The recent (today) explosions at the Boston Marathon finish line has had a deep effect on me. Not only as a runner, but as someone who has completed a marathon, who knows that if I work hard, I too can someday qualify for Boston. Today I ran a little over 6 miles, I have a half coming up in June, the 13.1 a perfect race for a full time student / student teacher. Training for a marathon takes months, and ends with long 20 + mile runs. In order to run Boston you must complete a qualifying marathon within a certain time. I think of the finish line at the race today, at all those people who weren't able to cross because someone wanted to hurt people. I think of the hope a runner feels passing thousands of strangers, cheering her on, playing music, spraying her with a hose on a hot day. I think of the good will of humanity that is spotlighted at races, the volunteers who help, handing out water, and running along side you (thank you lady in Hartford, I wasn't sure I could do it.) And I am sad, I am sad for the spectators who were injured or killed, I am sad for the runners who worked toward this goal, to have a dream dashed by an individual who wished to incite fear and cause pain. I am sad because a little of my bubble has burst, my "people" have been affected, my fellow runners, people who I smile at when running by, people who know how hard it is to get out of the house on a cold day, people who know how much pain comes the day after a race. Tomorrow I will run with my friend, we will pass sheep and geese, an occasional car or two. I will run for those affected today, I will run for my "people."
Sunday, April 7, 2013
It has been a while, a long while. I have been student teaching and finishing up my Master's degree. One of the courses I am teaching this semester is Advanced English Projects. Each of the students has their own blog, a list of these can be found on my teacher site, Twelfth Site. That said, I haven't been writing. I haven't felt like writing, until last night. We went to see Neil Gaiman, one of my favorite writers, at Bard College in New York. He read some of his work, in Neil Gaiman style, the stories filled with humor and unique characters. He spoke of setting a goal to write 8 short stories in 8 hours. It made me want to write. I haven't allowed myself the time to sit down and write something other than a paper for my degree, or a lesson plan for my student teaching. This coming week my words will be transformed into music, after collaborating with a local composer, in a piece titled "Wu Xing," in concert with a local group Crescendo. So my words are out there, but what happens after the piece is played, after the last note sung? Have I shut off the spigot, or has the flow of words just gotten stuck behind a clog? The only way to find out is to sit down and type, to see what appears on the paper or screen. What characters are inside, waiting to come and play? Will I take the time from life's busyness to allow myself the simple pleasure of writing?