Running Into Darkness

Sunday December 12, 2010


Boomer Moose Hill run
Should I stumble, should I fall
Old man age behind


Not feeling up to going out for my birthday last night, Nancy and I spent a quiet evening at home watching Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson in “Last Chance Harvey.” Probably not the best film fare for one prone to critical self-examination and observing a late-fifties birthday. (One of my favorite quotes is from (I think) George Plimpton: “One going on a journey of self-examination should go well-armed.”)

I woke up this morning feeling generally crummy. Knowing one of my problems was a major lack of exercise this week, I did what I often do when feeling down: I headed for Moose Hill. Weather radar showed a gap in the big, cold rain storm blanketing New England so I donned hat and gloves, put the cell phone in a bag, and headed out the door.

By linking the Hobbs Hill Loop, the Kettle Trail and the Summit Trail I was able to run for over an hour almost entirely on trails. Feeling out of shape, my plan was to run slowly and steadily, gently bathing my cells in cleansing oxygen and endorphins. Planning to run slowly and long (for me) has the advantage of allowing for a gradual warm-up. Not only does this loosen the joints, but it allows time for thinking and, perhaps, working on a little haiku, counting syllables with wool-clad digits. There was a moment as I began the steep ascent up to the summit of Moose Hill that I thought about channeling my inner Rocky, but the Acela from Philly was late and The Rock was nowhere to be found, so I walked. At times when I'm feeling weak, I think about this video (Caution, strong language!) and push harder, but not today.

The longer I ran, the better I felt. The light, fresh air and cold raindrops helped lift the fog in my head. I think part of my problem is this damn disappearing December daylight. I always find myself in a funk at this time of the year and figure I suffer from SAD - seasonal affective disorder. But there's nothing better than a little exercise to lift the spirits. By the time I got home, the rain was falling harder, but a good run was behind me, and I knew soon the season would be turning and we would start climbing back to the light.

Five Seven Five

With the energy and optimism of youth, a young man here in town organized a poetry night at our local library. It sounded like something different and fun to do on a cold February evening. I wouldn't call myself a big fan of poetry, but at times I find resonance in the work of some poets like Robert Frost, Donald Hall or Gary Snyder. There were six of us, and I thought that was a pretty good turnout for a place where everybody is always too busy. It was fun and stimulating. I met a few new people and got re-acquainted with some old friends.

I didn't want to go empty-handed, and since the closest thing to poetry I had to offer was a handful of haikus that I've put in this blog in the past, I went through my old posts and jotted them down. About all I know about haiku is that, in one form, there are three lines, the first and last lines have five syllables and the middle one has seven. That length is appropriate for my attention span, and I like to have some simple rule to follow.

These little poems brought back memories, both fond and bittersweet, so I decided to collect all of them in one place. Each one is accompanied by a little background about the moment they came to me. The dates refer to the blog posts where they first appeared.



May on the Deck
May 2007

I like to think about the cycle of seasons and how it affects the natural world around us. Every summer on May first, the chimney swifts return to Sharon to zoom and twitter overhead all summer long. On September first, they are gone. Also in May, the catbirds return to nest in the overgrown and unruly clump of forsythia in my backyard. I love to sit on the deck on a warm May afternoon watching formations of swifts flying their patrols over the house and listening to the catbirds mewing from the green depths of the shrubbery. It makes me feel like the world will be OK for at least one more season.


chimney swift catbird

sky above forsythia

good to have them home



Running to Another Place
June 2006

One of my regular runs takes me from home, through the town center, and over the tracks to the road up Moose Hill. On a good day, my body will feel efficient and my stride will be smooth. As the pumping blood washes over my brain I can get lost in dreams and, at times, I feel like there are secrets in the forest and that maybe a little bird - like the wood peewee - might be trying to share them with me.

Warm summer rain run.

Endorphins bathe open mind.

Pewee calls from woods.

Cold Blood
June 2007

Often times on these Moose Hill runs, roadkill is a reminder of life and death and the way we can crush the natural world beneath our feet and machines. One warm, damp late spring morning, following an overnight thunderstorm after a long dry spell I came across a big bullfrog that had me wishing we could all slow down and be more careful when we drive.

Rain lets bullfrog move

Warm road feels good to cold blood

Driver does not care.



How Quickly We Fall
June 2007


In 2007, I was trying my best to recover from prostate cancer surgery. (Everything is fine now, thanks.) My recovery was not going well, and in fact, I was feeling sicker and weaker all the time. What I didn't know at the time was that I was coming down with a nasty case of Lyme disease, totally unrelated to my surgery. I was confused, frustrated and depressed.

Having had almost no exercise for about seven weeks, I decided to hike to the summit of Moose Hill. While I was reaching for life, once again it didn’t take long to be reminded of death by roadkill as I turned onto Moose Hill Parkway.

