On a classically perfect Inland Northwest fall day, a day where all the trees seemed lit from within and the light loved everything it touched, my kids and I logged off our various devices, rubbed our bloodshot eyes, and respectively pedaled/ran the few miles to Spokane’s Lincoln Park. We love how this park—with its scabs of basalt erupting from grassy wildflower meadows; its turtles, ducks, red-winged blackbirds, and resident blue heron; its car-less paved loop on which a smattering of runners, walkers and emerging bike riders can usually be found—feels like such a refuge for animals of all species, including our own.

And it was a refuge. After a long day of online learning for my 2nd and 5th graders, after jumping between technology assists and my own online work, after many days of smoke-filled skies and an AQI reading stubbornly hovering in the “hazardous” zone, among the many difficult days of a difficult year in a difficult season, my spirit felt puny and weak, as it has often felt and will feel again.

On the other side of the park, where views of the city stretch out into greener valleys and hills, I saw this young ponderosa pine growing sideways out of a sheer rock cliff. It was a young tree, but not that young, and that we had in common. Other things, too: We were holding on, the tree and me, and it seemed tenuous—improbable, even, but we knew how strong our foothold was. We knew our root, wedged, was also held in turn by something strong.

So much will have happened between the time I am writing this and the time this essay runs. And yet, with any luck, the world will be here. The earth, strained as it is, will still try to self-regulate into the winter months. Nights will be long; the sun will feel far away when it shows itself. I’ll hope for snow, just as I’ve done every year since I was a kid. I’ll keep trying to write into the unknown, trying to think about how we keep holding on, keep turning our faces toward the sun—even as so much of what feels unknowable, or doomed, or terrifying, demands and consumes our energies.

Part of what connects us to one another is the undeniable fact that everything we love, we will lose. Life, the seasons, this beautiful, perfect planet—even now they are slipping, ever so slightly from our hold. If you are reading this, breathe in. Can you feel how the air nourishes and invigorates you? Can you feel it caress your skin? Is the sun still in the sky? Is your heart in your body? Go on. Go on. No matter how toxic the air, the trees are working to make it clean. We must reserve some love for them. We must love the trees as much as we fear, as much as we rage, as much as we fight or feel numb. Do not grow numb to the trees.

I see that I am writing this to my future self. I am trying to send myself a message from the past. Sometimes writing is like that. Hello, you. It’s me. I’m stuck in this moment—it is sometimes happy and often overwhelming—and I go for walks looking for portals. Have I found one in “Last Page” today? Time will tell. In time, I will pass from where I am now to where I am now. Epochs will come and go. Balances will be disturbed, reset, evolve. Sometimes, when I feel so panicked about all that we have wrought, I close my eyes and telescope out—see, in my mind’s eye, the earth as a small, lovely marble swirling among stars. What happens here is everything. What happens here is a butterfly’s wingbeat in the whole wide universe. Imperceptible but not inconsequential. As we know.

Watching that spindly sideways young pine tree sway slightly in the afternoon breeze, its stars of needles extended like jazz hands, like possibility, like ‘help’ and ‘yes’ and everything an open hand comes to symbolize, it’s tender shoot reaching for sun and its commitment to hold on, to grow, to grow, to grow—I felt a kinship. I felt like, I think I can try a little harder. Let’s keep trying. Let’s keep trying.

Ellen Welcker is the author of the poetry collections “Ram Hands” and “The Botanical Garden,” and coordinates The Bagley Wright Lecture Series on Poetry. She is an all-seasons fan of the outdoors, whose interests include running, Nordic skiing, and backpacking.

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They’ve tried cross-country and running clubs. They get started, attend a few times—and then they quit. It’s not fun, they’re too hungry, too hot, too bored; they want to read, they want to go home.

This summer, I heard about something new: a kids half marathon challenge. They’d commit to running 13.1 miles over the month of September. Given past experience I knew I was imagining something that was unrealistic, and yet I saw it this way: Us going for every-other-daily one-mile runs in the crisp morning air, starting with run/walk combos, chatting happily. With practice we’d go a little faster, returning home elated and breathless. They’d learn in elementary school what I didn’t discover until college: Running is the best! With their okay, I signed up my two daughters, ages 7 and 9.

We started strong, jogging with occasional walk breaks for two separate 1-mile outings. Then, we hit a snag: My 7-year-old was OVER IT. It turns out she’d only agreed to this whole thing because I’d misspoken and said every finisher would receive a trophy. (Note: evidently, a medal is an infinitely lesser object.) She slowed to a statement-making walk that said, “You have betrayed me, and this whole thing is dumb.”

And then, the wildfire smoke arrived. For 10 days, running outside was off the table. Our next “3 miles” were 1) running, walking, and jump roping in the house, 2) a mile’s worth of dancing, as best as my Garmin could guestimate, and 3) lots of jumping on the trampoline.

At that point, the smoke cleared, but the truth was obvious: Running wasn’t happening. We casually walked the rest of our miles.

Running has made me stronger, eased my anxiety, shown me beautiful things. But running also reminds me what every parent needs to hear sometimes: My kids are not me. And thank goodness for that. My kids love to dance. They love to jump. They’re obsessed with swimming. They circle around and around our living room, leaping from dilapidated couch cushion to wobbly Ikea coffee table. They dash to the neighbor’s tree swing during breaks from virtual learning. They sprint across my bedroom and launch into diving somersaults across the bed. They already know, by instinct, what their bodies love.

During our less-than-perfect half-marathon, we discovered that a tree we’ve been passing by for years is ideal for climbing. Even now that September has ended, we’ve walked there together. My girls have learned to navigate its angled trunk and sturdy branches. I’ve listened to their triumphant whoops and cheerful shrieks as they plot how to climb the highest they’ve ever been and bicker over who gets to sit where. Sometimes I wander near the trunk bored, wishing I’d brought a book. Tree-climbing isn’t something I especially enjoy. But it reminds me of another important thing: Our incredible good fortune. My kids are happy, healthy, and wholly themselves. What else, really, is there?

Sarah Hauge is a writer and editor who lives in Spokane with her husband and two daughters. She wrote about yoga for runners in the previous issue.

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