The fourth cardinal, green tomatoes and Hemingway

Earlier this week...

Though the photograph makes it rather unclear, this is, despite appearances, my fourth cardinal. It was again, a very small one, and it was enough to make me stop and try to catch it from below. I was coming down Dufferin behind a much better jogger (the long lean male kind...sinew, canvas shorts...you know) and to my surprise he blew right past it. I can't prove that it's not just only a matter of his regularly spotting cardinals on his run, but I do suspect that he never saw it. There's certainly nothing wrong with that, because this guy probably has different goals for his running regime, but I've got to say, it did make me feel pretty friendly towards my own goals. I like seeing things I used to miss: it's like the world is deeper when I move through it. I've found myself spending more time looking at things than I used to, and in different ways. Though I'm still kind of new at this whole thing, I do feel the effects of observation in my non-running life as well.

On a later run the same week, I came up Chapleau to warm up. It's an area of some cute, but aging bungalows, and some semi-derelict-looking apartment blocks, among nice new condos and classic brick buildings. Anything derelict I tend to avoid, having learned my lesson on Prud'homme about gazing into broken windows and scrappy screed doors. Of course I'm totally wrong about this, like so many other things, because as I come around the corner of one of these places, keeping to myself, I notice that the whole side of the building is lined with big pots of healthy giant tomato plants, all sporting big green tomato globes, happily basking in the sun. Maybe it's not fair to judge a place by its tomatoes, but my parents have tried growing them - sorry, do grow, tiny ones, with some success, until there were chipmunks - and what I know from them is that tomatoes are a labour of love if they're going to be unprotected like that, and these were some well-loved tomatoes from the looks of it. Who cares if you don't repair your building, if you can raise healthy tomatoes? Hopefully, not me anymore.

So I'm reading a lot of Hemingway lately (work-related because I have the best job ever) and as I crested Chapleau, meeting Acacia and heading north, something made me think of one of his shorts that I haven't had the guts to try on my 101s yet. Hemingway's shortest story, and some say, his finest work is as follows:

For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.

Garbage day in Rockliffe is always interesting, for the myriad things rich people see fit to throw away. But on Acacia that morning, the things at the end of the driveway were more like what Hemingway imagined. My favorite: a mid-sized aquarium, complete with rainbow stones and a little castle, with a big jagged hole punched into one side. I looked at their beautifully maintained building and wondered if the kind of people that can put a hole in the side of an aquarium could grow their own vegetables lovingly.

Floating feather, little gentlemen, the flying canoe, and giant cats. (also, a note about Lyme disease, and a Will&Kate/Royal Visit update)

Run distance: 4km, time: 29 minutes. End time: 9:18pm. Run soundspan: Neko Case to Grandmaster Flash.

Tonight's run felt better than any so far this season, even though it was short. I was faster, and easier. This is surprising because I spent the whole day on set, which means a lot of sitting and waiting, but maybe also results in a lot of pent up energy. It was a good day though, and I'm really excited about being a teeny part of this project (stay tuned for Michael: Tuesdays and Thursdays this September, airing Wednesdays -strangely- on CBC television). Being on set also means meeting a ton of fantastic like-minded (well, mostly) people. I met a wonderful woman today who's had a really hard year due to an illness that is horrifyingly under-diagnosed and about which awareness, even in the medical community, is frighteningly low. This is even more tragic because of how easily the debilitating effects of Lyme disease can be avoided with rapid treatment. The short version is that you get Lyme disease from a deer tick, it can be sexually transmitted, and most physicians seemingly refuse to diagnose it. At this point in time, if you get blood work done in Canada, it will come back negative when it may be positive. In short therefore, if you suspect you may have been infected with Lyme disease either by a tic bite or by your partner, have bloodwork sent to the United States. For more information, or if you think you or someone you love may have Lyme disease, see the Canadian Lyme Disease Foundation page. Either way, see this film if you can.

Okay,  enough of that for now.

Around the corner from the apartment, a black and grey feather (presumably seagull, based on size), floats atop a flower bush.
Around that corner, two tiny little boys playing tennis on the road. Road-tennis. One of them wears a bike helmet. When I run past them, they limit themselves to little lobs back and forth and come closer together, clearly trying to control their ball, so as not to hit me. Bicycle-helmet grins at me. I say hello, but don't interrupt them. This feels really good, because I don't interact with little kids much, and so I tend to be either really nervous, or sort of irritated by them. These two were sweet though.

Two km later, I'm coming down Crichton, on my way home, listening to Grandmaster Flash explain the Jungle. It's a really good remix, clashing beautifully with the heritage homes on this street. On my right, one of these heritage homes is outfitted with its very own installation-art twig-canoe (at least that's, seeming floating in the air. It looks like this because it is floodlit from below. Up close it looks more like a missile, or a submarine. Short pieces of red yarn are tied to its joints. In this sinking light, it looks like it could ignite at any moment.

