When winter is at its coldest, when everything is frozen and still, that is when I prefer to run.
After my husband has left to take our 10- and 4-year-old sons to school, I pull on two pairs of running pants, two old, knitted wool hats, two thin jackets, a thick pair of mittens, slather my face in shea butter and then I go out into the weather. The more inhospitable, the better: Once this winter, when I was running in a torrential slush storm of huge, wet, frothy chunks that were sluicing through the sky, my neighbor Bill drove by. Later he told me that he said to himself, “What idiot goes running in this? Oh that idiot!”
Though I am slow, I run as if my life depends on it. Because it does: With two children, the younger one in preschool only two mornings a week, I have almost no time or space for myself. Or for my writing, which must happen around the edges of our busy, chaotic family life.
But when I am running, I find a room of my own. In the wind and bright sun, in the cracking ice echoing through the salt marsh, in the flight of the blue heron up above, in the scratch of my ratty running shoes on the sandy, icy shoulder of the road, I am free. And mostly alone, as few runners join me on the slippery roads of winter.
So, it is there, moving slower than a granny, that I do my writing in my head. On a run, ideas will bubble up. Bits of dialogue for a novel I’m slowly piecing together from notes I have been making since 1998 will loosen from my brain. Like little ice floes in warming waters, they’ll drift unencumbered until I can see them gleaming in the sun. Plots for more novels or children’s stories, bits of poems and, sometimes, when I’m lucky, just beautiful, intact sentences will come to the fore.
The challenge is to remember them.
I carry no notebooks. I carry no phone. Though I usually have time to run for just two to four miles, those perfect, crystalline sentences may emerge when I have a mile or more to go before I can write them down.
I have a system, one I’ve worked on as the world has become more frenetic and loud to me, as more useless information pummels its way into my consciousness, as my fears for the future of the planet have grown and the bad news screeching through cyberspace jangles me daily.
What I do is I find one word about that idea, one thing that will help me remember. I repeat it to myself like a mantra, until I have it. Then, I let my brain roam wild again until I light upon another idea I want to remember. In this way, I start a list of words: “March. Distance. Eating snow. Slipping. Tracks. Forgetting.” I say the list over and over in time to my footfalls, until I memorize it. When I walk through the door, I find the first scrap of paper I can lay my hands on and scribble it down.
Wouldn’t it be easier to carry the phone or even just a slip of paper and a pencil to record my thoughts? Of course. But then I’d have to engage with the device, and it might just be too tempting to check my email or text messages. Or I might need to stop; and with stopping and starting, the thoughts, I’ve found, do not surface in the same way. There’s no feeling more unshackled than having only my mind and my legs to depend on.
It is, oddly, only while running that this system works. In all other situations, I forget. Once, when my 4-year-old was a baby, I was driving through the marsh on our way to pick my older son up from school. And as I came up a rise and the sun hit the spartina grass and my heart broke with love and fear for this beautiful world we live in, a poem came to me, whole. “Oh, I’ll remember that!” I told myself as I rolled to a stop sign. And just then, my son piped up in the back seat: He had dropped his matchbox car and wanted it back. In an instant, the poem was gone. Later that afternoon while waiting for bread to toast for my kids’ afternoon snack, I wrote a poem called “Forgotten Poem.”
When I am running there is nothing but time and my own body and however long it will take me to get there. Everything else needs to wait. And believe me, sometimes it does take a long time. I am that slow. Once, a neighbor saw me running as she was out walking her dog and she laughed out loud. A group of men in their fancy running gear once chuckled as they breezed past. But Joan Benoit Samuelson, the Olympic gold-medal-winning marathon runner who lives in my town and is almost 20 years my senior, has never laughed when she’s left me in her dust. She always smiles in such a game and inspiring way. I’m guessing that she knows, as the song goes, that “freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”
Sometimes, I peel off into the snowy woods, following deer and fox tracks, until I come to a pristine patch of snow, where I grab an icy chunk flavored with white pine needles and run back to the road, eating it as I run on home, the 10-degree wind burning my cheeks. In this cold heaven, I get to pretend for a bit that the world is not heating up, that Maine is still as Maine should be, and that the serious problems facing our world are attenuated in the sunlight.
After March finishes howling through the Northeast with its last icy breath of snow and subfreezing temperatures and the ground finally thaws and the ice in the marsh has melted, more people will take a look at their winter flab, throw on their running shoes and join me out on the road. And though I am happy to wave and keep on chugging, I will know that my perfect season of silent, frozen meditation is giving way to another kind of running.
