Mourning, May 27th

At 7:30 this morning, towards the end of a 6km run in which far more energy was expended choking back sobs than keeping my feet moving forward, the rice paddies near home were newly green, bursting with life. Already at 6am, when I climbed the mountain to bury my too-tiny kitten, the fields and paths were full of old women and men, planting. It strikes me more every spring, how old the farmers are getting. The same people who did the work when I arrived, long before I arrived, getting a little slower and more bent over each year, still working. No young people ever take their places.

It is possible that running through tears is a more productive use of energy than just curling up in a pathetic ball on the bed and wailing away. Certainly it frightens my rabbits less. But the whole point of the endeavor was to wear myself out too much for the waterworks to keep on, something you'd think would be relatively easy after a sleepless night spent crooning to a miniscule fur ball in obvious distress growing weaker by the hour in the crook of my arm. And yet here I am, 6 km later, crying over every little thing (figuratively and literally) with no apparent end in sight. Lesson: running may strengthen your heart, but not for stuff like this. Nothing strengthens your heart for this.