Lastly, I encounter three cats on the last leg of my run. Maybe it's only because Cookie is so small, and already so familar, but these cats are enormous. Enormous and incredibly friendly. I am approached by three cats on my way, each one sitting in front of its house very proprietarily. To be fair, one was hunting a robin, but it got up out of its crouch to come rub my leg. They seemed male, though this is only because of their noses, which were just kind of, well, man-cat-ly. I like to think they were trying to befriend the smell of Cookie that is probably all over me, or that being a loving cat 'parent' has earned me some cat posse points. Maybe I smell like happy kitten. In any case, it's lovely to be welcomed and nosed by what seem like giant cat gods before I finally make my way home.

Promised Will and Kate update: according to another woman I met today, whose father is high up in the security team for the Royals, the best place to see them this Canada day is the war memorial, where they'll transition from carriage to car, or vice versa, I don't quite remember. Anyways, she said Parliament Hill would be pretty difficult, but that's a good location to actually get a glimpse of some beautiful people.

Cookie, the Royals, The Old and the Young

My posting is a little delayed, not because I've lost motivation exactly (I've had two or three good runs since my last post), but because we've adopted a new addition into our home, and she's very hard to ignore when you come in from a run. (Mike named her after this penguin ). This is our Cookie:

Well, to be fair, this was Cookie last Friday, when she was all about hiding in our bookcases. 4 days later, she's much more interested in running around our 2 bedroom apartment like a little maniac.

She's only 6 weeks old and therefore too young technically, to be adopted by us, however her mother disappeared 3 days before we picked her up, so there wasn't much support in her original home either. I just hope she'll develop properly despite this. Because of this then, I spend an inordinate amount of time coddling and cooing at her. 

However, yesterday I took an evening run around 5pm - it was cool, but bright despite a little cloud cover. It was June 20, yesterday, making today the first day of summer.

June 20, 5:11p.m.-5:39 p.m. (28 minutes),  244 calories, 3.76 km

Walking briskly up Putnam, I saw two elderly people help each other get out of a car. Though the woman looked slightly younger than the man, they were both well up in their 70s, and more likely in their young 80s. The man carried a walker in his arms, but actually walked fairly well. The woman got back in the driver's seat on her own, at which point I noticed a much older woman in the back seat. She was small, like a child, so at first I hadn't even seen her there. As I ran past the words on the car became clearer: this is a driving service for the elderly. The youngest woman, still easily in over 75, must be driving these other people home. I thought a few things about this as I carried on: most obviously, this must be the future. I should get used to thinking about my 55 year old parents caring for their 80-year old parents, and realizing that my generation and I will certainly be 70 year olds caring for our 90 year old parents. It's a medical miracle that our parents will live so long, and that these single people can equally live on, and continue to care for each other. But the second thing I thought was how scary it is that the elderly will be burdened with the need to take care of each other because at this point there is nothing else in place. I worry, under the current regime, that there won't be anytime soon. I know we're healthier longer, for the most part, and my own parents are a good example of that. I recognize the compassion and kindness of these people in the car, caring for each other, and I hope it will be the rule rather than the  exception, but not in that generation alone. I hope my own generation will be able to care with sincerity. I hope I will remember this when it is my turn. I hope I will be brave enough to recognize my turn.

Because my brain is all cat-oriented these days, I noticed the two grown shorthairs on Dufferin, digging under the governor general's fence. They were collared and jingling, but had clearly killed something in cooperation. They were no  longer exactly cooperating, and the white one carried something away with it through a hole in the heavy, ornate fence, into the restricted lawns and woods of the estate. It seemed odd somehow that that would be possible, but I thought about what keeps me from those woods, and realize it's a very Canadian honor system. I abide by a sign that politely asks the public to keep to the first  two thirds of the estate, and not to explore behind the estate house itself. Given that Will and Kate will in all likelihood be visiting this place and perhaps spending a night or two in that very house, I find it hard to reconcile this hole in the fence with the precautions taken all around the world. I feel a lot of gratitude about this, and carry on.

It's 10 minutes later, when I'm running through Stanley park, where there is a children's playground, that I realize I left something out of my project. I consistently ignore children, avoiding eye contact, trying not to engage with them because I don't know what to do about it. I used to do this with dogs. I don't treat children like people. But I will try, now, to do better. I also see two children jogging. This doesn't seem right. Shouldn't they run to play - like Cookie? I worry they are thinking about thighs and pace. I think about thighs and pace, and try to think about playing instead.

