It's Been Awhile Since Posting on Emily Dickinson...and Ultrarunning

Once I had a loved one who became lost...desperately, dangerously, life-threateningly lost.

I could do nothing, except keep my fingers crossed, and hope.  I wore a white wristband in those dark days, on which were inscribed the words "Faith, "Hope," and "Love."

I wasn't much into Faith in those days, nor did Love seem to be doing the trick.  Thus my favorite was "Hope."

So when I found this Emily Dickinson poem, I printed it out and attached it to a plastic six-pack can holder, and taped it to my desk where I would see it many times each and every day.

See, when this loved one was in elementary school, one of the things he/she learned was how plastic waste--like six-pack holders--were polluting the ocean and killing seagulls and turtles.  We had to judiciously snip each of the six compartments with a scissors so if that piece of plastic somehow made it to the ocean, it would not get wrapped around a critter's neck and pose a threat to sea life.

In those dark days I longed for a return to the time when the principal problem of my loved one was plastic waste, not a life-threatening dark monster that was about to engulf him/her.

So I became--and remain still--a proponent of Hope.  With a capital H.  Here is the entire poem:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - 

That perches in the soul - 

And sings the tune without the words - 

And never stops - at all - 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - 

And sore must be the storm - 

That could abash the little Bird 

That kept so many warm - 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - 

And on the strangest Sea - 

Yet - never - in Extremity, 

It asked a crumb - of me.

Hope must have worked...my loved one has now been a whole human being again for several years, and so will remain for the rest of their life.  

Ultrarunning, by contrast, is an optional leisure pastime with no obvious life-threatening implications.  Indeed, the connection to Ultrarunning seems superfluous and trivial, but represents the hope we all have of the next run or the next race being somehow magical or mystical, and far surpassing all hopes and expectations.    

As we head into the new year, may all your loved ones be safe and all your runs magical.

I'm Done With Fear

From Brilliant at Breakfast back on 6 Dec 2012, a post that I saved that captures why I am a liberal:

Few people are better at whipping up hysteria than Republicans. For my entire lifetime, it's been Republicans promising Dire Consequences lurking right around the corner. Their stock in trade, at least since the 1950s, has been fear. Yes, there's loathing too, but the primary focus of Republican energy is fear. Fear of Communism. Fear of the Devil's music. Fear of terrorists. Fear of interracial marriage. Fear of GAY marriage. Fear of black people. Fear of brown people. Fear of women. Fear of children. Fear of job loss. Fear of church authority figures. Fear of hellfire. Fear of God.

Republicans champion fear, and then do whatever they can to create the conditions under which that fear can grow and thrive, because at least up until this past election, fearmongering had shown to be very effective for them.
 

As for me, I'm done with fear, at least of the types of ginned-up fake fear that are enumerated above.  I don't have all that many years remaining to me--my life is probably better than 2/3 over--but I'm going to live it fearlessly.  I vow to awaken each day, not scared of trumped-up "threats," but rather simply be full of the possible.

 

Emily Dickinson and Hope

Once when my soul and psyche were quite low, I came across a wondrous Emily Dickinson poem that truly resonated with me.  I've previously posted on Ms. Dickinson and Ulrarunning.

Photo credit to http://www.findagrave.com/

I don't want to reveal too much of a private matter here, but suffice it to say that a loved one was in trouble, deep, life-threatening trouble. I was powerless to help, except for moral support, since the problem's cause and its cure were entirely in the loved one's hands and no one else's.

I could not and would not pray, but I could hope, and Ms. Dickinson's poem, Hope, gave voice to that yearning, and truly sustained me through that dry season.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.