Member-only story
When I read about the Montana woman who ran a 3:11 marathon while pushing her three children in a stroller
I’m not saying that you need to do any of these specific things —
birth children
run a marathon
birth children and then run a marathon —
in order to prove something
or be a “real” woman.
Let go of any meaning of this
that does not tell the truth,
by which I mean: any meaning
that does not amplify the glory
of what we are.
The marathon might be this day
this lifetime
this job
this illness
this wreck of a heart
this broken world we have been willing to burn down,
with our selves and our bodies locked inside,
with the ferocity of our knowing,
so that some new hope could finally green the ash.
And look what she pushes, mile after mile.
Only you know —
the bright burdens you bear
that sweat and swim in your vision
along every sun-scraped minute,
everything you’ve created and groaned out…