River oil, flower, the cannon, the crow

Thursday June 9, 2011

Run distance: 7.1km, but in all honesty, it's 29 degrees after humidity here, and though it doesn't feel that hot after yesterday's typhoon-building 40 degree day, the relative humidity this morning was 83% or something incredible like that. Apparently in Ottawa, average relative humidity is 68%, and our summers are, on average, humid as heck, so 83% is going to make your (or rather, my) legs feel like lead. Excuses excuses. In short I really only ran about 3k and walked the rest of the way, but what the heck, here's to trying.
Run-walk time: 1 hour

Yesterday's monsoon-like rain storm left the very landscaped lawns of Rockliffe and New Edinburgh a complete mess. Even the front lawns entirely composed of plants (my favorites, and a popular choice here fortunately) look worse for wear, most blossoms having lost their heads yesterday (not unlike the general population). The nice result though, is all the people in safari-type sunhats on hand and knee in the dirt in front of their homes: another pleasant reminder that this is not Westmount and that these people are different.

Crossing St-Patrick bridge towards the Byward Market, over the Rideau River: the most painterly swirls of golden oil in Van Gogh-like abandon cover the dark water. It's dramatic for 10 a.m., and uncanny. It's something limited to art. Like his stars, there's something ominous about it. Mostly this is due to texture: the seeping powder of pollen makes the water - which other days flows freely and sometimes clearly - seem so heavy and deep and still. I recognize the pollen from every surface in my apartment, from the film that covers my arms and legs these days. This makes the water seem foreign, and the river I walk past every afternoon becomes a strange thing.

After a circuit ending at Sussex I come home via the riverbank and cut down Dufferin. On a corner, the most perfect pink flowers bow out over their lawn, the two of them the only flowers left standing, complete untouched, again, seemingly unnatural. Or, maybe, there's something about anything left after such an unusual storm, that just seems otherworldly. Still tied to my devices, I photograph them, wondering if they will seem the same later.

Shortly thereafter, a cannon in a quaint backyard. A real, civil war era style cannon. Lindenlea and New Edinburgh are home to some of the capitals oldest homes, because it was the heart of parliament, hence the GGs. It's easy to imagine that this house was build around this cannon. It peeks out of hostas, behind a grey, splitting picket fence.

On my corner, a mangy baby crow, entirely unimpressed by me. Granted I am not the most impressive human being, but this small crow, probably alone for the first or second time, comes closer rather than hopping away, in their frequently equally unimpressed way. It's like a graceless teenager, feathering all amok and in need of some mother's grooming. I suspect crows do not groom. I back away first. They are too prehistoric, and the morning feels too strange. My mother has a thing about gathering crows, and I suspect angsty adolescent crows are probably the worst of them all. Then again maybe they are just misunderstood.

My first leg of the run took me past the unknown neighbor's apartment. I'd really hoped he would be there so I could ask him his name, and not just the name of his pets. I recognized though, that as I was climbing Acacia, I was a little worried he would be there, and would engage me in his rambling style of conversation. He wasn't there, and I was both relieved and disappointed. It's hard to change.  

Recognitions, Poppies, the estate, the silkworm

Monday June 6, 2011: left at 9:10 a.m., and returned at 10:00 a.m. Total run time 49 minutes, 5.99km, 316 calories. A better run than last week, but I'm still walking about 20%. Though I run somewhat regularly, I'm halfheartedly in training for the Run for the Cure in October, when I want to participate in the 10K. Last year my friends and I ran the 5K, and it was really special.

I set out think morning thinking I'd try my new approach in Vanier and see if it worked as well there as it did in Rockliffe. I never got there, because things started happening in Lindenlea (a neighborhood whose limits I still don't really understand...over the course of these posts it might become very clear that I have no idea where exactly I live, or which community I belong to - maybe a side result will be that one will seem more me than the others, or not). As I was coming down the road behind the Governor General's estate, off Rideau Terrace, I ran up behind an old man - tall, lanky, teetering a bit. From experience I've learned this kind of encounter can end badly, so I stepped onto the road just as he turned around to look for the source of jangling keys and probably very unladylike gasping. He flashes me the most amazing Hollywood smile, despite his fisherman's bucket hat. He is the spitting image of a boy I had a big crush on in elementary school, aged 70 years, but preserved. I keep running after my returned smile and a hello (I initiated a few contacts today and feel better for it), but I think about both him and the boy from school as I keep on. I think this is why I find myself on the GG's estate rather than Vanier...better for remembering.

Three homes in Lindenlea: front yards full of poppies...just dirt and poppies. I don't know anything about this, but it's surprisingly beautiful. Poppies are so much more orange, so much duller than I always think they will be. I think about this. They splay out like the leaves of giant ferns.

