And I knew the crisis was coming.
And then it did. And for some reason, of all the things that fell apart, it's the lack of running that makes me angry and crazy. Four weeks until my Favorite Race, and my 8.5 miles are slow and staggery. With the wind and the wet and the wind, I had to accept a few minutes standing alongside the trail, watching the lake pound against the shore. The jewel tones and the anger and the push-pull of the waves and the shore, the receding cold and the exhilaration and the immenseness and the immediacy of it all. And when I turned around, the wind was at my back, pushing me faster into the wet and the cold and the passion of those waves.
I don't understand some of the choices I'm making, but I don't feel wrong about them. This is not what I want, but this is where I am, and right here-right now is so fiercely right.
This year, in all its shattered glory.