Running on a river contributes to my physical and mental well being. Today, I reflected on the riparian visions grounding me in times of crisis. I then thought about how and why rivers came to play such an important role in my ability to remain (relatively) calm in the face of emotional confusion or unhealthy urges. In doing so, I recognized a need to return to a schedule of regular runs along my present home river, the Wabash.
I spent twenty years calling the city of "Dirty Water" home before moving to Lafayette, IN. The years collapse and intermingle and then come together again, making life in my twenties and thirties a series of random flashes, much like a meteor shower. At some point in the late-1980s, I lived with Maryclaire and our red-haired friend Amy in a brownstone in Cambridgeport. Amy, whom I once touted as my soul mate, introduced me to some of the most important things in life, like folk music and noodle kugel. In our apartment at Fairmont Avenue, we attempted the impossible: squeezing three independent and individual women into two and a half bedrooms. It was more than the low rent that led us to perform this herculean and ultimately impractical feat. It was also the exquisiteness of the well-placed apartment. The turn-of-the-twentieth-century structure had open faced brick walls, hardwood floors and an old-fashioned tub with feet. It was an irresistible space, in part, because Amy's dad, the landlord-carpenter, was inspired by the simple lines of Shaker design.
I spent twenty years calling the city of "Dirty Water" home before moving to Lafayette, IN. The years collapse and intermingle and then come together again, making life in my twenties and thirties a series of random flashes, much like a meteor shower. At some point in the late-1980s, I lived with Maryclaire and our red-haired friend Amy in a brownstone in Cambridgeport. Amy, whom I once touted as my soul mate, introduced me to some of the most important things in life, like folk music and noodle kugel. In our apartment at Fairmont Avenue, we attempted the impossible: squeezing three independent and individual women into two and a half bedrooms. It was more than the low rent that led us to perform this herculean and ultimately impractical feat. It was also the exquisiteness of the well-placed apartment. The turn-of-the-twentieth-century structure had open faced brick walls, hardwood floors and an old-fashioned tub with feet. It was an irresistible space, in part, because Amy's dad, the landlord-carpenter, was inspired by the simple lines of Shaker design.
Major life decisions, ones that I am still living out today, were made on runs along the nearby Charles River. Fairmont Avenue is close enough to the Charles to take advantage of the Dr. Paul Dudley White Bike Path for runs of whatever length I might choose. I would go down River Street and hook up with this waterway, heading toward Harvard Square. Sometimes, I ran two miles to the Harvard Bridge. On my more ambitious days, I ran all the way to the Elliot Bridge, a four-mile run. I distinctly remember that one of my very first runs came only days after moving into the apartment, and this after I had spent the summer backpacking through Europe. I was twenty-four years old, and, as I ran, I recognized that it was time to apply to UMASS-Boston in order to earn my BA.
(Charles Krupa/AP)
Fifteen years later, after living three years in Morocco, I would return to that apartment as a sole tenant. I was then a Ph.D. candidate intent on completing my dissertation on urban labor in precolonial Fez. Early mornings, once again, I ran, but this time I headed east along the meandering and sluggish Charles River, away from Harvard Square. And so, I faced the Boston skyline, which shimmied and flashed like a futuristic utopia. At the outskirts of MIT's campus, I crossed the Mass. Ave bridge. I counted Smoots as I did so, keeping my mind occupied at the midpoint of my run. (Smoots is a local unit of measure that emerged when--conjecture here--drunken undergrads rolled Oliver Smoots across that bridge in 1958.) I returned to my apartment via the other side of the river, behind the Boston University campus. It was approximately a five-mile run. As a graduate student finishing my dissertation, a run along the Charles River was as critical to my well being as turning on my computer and writing two pages.