The estate is deserted, except for ridden lawnmowers. It's a perfect morning in June, and there is not a tourist in sight. My running is labored and previously, I would not have noticed how entirely alone I was. The GG is still sort of new - he's an ex McGill principal and this makes me feel a little more entitled to his front lawn. I'm listening to a story about refugee camps in Kenya as I come up to his house, and the contrast seems extreme. More extreme though, is the intense singularity I feel running down his lawns - which are in some way, my lawns. Unlike other places of this type, I do not feel watched. I feel alone, but for that reason, safe there. I could sleep. They spread out forever.

Coming out the gates I am still looking: in front of me, in the sun, the glint of an enormous web, yet unbroken by tourists or guards. I dodge, and come away unwebbed. I see the spider that would otherwise be dangling from my elbows now. I feel pretty pleased for both of us. Moments later I will crash right through another web strung between a hedge and a light post. This takes practice.

Awakening: The neighbor, the baby, three cardinals

Saturday June 4th, 2011: 

I left the apartment at 11:50am or so, and returned at 12:44pm. This seems long, for my third run of the season, but I only ran 4.44 km, and not very fast. At the top of Acacia, there was a man sitting on the little patio outside the mysteriously-Malibu  apartment complex at Rideau Terrace. Despite my iPod he said something conversational, but not one of those hello-phrases that lets you get away. Now, given where I live, and my experience with neighborhood like Rockliffe, where I run, I am ashamed to say that I presume people to be rude and uninterested in a young jogger. I am so wrong, and am wrong so consistently, that I know my presumptions must end, and change. This is not the only thing that I realize I need to learn though. It’s not the rich and settled and their children who are cold: it’s me. I like to think I am loving, and interested, but my runs have become guarded, closed off sessions with my ear buds, and my map-run tracker. And as I’m speaking with this older man, who I would normally blow off, especially so early in a run, and I’m petting his beautiful young retriever “Molson Golden”, and his cats Gilly and a young one one on a string whose name I can’t remember, it comes to me that our conversation is real, and interested in each other, and kind, and that I’m actually enjoying learning about this stranger’s career and children, and that he seems to actually care about mine, and when I leave, after about a fifteen minute chat, I can see how disappointed he is. I recognize that I hope I’ll run into him again, and that he’ll strike up conversation, and then, I think about the woman, who in my mind should be on her way to tennis and unaffected by her children and shallow, who reached out to me on Thursday, when it was so hot out. I think about the conversation we didn’t have, and about the things I now don’t know about her. And so for me, who so craves human connection, this is a lost thing that I will never get back. The reality of my position sinks in: I have been the problem here. I run by. I actively avoid listening. I do not share. I, like maybe many others, retreat into the space between my ears, the gadget in my pocket, and the few feet ahead of me. And I miss EVERYTHING.

So, I opened my eyes. My project is about what I will take in and connect with, rather than just run past. My routes are important, my times, my calories, fine. But when I think about my run I want to gather up all the things I experienced, the things we see that seem particular to that experience, the people who speak to you when they know you cannot hear and who bring you back into the fabric of the space you claim. We are increasingly separated, and the world looks different when you run, and these two things are things I think, that make these records worthwhile. I may track my times and distances, but I hope there will be more to track that this. The infinite detail of things when a person runs, is perhaps inspired by the details of our bodies, our fibers responding, our breath in our ears, the texture of the ground, and these things are so important, really, but they can cue a person in to other details of equal importance: the first red leaf, the last tulip or lilac (which is so fleeting), the exotic animal, the neighbor’s first name.

Today, in order:

The French second-language Ottawa U prof, who asked if I had just graduated, who asked about my work, who has a 4-month old retriever, and two long-haired pale orange tabbies. His skin condition which we did not talk about. His friendly neighbor who will not be going away on vacation this summer, who was walking a chocolate lab, that played with Molson, and who was carrying a baguette. 

Up the top of the Rockliffe circle roads: a black BMW with the lights flashing. Nobody in the yard, but a black baby in the front seat, alone. I notice as I’m passing because he looks at me. We look at each other. The baby looks worried because of me. I stop, I go back, I look around some more, I look at the house’s windows for adult signaling. I look for someone to tell me what to do. The car windows are open. I worry, and the baby worries. I worry about what the homeowner will say if I inquire if they know there is a baby in a car in their driveway. To my shame, I do not do this, and I go on, hoping it will be okay, that they are coming back. When I get home, I worry that the front door was closed: it would have been okay, but the front door of the house should have been open. I wish I’d noted the address. I continue to worry.

Two young (because they were small) cardinals on Rideau Terrace by the Eastern European embassy. Seemingly, they were playing, but I don’t know anything about cardinal behavior. They are the second and third cardinals I have ever seen in my life. Yesterday, on a street near the hospital, a cardinal swoops onto a branch above my head. The cardinal is huge and the branch dips. It seems so unafraid and I edge nearer. These cardinals see me and hop-flop into the hedge. They look like they are having fun, or fighting.