This is when I take to the woods, running over fields and through trees, splashing through wet ice melt and crashing through patches of thorny brambles scraping my bare arms. In the loamy, melty smell of spring, I will be distracted by flowers and bird songs, patches of green moss and baby eider ducks.
More often than not, instead of lists of words, I’ll come home covered with mud, my sneakers soaking. But clasped in my hand I’ll have precious bits of curly birch bark, small, glinting bits of mica, or a lovely and unusual two-tone lupine — gifts for my children, talismans from a world I fear may be disappearing before our eyes.
Later, cleaned of mud, coffee in hand, in the last hour before my younger child comes home, I’ll sit down and try to write, the window open to let in nature’s ancient, and, for now, perennial ritual of spring.
Caitlin Shetterly, the author of “Modified: G.M.O.’s and the Threat to Our Food, Our Land, Our Future,” is writing a novel set in Maine, where she lives and runs.B:
【不】【知】【为】【何】，【看】【到】【这】【一】【幕】【的】【王】【厍】【心】【里】【忽】【然】【产】【生】【一】【种】【难】【以】【言】【喻】【的】【孤】【独】【感】【和】【恐】【惧】。 【对】，【身】【为】【原】【天】【帝】【的】【王】【厍】【居】【然】【产】【生】【了】【恐】【惧】。 【这】【种】【内】【心】【惶】【惶】【然】【的】【感】【觉】，【应】【该】【就】【是】【恐】【惧】【了】【吧】？ 【上】【次】【这】【种】【感】【觉】，【还】【是】【自】【己】【没】【有】【接】【触】【到】【修】【炼】【的】【时】【候】，【看】【到】【天】【上】【划】【过】【的】【御】【剑】【修】【士】【大】【战】【接】【近】【自】【己】【这】【边】【的】【时】【候】，【那】【时】【候】【的】【自】【己】【手】【无】【缚】【鸡】【之】【力】，【如】【果】
【终】【于】【写】【完】【了】，【有】【些】【不】【知】【道】【该】【说】【什】【么】【才】【好】。 【其】【实】【这】【本】【书】【很】【早】【以】【前】【就】【已】【经】【崩】【了】，【甚】【至】【可】【以】【说】【创】【意】【上】【就】【已】【经】【出】【错】【了】。 【金】【手】【指】【开】【的】【太】【大】【了】，【但】【是】【永】【夜】【却】【只】【是】【萌】【新】，【根】【本】【驾】【驭】【不】【过】【来】，【设】【定】【也】【没】【搞】【好】，【存】【在】【很】【多】【问】【题】，【步】【子】【太】【大】，【腿】【短】，【扯】【到】【蛋】【可】【以】【说】【只】【是】【时】【间】【问】【题】，【能】【写】【到】【一】【百】【多】【字】【万】【完】【本】，【其】【实】【只】【是】【永】【夜】【咬】【牙】【强】【行】【写】【的】。
