I Am a Slow Poke

This is the first assignment in the identity research paper called “Piece of Me: Identify Reflection” in which students list the various categories that they identify with and then pick one to look at in more detail. I’ve written about being a writer and a collector in the past.

This “Flora Dora” card print was made by Pocatello, ID artist, Pat Bingham. I got it at the Sagebrush Art Festival and all the websites associated with her and her Zoopsia art are expired. I Dora was only one of four turtles I found in my office this morning. Turtlephile?

I Am a Slow Poke

            I am a teacher, a writer, a reader, a mom, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a woman, a Kansan, a financially privileged white person, a Midwestern transplant in Idaho, an “Anglophile,” an Episcopalian, an LGBTQIA activist, an amateur photographer, a feminist, a night owl, a lapsed musician, a hiker, an outdoorswoman, an introvert, a “smart kid,” a public school advocate, a bleeding-heart, an art collector, a gem and mineral enthusiast, an aromatherapy junkie, a tea drinker, a Libra, a television addict, a shoe hoarder, a wannabe hippy, an insomniac, and a tortoise, not a hare.

I awkwardly leap over a big pile of duck poop blocking my path. Even running at my slow, plodding pace, I was almost too late to avoid stepping in the slimy green and white pile on Sacajawea trail. I’m not very coordinated, so I land hard on one foot, the other following behind gracelessly. A springy, tingling pain radiates from my feet through my calves, reminding me of falling from the monkey bars on the playground of West Indianola. “Damn ducks,” I whisper to myself. But I know it’s not the duck’s fault. Instead of watching for poop on a poop prone area of the trail, I was concentrating on matching the rhythm of my breath with the rhythm of my feet. My breath demanded that my feet move faster, but my feet were ready to start slowing down.

Realizing this, I amend my previous statement. “Damn, I’m getting old,” I chuckle to myself, momentarily distracted from the effort of my jog.

As I try to recover my pace, I look around at the dry grasses to my left and the running brown Portneuf River to my right. I often see people and animals around this area of the park, so I’m curious if anyone saw me, but I am alone. I chuckle again entertained by how much better I feel to know my dumb jump hadn’t been observed. I carry on at a slightly faster pace, shaking off the mild throbbing in the balls of my feet.

Rounding a corner, I begin to hear the good-natured honking of the plump, overfed, docile ducks who live at Sacajawea Park. “Wonk-wonk-wonk,” one pretty little mallard says. Another replies, “Wack-wack-wack.” They waddle out of the path just enough for me to cut through the midst their ranks.

I slow my pace to say hello to the ducks that surround me on every side. “Hello, my friends! I have no food for you today!” I say in the most cheerful, duck-like manner I can muster. They continue quacking gently, barely moving as I get close to them. I’m that unthreatening. Then the swans show up, thinking that I must have food to be causing this kind of commotion. So disappointed to discover it was an empty-handed sweaty lady, they hiss and snap at me and my duck friends, finally breaking up our fun little party. “I’ll see you all tomorrow!” I say, waving at them as I begin jogging again.

I’ve reached one of my favorite stretches, where the river bank is close to the path and where trees on either side of the trail form a tunnel of leaves and branches. The sun breaks through the leaves like twinkling glitter. The trail twists and turns, with dark and secret pockets of mystery. I hear voices ahead and slow my pace to keep from running into someone by accident as I round a corner.

It’s a group of older ladies. They are wearing outdoor clothes, with floppy hats, khaki pants, and binoculars. I’m afraid I might have scared away whatever they had been observing, but they smile as I approach them. I slow down even more to try to see what they were looking at, but there were no birds anywhere nearby. One of the women cheers me on, saying, “Keep it up! Keep running! You can do it!”

Trying not to wonder if she would have said the same to a young and thin woman, I smile with a thumbs up. My headphones are in, so I keep running. Well, jogging. Well, bouncing at a walker’s pace.

I don’t need reminders that I look slow and strange when I’m out on the trail. I know I don’t look like a runner. I know I’m slow. All I have to do is run with my husband, who can walk alongside me as I run at my comfortable pace, and I know where I stand. But I wouldn’t change anything. I will always stop and talk to the ducks and look for birds in the branches. Being a tortoise instead of a hare has always served me well in all areas of life. It isn’t a race, but a journey, and I intend to enjoy it.