Setting my priorities straight

If my roller skis had eyes, they would be looking at me accusingly right now. I haven't touched them in weeks (except for when I moved them from the hallway to the boiler room last Saturday, so that they wouldn't burn holes in my back with their accusing, non-existent eyes every time I picked my running shoes over them). A few weeks ago, I was in great shape and had just found some of my long-lost motivation. Then, I went to this amazing party. The party was so amazing, it took me two weeks to recover.

I almost never drink, and on those rare occasions that I do, I drink maybe a glass or two. Even a glass or two can leave me feeling shattered the day after (the main reason I never drink anymore). That was not one of those occasions. That was one of the occasions when you have such good fun, you lose track of time, forget your own name and wake up with a tattoo on your forehead swearing eternal love and devotion to someone called Chi Chi.

The price I had to pay for this particular little indulgence was a compromised immune system and a subsequent, very stubborn cold that lasted for two weeks. During those two weeks I ate my own weight in chocolate, moved as little as possible to keep my heart from racing (maybe the chocolate had something to do with it racing? Nah, that can't be it) and watched an entire season of Braindead (had there been more seasons, I would have watched them too). I turned into a mushy heap of laziness and apathy.

Being sick sucks.

Once my throat cleared up, I went for a run. Everything ached. Old injuries that I thought had healed woke from their deep slumber and launched repeated attacks on my body. Although I was running on a gorgeous forest road, surrounded by autumn-clad birches and grandiose spruce trees, I longed to get home and rest. I logged 25 difficult kilometres that day. My legs had obviously forgotten how to run.

The next day, I thought about going roller skiing, then changed my mind.

The day after, I thought about going roller skiing, then changed my mind.

The day after that, I went for a long run instead.

Today, in spite of a gorgeous sun painting the trees all shades of orange, red and yellow, I once again find myself choosing other things to do. Autumn is the time for books and crocheting and watching films. Slowly winding down after the frenetic activities of summer and before the long hibernation of winter.

They're not going to read themselves.

The accusing, non-existent eyes of my roller skis are boring a hole through the walls.

Babel

 There is no poetry left in the world. There is poetry in my heart, but when I open my mouth to let the words fly away and make a nest in someone else's tree, they have no wings to fly with. The sounds I make are rusty, frustrated attempts at a whale song in a feline world.

There is poetry in the world. The skittish deer disappearing into the woods as I ran past it on my long run last night told me so. The fleeting clouds in the sky told me so. The dirt I gathered underneath my fingernails while gardening told me so. I dig and plant seeds, so that next year there will be even more poetry in my world. Is it poetry if the words you speak are in a different language than everyone else's?

If no one hears, maybe they'll see. I use my hands to turn wool into leaves and flowers, structures and abstracts. I use my hands to turn stone into Eden. I use my hands to turn clay into screenshots of my mind. My heart speaks through my hands.

”Beautiful”, they might say. Yes, but do you see? Do you see beyond me and that which I make? Don't look at me! Do you see that I'm pointing at my heart and the poetry that longs to find others who speak the same language? Do you see the almost infinite amount of stars, the intricate details of a butterfly wing, the laughter of the one I love, all huddled up in there? Do you speak my language?