I Wrote This Post on My Long Run on International Women's Day

 When I was eight-nine-ten I loved to draw naked trees, stark against the white gray sky. I loved the sharp, insistent contrast against the pale background of the cloudy Paris sky.

The art of it. 

I colored the intertwining maze of branches with the darkest black, delighted with the simplicity and intricacy of it. How easy it was to find solace in that silent scribbling. When the blue finally shone through, a glimpse into a world too bright, I considered it an aberration. 

I was never an artist, but I cherished being alone with my pencils and my thoughts, pretending to be. 

It felt like being under water, swimming in complete quiet, my slim body light, buoyant, and all to myself.

As an adult, a mother, a wife, it's difficult to find that same solitude, that white, perfect piece of paper that is all mine to fill. But I find it where I can. I find it when I'm home on Fridays, after the dishes are done and the cat and dog hair is swept away and the living room blankets are folded into tidy bundles, ready to be wrapped around us during movie night. I find it when I polish the wood floors until they shine in that glossy, slippery way that makes the sun shining through the patio doors glimmer.  When I go to Kroger and pick a sweet treat for my daughter's lunch or a fancy triple cream cheese to pair with the weekend's sourdough bread, which is fermenting on the kitchen counter. What a luxury. 

And then, there's the running. What a pain in the ass that is. But once I get past the "what the hell was I thinking" part of mile number three, my face on fire and soaked in sweat, I feel unabashedly strong and proud. I wonder if that's where the word "empowered" stems from. 

That's when I talk kindly to myself. When my body is exactly what it was meant to be. I forget about my bulging belly and think instead about how the ache in my thighs is a precursor of muscle being born. I forget about the world being on fucking fire and think instead about my daughters, your daughters, your sons, on the verge of fixing what is broken. That's when I remember the blank canvas that is just waiting for me, for us, for them. 

Peace out.