Wings & Spikes
It’s been three weeks with this persistent nuisance of a head cold. I can’t seem to shake it off: the constant nose-blowing, a half-second delayed response system and a dull feeling in my legs. Sleep deficit has the same effect on me as alcohol, an inhibitor and a depressant.
Kamala Harris’ stunning defeat cast a dark cloud over me. After North Carolina went to the other candidate, I knew her chance was near zero. I shut off CNN live and stuck to my usual bedtime. Waking up to a sinking feeling, I checked my NYT app at 3:30am, and a slew of missed text messages. “I cried myself to a pile of carbs,” my bestie texted. I thought of my unopened bottle of champagne, still sitting pretty in the fridge. It felt like 2016 all over again: a little disbelief, a lot of grief and hopelessness.
I went to the pool out of habit for cross-training. It’s usually a bustling scene at the aquatic center: steam coming out of the pools and splashing of the diligent swimmers in the early hours. But it was eerily quiet after election day. On the same night, I heard the tragic news that my dear friend, mentor and former colleague, lost her husband unexpectedly. I love her dearly. I always think of Brené Brown’s description when I think of her: strong back, soft front, wild heart. How can life treat her with such cruelty? The tragedy felt like a second punch in my stomach.
I wrote this poem in the wee hours of Thursday (and I'm grateful for my friend who caught all 3 typos!) I did run my 8x800m workout on the track, feeling like a zombie just before sunrise. On Saturday, I ran 115 minutes with a little pickup at the end. Both were solid B- efforts. I’m giving my body a little grace.
I had planned to cancel all my plans
Face-plant myself in bed
Grieve all my grief
Cry all my tears
And finally, maybe bake that flan
But my anxiety ran my tears dry
Like a tired lizard in the Palm Desert sun
My miles need to be run
My babies need their morning eggs and bagels
And their mother's steady hands
This week, my humble little Substack reached a milestone: 100 subscribers. This brings a little smile to my face during this tough week. This seems to be an opportune time to announce that I’m re-naming my Substack to Wings & Spikes. The very talented Nicol Hodges helped me design this beautiful logo, with a bird in motion and its beak symbolizing a spike.
I created this name because of running’s transformative power in our lives.
Spikes: my writing is rooted in running. Over the years, running has become how I interface with the world. Running metaphors become a way of speaking, of explaining and coping with the randomness of life. Running has become a source of confidence, resilience and connection to this earth.
I chose spikes as an imagery of running because of their sharpness. When I wear spikes for competition, the feeling is akin to a musician on stage, right before the light dims; Or of a chef, pulling his/her/their knife out for an exquisite meal; or the smell of a newly sharpened pencil right before an artist begins a sketch. It's the start of a flow state. It's a thrill and peace at once.
Wings: I also intend for my writing to be larger than running. Though you'll find runners' stories, deep focus on women in sports, book reviews and recommendations, I also want to bring universal stories about resilience, growth and transformation. I want to capture lights in unexpected places. I want to express grief, love and healing on my own journey of being an immigrant, a caregiver and a parent.
Transformation doesn't happen in isolation. There's always a village behind one's overcoming of challenges. We fly with our flock. My writing is an homage to all those who have lifted me up and reminded me of my own strength at my lowest moments.
This week, my intention has been to restore my own sense of hope. As a mentor once said, hope is a discipline. I collected a series of comforting words from some of my favorite writers.
Roxanne Gay:
The only thing I know for sure is that this country will break your heart if you let it.
I meant what I wrote yesterday, that everything has to be okay, because I understand what is at stake here for so many different groups of people. Everything has to be okay because we cannot condemn ourselves to the regressive country the Republicans will try to build from the ashes of all the progress we’ve made. Everything has to be okay because we cannot simply surrender. We cannot cede our right to live our lives freely.
Andrea Gibson:
When Trump was elected in 2016 I was on tour in North Carolina. I woke up the following morning more depressed than I’d ever been and stayed in bed until evening when I was scheduled for a poetry performance at a university. Performing felt like the very last thing I wanted to do until I walked into that room full of grieving students (most of whom had just voted for the first time) and realized, “This is it. This is exactly what I need right now. To cry on someone’s shoulder. To let someone cry on mine. And then, to find our way forward together.”
I’ve not yet found words for where I’m at emotionally today, but my most permeating feeling is readiness. I am ready to find our way forward together.
Sharing some older words above that I initially wrote as pick-me-ups for my own spirit during hard times in my life. Maybe one of them will ease your heart today.
"All I know of hate is that it will never beat the love out of me."
"All living is storm chasing. Every good heart has lost its roof. Let all the walls collapse at your feet. Scream TIMBER when they ask how you are."
"Even when the truth isn't hopeful
the telling of it is."
Anne Lamott quotes Adrienne Rich:
“My heart is moved by all I cannot save: so much has been destroyed. I have to cast my lot with those who age after age, perversely, with no extraordinary power, reconstitute the world."
Austin Channing:
Hope for progress is a dangerous thing.
But what is the alternative? What would you have rather done with your time and energy? Speaking up was a good use of your time. Working for change was a good use of your energy. Trying to change the world was the right choice.
Would you rather have chosen apathy? Would you rather have chosen silence? Would you rather have swallowed yourself whole? Surely not.
Because hope is a duty.
And your hope is only tangentially related to the fate of the White House. What is always at stake is the deep belief in your own humanity, in your personhood.
What is at stake is dignity and your dignity is always the right thing to fight for. You must hope because you are worthy.
You are worthy of your humanity being honored. You are worthy of equality and equal protection. You are worthy of everything you fought for.
Hope is a duty. Even when it hurts.
Be angry. But not as yourself for wanting better.
Toni Morrison:
This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write… That is how civilizations heal.
See you next week!