Stained With Life

Running seems to be a theme for me these days.  Not getting on my running clothes and mapping out a route kind of running, rather perhaps the truest kind of running: running to get somewhere.  Fast. 

My gracious friend gave me tickets to go the Shakespeare Theatre this past Monday to see a tribute poetry reading in honor of Emily Dickinson's birthday.  I was meeting another friend there and I was the possessor of the tickets.  So I ran (I will spare you the details of why but it did involve these things in no particular order: a baby, a toddler and getting myself dressed.)  Oddly, I do not mind these runs these days.  I guess I am in the mindset of efficiency and running certainly is that.  I love the cold air on my cheeks and the boost that comes from slight exercise.  I have to also confess that, although I love my one mile radius of these days, it is energizing to push myself outside of this bubble no matter the effort needed.  After my run, I rested on the metro (I imagine I will always hold public transportation very dear in my heart; thank you NYC.)  And stepping off the escalator at Capitol South, I felt like a kid visiting Washington D.C. for the first time in awe of the majestic buildings so thoughtfully designed with quotes and statues everywhere you turn.

My friend (who has twin babies at home) and I found our seats in the small, woody theatre and settled in and once again I felt like a child of wonder.  It was as if I had never been to the theatre before; I guess this appreciation and awe are the gifts of deprivation. 

Instead of trying to understand every word and stanza and analysis of the tribute, I allowed myself to be immersed in the words and the experience and the passion of the poets and writers.  Instead of chiding myself for not knowing more about Dickinson, I allowed myself to swim in her language.  I am not sure if this was growth or exhaustion, but it doesn't matter.  It was lovely to be free of trying and to just allow.  And again, these things that we strive towards for years sneak up on us in the most unusual of circumstances; not on the yoga mat or in the church (although the may happen there too), but running through the streets or sitting in an old theatre. 

The moderator of the event mentioned a new book of Emily Dickinson's poetry - all facsimiles of her original writing on the backs of lists and receipts and recipes.  She called these scraps "stained with life."  And oh, how I love language.  And the stains of my own life.