Came over all photographer this morning
struck as I was by the nonsensical isolation
of My Auckland, so–called ‘big’ CITY (in the country)
You can run out your front door & be
engulfed in the warmth of the ice cold winter bush
Why do people sleep (in their heat-pumped homes)
when there’s this to break their fast:
hebe in the dawning light
pukeko unafraid stripping soft flesh from a piece of straw
pohutakawa bud, dormant promise
roped off paths slipping in to the sea to defiantly run along
the haunting call & flap of hurried flight
birds disturbed by my running feet
on gravel, shell, clay
the echoing horn of the Half Moon Ferry
as it leaves its dock across the bay
a few horses coated, one stretches over the fence to lick dew
a paddock of cows, toadstools
forefront Maungarei, standing roughly round
like an undiscovered passage tomb
This is what fitness is
Hauora
Auahi Kore
appreciating the survival of indigenous toanga
living on
despite colonization, urbanization
the pukeko, hebe, the Maori man line-fishing off the rocks
carrying on ways from the past
carrying on
©
Saturday, May 23, 2009
FINDING A BREATHING PACE
Boxing Day 2008. A stupendous morning – marking an amazing achievement. I managed to jog right round the lagoon without stopping (except to tie up a show lace)! I don’t know how this is possible. Maybe it’s because I’ve had a rest. Since the XTERRA Rotorua race, I’ve only managed to walk around the lagoon. The 10k run was twenty days past. Haruki Murakami talks, in his book What I talk about when I talk about running, that when he’s training for a marathon he has to build to a peak and then drop off the intensity a few weeks before the event. And after, the motivation drops away.
Maybe it was the Raw Food. Renata, who ran the Raw Food workshop (our work xmas do), went on about the benefits but I listened like she was a preacher, letting it wash past me blah-blah-wild-claims-&-exaggerations. But, our Christmas fare this year was Raw: stuffed mushrooms, cucumber bites and the surprising tri-colour cake. And then there was the beetroot martini – a wondrous cocktail of fresh beetroot, pear and apple juice mixed to proportion with sake. It really was a trip. It was like drinking moral superiority – that feeling that comes with doing something good and healthy beyond the norm, but then like a scorpion’s tail the alcohol undermines it all with a sliver of guilt. Still, it was a revelation to sit eating dessert on Christmas night and not feel totally stuffed with stomach groaning dissent as yet another spoonful of saturated fat passes the tongue.
We all slept heavily. I didn’t wake up with a burning intention to run right round the lagoon. I expected it to be the usual struggle: jog, burn, puff, slow to a walk, cajole myself up to a jog again, go into creative writing mode to distract from what’s happening in my feet, back, breasts. Run on despite passers-by (which would usually put me off as I imagine their sight of me: fat jiggling, crimson with effort).
Maybe it’s the new running shoes, which so far have been hurting – leaving the callous’ on the balls of my feet rubbed and painful and my heels aching.
Breathing makes a big difference. Finding a breathing pace, a speed (which is not an accurate reflection of my jogging since there’s hardly any speed to it. I used to call it a shuffle). But, I’ve finally found a set distance to move each foot, a comfortable height for lifting each foot off the ground and a rhythm upon which to breath in and blow out. Surprisingly, my heart can cope if I give it enough wind and I can keep going.
Maybe it was the Raw Food. Renata, who ran the Raw Food workshop (our work xmas do), went on about the benefits but I listened like she was a preacher, letting it wash past me blah-blah-wild-claims-&-exaggerations. But, our Christmas fare this year was Raw: stuffed mushrooms, cucumber bites and the surprising tri-colour cake. And then there was the beetroot martini – a wondrous cocktail of fresh beetroot, pear and apple juice mixed to proportion with sake. It really was a trip. It was like drinking moral superiority – that feeling that comes with doing something good and healthy beyond the norm, but then like a scorpion’s tail the alcohol undermines it all with a sliver of guilt. Still, it was a revelation to sit eating dessert on Christmas night and not feel totally stuffed with stomach groaning dissent as yet another spoonful of saturated fat passes the tongue.
We all slept heavily. I didn’t wake up with a burning intention to run right round the lagoon. I expected it to be the usual struggle: jog, burn, puff, slow to a walk, cajole myself up to a jog again, go into creative writing mode to distract from what’s happening in my feet, back, breasts. Run on despite passers-by (which would usually put me off as I imagine their sight of me: fat jiggling, crimson with effort).
Maybe it’s the new running shoes, which so far have been hurting – leaving the callous’ on the balls of my feet rubbed and painful and my heels aching.
Breathing makes a big difference. Finding a breathing pace, a speed (which is not an accurate reflection of my jogging since there’s hardly any speed to it. I used to call it a shuffle). But, I’ve finally found a set distance to move each foot, a comfortable height for lifting each foot off the ground and a rhythm upon which to breath in and blow out. Surprisingly, my heart can cope if I give it enough wind and I can keep going.
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