Shagbark hickory.

Squirrel tempted by crushed nuts.

One last fatal bite.

Walker sees squirrel.

Maggots dine on rotting flesh.

No life is wasted.

This brought to mind the writings of Gary Snyder where he reminds us that all death nourishes new life.

As I climbed, I felt sicker and weaker. It was hot and dry and trees were dropping leaves prematurely. I was thinking of seasons - and lives - ending before their time.

When does youth turn old?

Like summer turning to fall,

We want to hold on.

How will we turn old? Will it strike overnight like a sudden hard freeze? Or will youth slip away gradually like summer slipping quietly, barely noticed, into fall?

How Quickly We Fall

Having had almost no exercise for about seven weeks, I decided to hike to the summit of Moose Hill. While I was reaching for life, it didn’t take long to be reminded of death as I turned onto Moose Hill Parkway.

Shagbark hickory.

Squirrel tempted by crushed nuts.

One last fatal bite.

Walker sees squirrel.

Maggots dine on rotting flesh.

No life is wasted.

This brought to mind the writings of Gary Snyder I recently discovered where he reminds us that all death nourishes new life.

I pushed on up the road and at the steepest stretch near the top my heart rate approached 150 beats per minute. I’ve decided I needed to get more realistic about how long it will take me to fully recovery from my surgery. After all, less than ten days ago I was in the emergency room for a chest CAT scan for still-mysterious chest pains. I promised myself I’d stay in my aerobic zone – 140 bpm or below.

I left the road and started up the trail to Moose Hill Summit. On the steep, rocky trail near the top, it took great discipline indeed to go slowly enough to keep the heart rate down. I reached the top and was not surprised to see the fire tower was occupied. We’ve been in a nasty drought and any spark could ignite a conflagration. It took me over 49 minutes to cover the distance from my house to the summit, a trip that I did in a little over 23 minutes a few months ago. Of course this time, I stopped along the way to jot down a few lines of haiku and to make a few stops to accommodate one of the less pleasant side effects of my surgery, but mostly I’m just weak and out of shape. Not wanting to be too hard on myself, I thought of the dancing bears. We shouldn’t criticize their dancing but be amazed that they can dance at all. My evaluation of my next hike will benefit from low expectations.

As I turned at the summit and began to walk back down, I saw drought-dried leaves littering the trail. I thought of the wonderful recent blog post by Julie Zickefoose (See sidebar.) called “Letting Go” about how summer can slip away before we notice she is going. I thought about how my chimney swifts left – as they always do – on September first, and I wasn’t paying attention and never said goodbye. I thought about other things that slip away, too.

When does youth turn old?

Like summer turning to fall,

We want to hold on.

How will we turn old? Will it strike overnight like a sudden hard freeze? Or will youth slip away gradually like summer slipping quietly, barely noticed, into fall?

Cold Blood

My recent visits to Moose Hill have been good for my spirit but not so good for my body. Time spent sitting on a rock, searching for birds or gazing at my navel is time not spent getting exercise. A few months of knee pain helped justify slowing down a bit, but my slothful ways lead to amazingly quick weight gain and loss of fitness. The knee is feeling better now and I am running and biking more.

I didn’t have the time to explore and sit in the woods Saturday morning, so I went for a run from home to the summit of Moose Hill (26 minutes.). We had a strong thunder storm Friday evening and in the morning, the air was warm and humid. As I ran through the neighborhood, the fragrance of flowers was in the air and I could almost feel the life bursting forth around me. Insects were buzzing and birds flew about as if on important missions. It was high season in New England.

The road to Moose Hill is not busy, but plenty of cars go up and down in the course of a day. There are several swamps, ponds and vernal pools near the road and someone on foot or on a bicycle can’t help but notice the toll our cars take. Adult painted turtles and snapping turtles die on their way to and from egg-laying, and hatchlings die as they scramble from their nests and head for the water. When the weather is right, amphibians slink and hop from one small body of water to another.

We were visiting out daughter in Berkeley, California in February. February there is like April here. We went for a run on a park road that – in classic California style – was closed to automobiles to protect migrating salamanders. I have fantasies about closing the roads over Moose Hill, but who should be protected? Almost every trip up the hill reveals new roadkill: Frogs, toads, turtles, snakes, salamanders, birds, chipmunks and squirrels are all crushed under the tires. I’m sure deer have taken a toll on car bumpers, but in the end, they always lose too.

As I ran up the hill on that warm, damp late spring morning, I knew the road would never be closed, but I found myself wishing we could all slow down and be more careful when we drive.

Rain lets bullfrog move

Warm road feels good to cold blood

Driver does not care

May on the Deck

chimney swift catbird


sky above forsythia


good to have them home

Running to Another Place

Warm summer rain run.

Endorphins bathe open mind.

Pewee calls from woods.