Really, it’s cold here. Seriously. Really cold.

For today’s thoughts on Michigan politics and/or feminism, please visit What We Said – it’s a more substantial post than this one will be.

Sometimes, when I sit down to blog or journal or write, I face horrible writer’s block.  Other times I’m overwhelmed with how much I want to say, and a multitude of ideas and inspirations nearly overwhelm me. Both are equally incapacitating, and today I’m suffering from having *so much* to talk about, *so much* I want to say.  But I have to trust that there will be time, there will be time, to get it all out.  In the meantime, I really need to talk about the weather. Don’t continue if you are offended by profanity.

That is to say, this weather.

What the fuck? It is COLD out, colder than any autumn I can remember. I think I waxed poetic about it in an earlier post but it’s no longer romantic, it’s just cold, like December cold. This morning I had to scrape my car windows, and not a light scraping either, I had to put some serious arm muscle into the endeavor. My glasses fog up whenever I enter or leave a building, and the glory that should be Michigan autumn leaves has withered up and fallen onto unprepared lawns, leaving their destiny unfulfilled.  Everyone is walking around in a daze, staring lifelessly at one another from beneath their hats and above their scarves, completely confused.  It went from eighty degrees to about forty, with no gradual decline in temperatures to savor the crisp fall air, the first cup of cider, the early-evening excitement of a football Friday night.

It just got cold.

I sort of regret the rant I went on a few weeks ago, telling S. that I would unequivocally NOT move to California even if he receives the biggest job offer in the world there, so certain I was that the change of seasons is essential for my biological clock to function, that the rhythm of life is stronger and better here in the heartland, here in the good, solid midwest –

San Fransisco suddenly sounds, well, not so awful. 

Yesterday when I went running, because like a loon I decided to train for a marathon in August and not, say, in April, it snowed, and then the snow changed to freezing rain, and it was really this surreal experience because, beneath the billowing gray sky and canopies of barren trees, I jogged the mile and a half home and, in my busy busy suburb, did not see one car.  I felt like I fell into the twilight zone, just me and my ipod and the endless slate sky, snow catching in my eyelids, birds forming endless black Vs in the sky, the disconcerting call of Canadian Geese interrupting Jimmy Buffett singing about the boats he has to build.

I have to say, though, for the first time since I started this mission, I realized how committed I am to this whole marathon training.  Like writing the novel, running is all about showing up, going further than you think you could, under circumstances you previously never would have considered.   But, unlike novel-writing,  at its core, running is beautifully simple. You buy the right shoes and follow a plan and so long as you warm up and cool down and log in the miles, well, your goal can be achieved. And that’s why I think I like training for a marathon, even in the midst of Michigan’s mini-ice age.  You find yourself in unlikely places, facing frustrating and uncomfortable obstacles, but by putting your head down and pounding out the miles, you reach your goal.

Maybe novel writing and marathon training are more alike than I first assumed. 

Well, like my freshman composition students do,  I have “written myself into my point.” But, fortunately for me, this is my blog and I don’t have to go back and revise the whole thing with a new focus. I can just hit publish, and go make a hot cup of tea. 

Sometimes we forget, life really is good.