As soon as I started to run last Sunday, I couldn’t catch my breath. In fact, I had to walk within a block or two, and an older man (although not that much older than me!) with a limp passed me with his shuffle. While some of my colleagues insist the official clock is correct, I did not see anyone behind me. Either way, I came in alone, far behind everyone else, and the clock above me said just over 17 minutes, not the 13:02 time seen here. We will never know the truth.
As I walked away from the race, feeling disappointed and embarrassed, I looked around very briefly for my colleagues, but couldn’t find them, and so continued on to get my car and drive home. I was honestly in shock at how poorly I had done, as I can certainly typically run almost a mile and faster than even 13:02.
Now, this area of the city lives deep in my heart: a favorite store, the location of my Sweet Sixteen, an apartment where a good friend lived, and the gym in which I found my second yoga class. So, even though I felt sad and disappointed, I also felt happy and warm. It was a beautiful day—sunny and breezy.
The story of coming in last at a race has been written before, I thought, but, still, I am someone who has to write about my experiences. I didn’t want to wallow in the sadness, but I was’t clear about my feelings. Experiencing multiple feelings at once, all of which are meaningful and deep, can make it difficult to write clearly, but, suddenly, I remembered the poem 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
by Wallace Stevens
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
Eventually, a few minutes after I got home and walked Dolly, I wrote this:
13 Ways of Looking at Coming in Last at a Race
by Donna Raskin
I
Among a few thousand runners
The only moving thing
Were not my feet. Which were still.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a sloth
In which there is no energy.
III
The runners whirled past me in the late summer breezes.
It was a small part of the embarrassment.
IV
A man and a woman
Are runners.
A man and a woman and a slow runner
Are separated. By many blocks. Twenty of them, in fact.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of slow running
Down Fifth Avenue
Or the idea that I could have stayed in bed.
But I didn’t.
I showed up.
VI
Cheering spectators lined
Fifth Avenue.
The blackbird flew overhead
Soaring among the green leaves
Just above the pavement.
The mood
That filled my mind
Was disappointment.
VII
O thin runners of Manhattan
Why do you imagine that I am only my pace?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Makes my journey worthwhile
Because we share imagination.
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird does not care at all
That I came in last.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
I crossed the finish line
And turned right on Central Park South.
X
At the sight of Bergdorf Goodman
I smiled,
Even a runner
Likes to shop.
XI
I rode home to New Jersey
In a Subaru,
And talked the whole time
To my best friend,
Her voice reminded me
That joy is not
A number.
XII
My legs are moving,
My mind is reciting poetry.
XIII
It was sunny all day
The birds sang.
The birds will sing tomorrow.
I walked through Central Park,
I ran down Fifth Avenue.
The blackbird did not know
My time.
Now, when I think about this day, the humiliation and loss will all have been worth it because I wrote a poem that I like and that expresses exactly how I feel. Thanks, Wallace Stevens.
yogadonna 
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