《【元】【辰】【精】【神】【术】》【起】【源】【于】【神】【识】【秘】【术】，【之】【所】【以】【威】【力】【惊】【人】，【是】【因】【为】【此】【术】【法】【乃】【是】【一】【套】【强】【大】【的】【精】【神】【奥】【诀】【配】【合】【些】【许】【神】【语】【造】【成】【的】，【所】【以】【其】【威】【力】【远】【大】【于】【三】【音】【地】【藏】【神】【诀】【无】【可】【厚】【非】，【但】【是】【三】【音】【地】【藏】【神】【诀】【毕】【竟】【是】【冥】【族】【鬼】【术】，【在】【意】【境】【上】，【跟】《【元】【辰】【精】【神】【术】》【就】【差】【的】【太】【远】【了】，【所】【以】【风】【绝】【羽】【还】【是】【比】【较】【喜】【欢】《【元】【辰】【精】【神】【术】》。 【除】【了】《【元】【辰】【精】【神】【术】》【之】【个】福彩3d开奖结果2018166【曹】【飞】【宇】【此】【刻】【恨】【不】【得】【自】【己】【再】【多】【长】【出】【来】【两】【条】【腿】，【那】【样】【就】【能】【跑】【得】【更】【快】【些】【了】。 【他】【用】【尽】【全】【力】【向】【前】【奔】【跑】，【甚】【至】【丝】【毫】【不】【敢】【向】【后】【方】【看】【一】【眼】。 【听】【到】【他】【的】【叫】【声】，【赵】【寅】【和】【张】【学】【志】【等】【人】【从】【帐】【篷】【中】【走】【出】【来】，【立】【即】【向】【他】【靠】【近】。 【曹】【飞】【宇】【看】【到】【赵】【寅】【等】【人】，【立】【即】【叫】【道】：“【老】【赵】【老】【张】【快】【救】【我】！” 【赵】【寅】【和】【张】【学】【志】【先】【是】【有】【些】【疑】【惑】，【当】【他】【们】【看】【到】【曹】【飞】【宇】
【欢】【声】【笑】【语】【总】【是】【短】【暂】【的】，【在】【经】【过】【了】【几】【天】【的】【准】【备】【后】，【一】【场】【大】【战】，【终】【究】【无】【法】【避】【免】。 【和】【姜】【三】【卦】【所】【料】【一】【样】，【这】【次】【的】【邪】【派】【大】【举】【入】【侵】，【所】【幸】【夏】【龙】【等】【人】【早】【有】【准】【备】，【在】【大】【阵】【的】【帮】【助】【下】，【将】【所】【有】【修】【者】【转】【移】【到】【了】【深】【山】【之】【中】。 “【东】【方】【长】【老】，【对】【方】【似】【乎】【早】【有】【准】【备】，【现】【在】【我】【们】【该】【怎】【么】【办】【啊】！”【一】【名】【邪】【派】【头】【目】【神】【色】【紧】【张】，【询】【问】【着】【身】【边】【的】【东】【方】【贤】。
【陆】【楚】【笑】【笑】，“【我】【这】【是】【玩】【具】【剑】，【伤】【不】【了】【人】，【喏】，【只】【有】【半】【截】。” 【男】【人】【抓】【着】【陆】【楚】【的】【脚】【腕】【依】【旧】【没】【有】【放】【手】，【他】【的】【眼】【睛】【也】【仍】【旧】【紧】【盯】【着】【陆】【楚】【的】【双】【眼】，【仿】【佛】【是】【在】【克】【制】【着】【某】【种】【让】【陆】【楚】【看】【不】【懂】【的】【情】【绪】。 【屋】【外】，【忽】【然】【警】【铃】【大】【作】。 【刘】【岚】【精】【神】【一】【振】，“【肯】【定】【是】【局】【里】【接】【到】207【室】【的】【情】【况】【以】【后】【派】【人】【过】【来】【了】！” 【男】【人】【抓】【住】【陆】【楚】【的】【手】，【也】【在】
【剑】【星】：【集】【世】【界】【之】【力】【经】【一】【元】（【注】1）【之】【数】【练】【成】【的】【杀】【伐】【重】【宝】。（【具】【体】【故】【事】【请】【看】【正】【文】【六】【百】【三】【十】【九】【章】） 【数】【量】：【六】（【剑】【典】【所】【掌】【的】【三】【颗】，【是】【第】【二】，【第】【三】，【第】【四】。【第】【一】、【第】【五】、【第】【六】【剑】【星】【在】【星】【光】【女】【王】【施】【放】【引】【力】【武】【器】【后】【脱】【离】【不】【知】【所】【踪】） 【主】【角】【所】【在】【第】【四】【剑】【星】：【直】【径】80【公】【里】。 【动】【力】：【灵】【气】。 【移】【动】：【内】【部】【就】【挪】【移】【阵】【进】【行】【移】【动】；
【第】【三】【次】【大】【涅】【灭】【结】【束】【了】，【世】【界】【得】【救】【了】。 【但】【是】【涅】【槃】【地】【狱】【晶】【体】【能】【量】【屏】【障】，【还】【有】【反】【弹】【屏】【障】【都】【没】【有】【收】【起】。 【因】【为】【舍】【道】【者】【行】【星】【爆】【炸】【了】，【无】【数】【的】【碎】【片】【飞】【散】【到】【太】【空】【之】【中】，【当】【然】【大】【部】【分】【都】【会】【变】【成】【小】【行】【星】【在】【这】【个】【星】【系】【中】【流】【浪】，【撞】【击】【向】【大】【乾】【帝】【国】【星】【球】【的】【概】【率】【并】【不】【大】，【毕】【竟】【距】【离】【超】【过】【了】【六】【千】【万】【公】【里】，【而】【且】【大】【乾】【帝】【国】【星】【球】【依】【旧】【在】【不】【断】【公】【转】，【很】【快】