I went onto the job market in early-2005, and one of my clearest memories of an initial two-day visit to Purdue University was the crossing of Indiana's Wabash River. This waterway--only 1/5 the size of the Charles River, but just as storied as its eastern counterpart--separates Lafayette from West Lafayette. I had grown up hearing my father play "Wabash Cannonball," so it was thrilling to see the river on which the name of the fictional train had been based. "From the great Atlantic Ocean," I recited to my future colleague, "to the wide pacific shore." These were the opening lines of a song that had once made me wince, because it had seemed so unsophisticated and parochial. A quick google search reveals that I can't now identify which of the hundreds of covers of this nineteenth-century tune my father had in his collection. My father, however, listened to it often, just as he did the equally "nerdy" "Ballad of the Green Beret" by Barry Sadler. Both, he would have argued, were songs that spoke of American greatness. I can now value "Wabash Cannonball" as a major piece of musical Americana, one that I credit my father for having discovered well before my neo-hippie grown-up self encountered folk music.
Charmed by Lafayette, I rented a two-bedroom apartment next to the Wabash River and began to learn the seasons of a Midwestern waterway during my early morning runs. In the spring, the baby bunnies ran rampant. If you went for a run at dawn on the Wabash Heritage Trail, their scattering made the grass whisper. In the late-summer, I noticed more grasshoppers, which darted from the high dry grass like bullets. At the same time, spider webs became more elaborate, presumably so that their inhabitants could indulge in the meaty grasshoppers for dinner. There were other fantastic--almost fantastical--fauna at the Wabash River. For example, what city-girl from the northeast had ever seen an eagle?! Or a fox?! When a fellow Northeasterner, a "city slicker" from Queens, visited Purdue University, he was equally amazed at the local wildlife. "Do you see," he noted, pointing to a furry brown beast just behind my shoulder, "that chipmunk!"
Charmed by Lafayette, I rented a two-bedroom apartment next to the Wabash River and began to learn the seasons of a Midwestern waterway during my early morning runs. In the spring, the baby bunnies ran rampant. If you went for a run at dawn on the Wabash Heritage Trail, their scattering made the grass whisper. In the late-summer, I noticed more grasshoppers, which darted from the high dry grass like bullets. At the same time, spider webs became more elaborate, presumably so that their inhabitants could indulge in the meaty grasshoppers for dinner. There were other fantastic--almost fantastical--fauna at the Wabash River. For example, what city-girl from the northeast had ever seen an eagle?! Or a fox?! When a fellow Northeasterner, a "city slicker" from Queens, visited Purdue University, he was equally amazed at the local wildlife. "Do you see," he noted, pointing to a furry brown beast just behind my shoulder, "that chipmunk!"
| Fascinated, I decided to photodocument the Wabash River on a month-by-month basis. Eager to begin, I went out on 1 January 2008 and trekked through freshly fallen snow. I looked for--and easily found--beauty on the banks of the river. There were bunny tracks in the snow. There were bright red berries on a desiccated bush, a gastronomic beacon for a hungry deer. There were clusters of tall grasses--once green, now golden--standing tall on the banks of the river in the midst of a wintry storm. A dozen ducks treaded water, and I wondered if feathers really kept fowl warm. This winter ramble forced me to look closely at the world. I found beauty in everything, even the electrical plant stationed next to the railroad tracks a half mile from the pedestrian bridge where my trek began. I remember I had felt glum before leaving the house but returned feeling refreshed and mentally alert. | |
Building upon my love of rivers, I now use creative imagery to undercut my cravings for alcohol or food and also keep emotional ogres--like anxiety, resentment--at bay. When I want to drink or eat, I conceptualize my unhealthy desire as a dead log floating down a river. The flotsam and jetsam comes into sight from the right side of my vision and exits to its left. This unwanted debris is an inevitable feature of any natural watercourse. But that figurative log--or those metaphorical clumps of grass--must be moved out of the river that flows through my mind, because they embody negative thought patterns. As the image unfolds, I find myself tasked with making sure that this debris does not get stuck on the banks of the river. After all, and to bring the metaphor to its breaking point, I am not a disruptive beaver intent on building a dam that will upset the ecosystem.
Thus, my love of rivers--a physical place to be present and mindful--has also fostered for me an imagined space that keeps me grounded and in recovery in the real world.
What image, I wonder, keeps you grounded? And why...?
Thus, my love of rivers--a physical place to be present and mindful--has also fostered for me an imagined space that keeps me grounded and in recovery in the real world.
What image, I wonder, keeps you grounded? And why...?
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