An Experience with Virginity

journal entry, Jan. 20, 2011

Thursday morning run with Brad. As has been true much of late, we ran through several inches of snow, which makes for a damned intense workout.

At one point, while I was leading, I commented that I may have just come to a new understanding of the word "virgin." The snowfall fresh from yesterday and last night had indeed created a landscape which was entirely new and untouched. The trail lay hidden; but for our knowledge of it we would not have known of its existence. The snow lay lightly and silk-smooth, in obedience and complement to the contours of the land and to the terrain of the Missouri woods.

A truer blessing is hard to come by than running in these conditions with all senses engaged: this serendipitous sighting of nature's momentary yet perpetual virginity; the tactile awareness of cold dry air around one's face; the layer of snow gathered around our ankles and packed into the spaces in our shoes; the smell of a winter world, whatever that is; the sounds of . . . ourselves, grunting as we planted our feet on hidden stones, chatting periodically and breathing heavily as we slipped and legged ourselves up a number of hills; and the taste of cold, Midwestern winter air, biting at first but soon taken for granted and sucked in without noticing the pleasure - the taste of life, really.

What gratitude I'd now like to express for this gracious gift.

Red Bird

journal entry, Jan. 19, 2011

I thought of Jake Page twice on my run today. First, about a mile in, right after crossing under the bridge at BRP, I saw a flash of red zip through the trees, settling in an upper branch for a minute. I stopped and stared, instantly aware of the stillness surrounding me. I had spotted a cardinal. Just yesterday, I read Page's essay, "Red Bird." In it, he mentions in passing that the cardinal chooses to make its life with us year-round. On looking again, I wonder if I imagined this direct statement, but I do remember thinking as I read, Really? I never knew. His essay in part is about a little burst of hope, a choice for optimism we can experience in sighting this little bit of bright red in the midst of a gray and dreary winter.

And then, a day later, for the first time I can remember, I have the joy of experiencing this myself. The background today was not simply gray however; it was a beautiful winter day, though quite cold. But snow was falling, the ground already coated with a thick layer rapidly growing thicker; small flakes struck my face and eyes as I ran, and tree branches carried that "crew cut" snow-profile Page describes in another essay.

So this cardinal today was a bright red beauty within bright white beauty and I stopped in my tracks - not for the last time on my run - for several moments until the mysteriously hearty bird lifted itself from its temporary perch and flew further away.