"A Runner's Guide to Noticing" by

Ms. Molly McGraw

-ToRossGay,ClintSmith,MaryOliver,andanyotherwriters whohaveeverurgedmetolookup.

There are two things I want you to know about me, two changes in my life as of late:

The first is that I moved to DC in August, and I have yet to live through the changing of each season to the next, but, so far, the change from winter to spring is my favoritemetamorphosis.The city takes a deep breath. The cherry blossoms peek out. Residents of DC and visitors alike walk a little slower—there’s morelight, so what’s the rush?

The second is that I, very recently, have fallen in love with running. Yes, I love running for the typical reasons I feel stronger, I have more energy, and with each step, my mind’s seemingly endless stream of thoughts slows to a manageabledrip. An unexpected benefit, however, of my new running regiment is that, when I’m running, I’m locked into the present moment.

Mary Oliver writes the following in her “Instructions for living a life”:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.

When writers such as Mary Oliver advise their readers to pay attention, I envision a slow noticing a “coffee in hand, got all day, café commandeering” noticing. This is not the type of noticing I do when running. When I’m not wondering why I thought running nine miles in 90 degree heat was a good idea or when I’m not peering down at my already reddening arms, wishing that, even though the smell makes me slightly nauseous, I had put on sunscreen (yes, even at my age, I’m still learning how to care for myself), I’m noticing blips of people’s lives that become impressionist paintings in my mind.

I’ll show you what I mean.

2.1 miles into my run, I’m on the National Mall, running past the National Gallery of Art. On one of the benches lining my path, I see a woman readingMrs.Dalloway—the cover is imprinted on my mind, Clarissa Dalloway’s remarkably imposing sunhat blocking her partygoers’ faces. 50 paces later, I wonder how socially unacceptable it would have been for me to plop down by this stranger and ask where she is in the story and whether she’s gotten to the part when Clarissa peers through her bedroom window into her neighbor’s house (pp. 185-186 if you’re curious).

3.2 miles in, I’m running on the Tidal Basin, across from the World War II Memorial, and there’s a family picnicking, the mom dolling out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on sourdough (I can tell it’s sourdough because of the flakes coming off the crust) and cans of cheddar pringles.

5.5 miles in, I’m running by the reflecting pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial, and I see several families, parents included, discarding their socks and shoes and running to dip their toes, feet, calves, legs into the water.

5.7 miles in, I see a little girl, probably eight years old. It must not have occurred to her to take her socks off before plunging into the pool because I watch her peel off her now water-logged socks before rejoining her family.

6.6 miles in, I’m making my way back to the National Mall, passing by the Washington Monument. I catch a glimpse of two siblings ogling at a group of twenty teenagers playing an intense game of tag. There’s skepticism in the five and seven-year-olds’ eyes, as if they’re asking, “Aren’t you all too old to be doing that?” (Answer: No one’s ever too old to play tag)

6.7 miles in, I’m passing by a stage next to the Washington Monument. On the otherwise empty stage, a little boy does a cartwheel (an impressive one), strikes a pose, and looks around, wondering if anyone will clap for him (his dad does so enthusiastically).

7.0 miles in, I’m back on the Mall, and on the grass across from the American History Museum, I see a father feed his four-monthold an ice cream cone as the mom snaps a picture. I wonder where that photo will undoubtedly exist for years to come maybe it will hang on an office wall or at the top of a staircase or on a mantel somewhere.

7.5 miles in, I see several couples watching their children run through the sprinklers on the Mall, and even though it will add 0.1 miles to my run, I make my way toward these sprinklers, choosing to run through the cool water if for no other reason than to remind myself that I am a part of these simple moments of unbridled joy.

"Unlove" by Kayla Bernescut

Love is but a rose, a blooming flower in a glass case, guarding its innocence. Cheap glass, it might break easily, leaving the rose vulnerable to all of the sorrows.

Fickle, with petals that entice at first glance, but fall, one by one, little by little, slowly dying. Little knowledge of its fallibility. Toncœur, your heart, a red mass where we say love originates from, from that beating organ aching for its solemn fate, tugging at every word, every petal. They disappoint, leave nothing but a vulnerable void.