book that I listened to was called "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" by  Haruki Murakami. I honestly thought it was going to be a book by a runner, but it was actually the story of a popular fiction writer from Japan who runs in his spare time.

Like many autobiographies that I have listened to lately, I disliked the writer for a good portion of the time. But I was inspired, after a hiatus of over two years, to re-aquaint myself with the runner identity that I honestly thought at my age that I might have to leave behind.

The idea was to run, and write. This author, like a favourite fictional character named Kinsey Milhone, made a habit I have never achieved. They both ran daily, and a number of miles, and this always makes me want to do the same. Being a realist, however, I was certain I would never be able to do anything that regularly even if I didn't have to work, so I decided to take my favourite kind of number, and run every other day on the odd days beginning on July 1st.

Now that it is August, I happy to report that I have managed to run every other day for a total of 16 runs. It hasn't been easy, and it has been far from regular distances , but I have done it every single odd day. The problem seems to be, however, that I have even less time to write than ever.

At the beginning, I did what I always do when I lapse and start running again. I took a familiar route after digesting a simple breakfast, and willed my way down the hill, under the golf course, back up again to the waterfront, past the marina and the park, and back up through the streets to the nearby train station and up and around to the park that is at the bottom of my street. All told, a 6.6 km route that took 45 minutes, and the first real cardio in ages.

The next day my knee was swollen, and I had the familiar dread of the right medial meniscal tear that took me out of running for a summer, and probably affected my running for more years than I can remember. 

Day 3 came and it was the second day of ward call. I opted for the first time ever to take care of my health first thing, and went in to work to round on a Saturday after that. I did the same route, but when I look back on the fitbit tracker, I was in the peak heart rate and not in cardio. I was about to learn that I needed to run smarter now that I am older. 

Now I iced my knee, and it was harder to bend it for stretching, that I very quickly felt that I needed. My knee was still swollen the next day. I iced it and treated it gingerly. It didn't feel too bad.  I felt more tired that I usually would early in the day, but I was proud to actually do it on call. Work days are usually bad days for exercise or sleep. In this case I was only sacrificing a little sleep.

Day 5 came and I ran the same route. It was hot and muggy, so I went out in the evening before the sunset. I couldn't imagine doing this everyday, but I thought I might get this every other day thing going.

Day 7 was a late run, and it was a critical decision to do this run, because I had worked all day, and the Habs were in the playoffs. I still had cable for one more day, and it ended up that it was their last game of the season. In mourning, and now after dark, I ran the well lit streets in my neighbourhood, finishing before midnight, on a slow jog around the streets and bike paths without having to cross any traffic, around 4 km. 

Day 9 followed a very late shift, and plans for a walk with a friend in the afternoon. I would have rather hung out with my daughter, but she was keen to get some alone time in the house, so I kept a promise to myself, and ran after supper for a 20 minute 2.7 k run around the neighbourhood, enjoying the sunset.

Day 11 was another late one, with my summer birthday cleanup and Princess Pirate's summer birthday preparations in full swing for the next day. I ran for 30 minutes around 10 pm, with PP up late but encouraging me not to break the chain. It started to feel like the shorter distances were a better fit for me, which was disappointing, but I started to recognize my knees and abdomen again as not so frightfully middle ages as I had feared would be permanent. 

By this point, my running was better, but I had to remind myself that I took up running to get into the practice of writing, and I wasn't doing that at all. Any free time I had was taken up in the act of running. Stretching was also difficult to get in, and my lower back was starting to feel tight.

By the time day 13 and 15 came, I was camping, and sometimes walking far enough that a run felt like a lot of effort. But the habit was kept, and the hills were not as tough as they would have been in the first runs, and I would run around the campgrounds and through the forest trails, even if the length of run was not as long. Combined with the drive and an air mattress deflating for uncomfortable sleeping, my back and legs were contracting up into flexion. I had in mind the visual of a faun, with the bent legs of a goat, but feeling none of the advantages of their natural spring. Stretching in the gravel wasn't easy, and I was starting to think that this was not going to be a sustainable frequency, but I committed to idea of finishing the month, and was starting to know what day it was most days. After covid isolation and decades of irregular shift work, I had often loss the sense of weekdays and weekends. Now, I knew at least that it was an odd day if I was running and it was even day if I was not.

Now it is August, and I did take a pause for a few days, and felt a twinge to watch the odd day pass without a run. I did the smart thing and scheduled my 3 runs a week in my calendar, not based on the day of the week, or an odd or even number. And so on August 4th I ran my first run of the month. Now when I run, I have to run a good distance. In the hot weather this week, this meant that I headed to the local woods where the trails are shaded.

In one month, my legs are stronger, my knee doesn't bother me if I take short strides, and I recognize my body again. I have to stretch before and after for just about as long to feel normal (the toll of the biped is contained in the hamstrings and calves at this age), and I may have run 5.5 k today in 45 minutes, when I ran a 10 k in 49 just 20 years ago, but after a prolonged hiatus, I can call myself a runner again. 

Now I just have to figure out how to be a writer too.