April 28: Running, Crocus, New Cartoon

One of my favorite things in the whole world is running, especially on days when the temperatures are in the 80s and 90s.  I am not a cold weather runner.  When the thermometer dips below freezing, and snow and ice are in the air and on the ground, my running shoes go into hibernation.

Today, for the first time since about December, I laced up my running shoes and went for a run.  It was a gorgeous 55 degrees, and the roads were clear.  For the first half mile, it was great.  My breathing was easy, and my legs felt strong and ready.  It was all downhill from there, however (in a bad way).  I ran through a puddle that was deeper than I expected, soaking my shoes and socks.  I ran up my first hill (about a quarter mile incline), and, by the time I hit the summit, I was almost dead.  The rest of the run is a blur of God-help-me-get-through-this-what-was-I-thinking pain.  As I sit here typing this post, I'm still coughing and sweating.

Now, you're probably thinking, why does he like running so much?  I can't answer that question in any rational way.  Ever since I was in high school, on the cross country team, I've liked the push and stress of distance running.  I like setting an impossible distance for myself to run, and then making it possible.  I even like the exhaustion I feel after a really good, hard, hot run.

Running is absolutely one of my favorite things.  I love the sun.  I love the warmth.  I feel like a crocus pushing through the snow today.

Saint Marty is ready to burst into song:  "May is bustin' out all over!"  You get the idea.

Confessions of Saint Marty

March 15: Spring Is in the Air, Psalm 7, and Dog Crap

Well, this blog has to be quick and short.  I haven't had a lot of time to be thoughtful, aside from the few minutes I took to compose the following poem.  However, it is March in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and the temperature is in the mid-forties.  I could have walked across campus to teach my class without a coat on.  That's right.  Spring has arrived, at least for the next few days.  It bolsters my spirit and fills me with thoughts of summer.

Anyway, this poem was inspired by the weather of the last few days.  Saint Marty hopes you enjoy it.

Psalm 7:  Praise Hymn for Dog Crap

Praise the smell of dog crap in March,
Fecund as tulip bulbs waiting to sprout,
Patches of mud, pools of snow melt,
The ancient shift toward vernal equinox,
Primal as Louis Leakey's Kenyan digs,
Skulls, bones of Adam's sons and daughters,
Driven out of a place of eternal produce,
Carrot and cuke and scallion and broccoli,
Blueberry, watermelon, banana, kiwi,
But not apple, not that serpent fruit
That sentenced the human race to evolution,
To the hunch of spine to fire, to a spit
Of brontosaur, blackened with smoke and fat,
Chewed with ape teeth to a pulp of protein,
Digested, absorbed, converted to muscle,
Skeleton, tendon, blood, a form suited
To ice age and mammoth hunt, stone
Spear versus saber tooth, the struggle
With bronze, iron, pyramid, pharaoh,
The split of Red Sea, a forty-year Bataan
March in the wilderness, then a land
Of milk and honey, a land of promise,
Filled with the reach of crocus
Through frost, through mud, through snow,
Through dog crap, toward the blessed sun.

Dog Crap Is in the Air