They call them rest days, but they aren’t always so restful, as Michael discovers when he takes a day off running and tries to write.

Rest day. No running. Well, no running unless I can’t stand it. I’ve got a migraine. Bad juju, I think. Too much thinking, not enough acting, too little clarity, too little, too often. “…Too much of nothin’ makes a fellow mean…”( “The Mighty Quinn” according to Bob Dylan).

On the other hand, it is what I have made of  it — the running, the writing, the shooting, and like that. So it must be in my own hands to at least do the work…seat of the pants in the seat of the chair, quit yer whinin’ and write something, anything. In an hour or two you can go chop some wood, literally, and then you can rearrange the weights, move the bench, do the laundry, sell something to someone, anyone, eat lunch a spoonful of complex carbs at a time, vacuum the living room, edit the last post, drift across the universe in a Facebook space module, quit whinin’, send out the rent check (late), hang the microfiber, dry the other stuff, gaze out the window, gaze at my own navel, shift the fleet up the coast (as if), write some more. Nap.

The road leads somewhere, even when I can’t see for looking. Keeping the faith, lifting my eyes to whatever I believe in, taking my medicine, literally and otherwise, and keeping it tight. A rest day? Not so much.

Photo Credit

“Alley in black and white” © Michael Lebowitz. All Rights Reserved.

On any given day, at any given hour or minute, running means different things to the runner.

November 4, 2010

Ran the straights today, walked the curves. My body is sore from the cross-training regimen of chopping wood and hauling water. The water part is just for the rhythm of the sentence. Yesterday, I walked and ran a little in the afternoon as promised. Took my camera and saw my neighborhood getting ready for fall. The late sun lit it up like gold hiding in the pasture not yet gone to winter grey.

This morning, in addition to an ambivalence about love and life and its demands, my stomach said enough of the muesli, let’s get back to eggs. Despite all the physical grumpiness, distance was run, time was put in under a star-filled sky whose constellations played hide and seek with a rolling fog that is still hard upon the valley.  M was not there to describe the celestial journey but B and R took note.

My favorite local Russian coaches were there again, wondering at the fog and warm weather after the days of rain. Miami was not like this, she said. No, it was hotter and more humid, he said. Then they laughed and started yelling out splits to their protégés.

I was reminded yet again that running with purpose is not necessarily the same as training for an event. Sometimes, the reward is in the distance, or the surroundings. Sometimes, it is in the time over distance. And sometimes it is in the companionship of other seekers out there before daylight. For me, it is  a commitment to continuity and self-expression, requiring nothing more than a pair of shoes and an opportunity to take the first step.

Photo Credit

Photo of moss and gold leaves in the fog © Michael Lebowitz. All Rights Reserved.

Michael works up a hunger by participating in a human ritual “that predates damn near everything” — chopping wood for the fires.

November 3, 2010

Wrote a story once called “Woodpile” about moving the wood that is implied in the picture below. I let the wood sit facing west since then and now it is time to revisit the story and the work. Gray day, hint of rain, no words flowing, a heavy heart. It’s a perfect day to transform the rounds into fireplace logs that will heat the house and become background for the stories to come.

Getting ready for winter is as old as winter itself. Feels good to know that, to participate in a human ritual that predates damn near everything. Fire bringers, light in the dark, heat in the cold…survival and myth. Perfect.

I decided to catch a late run this afternoon. The woodpile was calling my name. Cross training is how I think of it when I don’t think of it either as a job, work, or some mystical connection to the fire starters and the dawn of man.

There is something to be said for putting up your wood for the winter. And, equally, stopping for lunch and eating because you worked up a hunger.

I’ll go a couple of  miles this afternoon and feel like the day has gone well. Tomorrow I’ll be back on the track and I’ll likely do some more wood chopping. Hard not to like the early Fall.

Photo Credit

“Woodpile” Photo © Michael Lebowitz. All Rights Reserved.

On this past election day in Oregon, Michael looks back to the time he got his voter’s card when he came out of rehab, and how a bureaucratic slip of paper signaled a new start.

November 2, 2010

Met M and R at the coffee shop. The rain was light but steady, as much mist as rain; gentle, warmer than expected. Walked to the track. Straights and curves today. It’s my fourth day with steady output. Came back later to take a picture of the flag on election day. Did not bring a tripod, which limited my range of choice. Got what there was. I’ll likely go back another morning.

On the way back to the car, I remembered coming home to the US nearly 10 years ago. I went to get my license renewed at Motor Vehicle Branch in Denton, Texas. A big-haired, bored Texas gal took me through the paper work. Finally she looked up, said we were done but for one question: What party affiliation did I want to list on my voter registration card? I told her Democrat.

After another minute or two she handed me my license and my voter registration card. I could drive legally in the US, approved by the State of Texas my license said, and I could vote legally in the 26th congressional district in the Great Lonestar State.

It was just another Texas-hot day in June, but there in front of me was a battered, slightly crumpled guy, standing in front of the MVB window, staring at two slips of paper with an amazed look on his face. I saw him looking back at me and it was only then that I noticed the tears rolling slowly down his cheeks. The gal who had driven me over from the rehab joint I was in at the time came up to me and asked if everything was all right. “Yeah,” I said, “I guess.”

And I handed her the papers. She looked at them for what seemed a long time. “Welcome home, Michael, glad you made it, ” she said and then turned away and headed back to the car. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t referring to Texas exactly, more like home from 30-plus years living abroad and more than that locked into drugs and alcohol. Yeah, I said to myself, long time comin’, and wiped the tears away.

Funny thing how the biggest moments, the end of the longest journey, can be marked by a little scrap of bureaucratic nonsense. So it’s election day. I already voted by mail as we do here in Oregon, but before I did I took my now out-of-date Texas voter’s card out of its resting place in my desk drawer and renewed my acquaintance with it. I remembered a big-haired ol’ gal in a Texas motor vehicle bureau and said, Thanks y’all. My time to go and be counted.

Photo Credit

“In the morning when I rise…”  © Michael Lebowitz. All Rights Reserved.