Observe Everything

I’ve been thinking a lot about how we use art to create the world we want to live in. For instance, I would love to see a movie where, instead of a man teaching a woman how to ice skate / shoot hoops / drive / swing a golf club (just the worst) / anything physical, and the woman being charmingly clumsy and the man chuckling, kind of amusingly tolerating her ineptitude, instead of all that, a woman teaches a man to do something. Just teaches him something physical and concrete. Doesn’t solve his emotional problems for him or complicate his morality with her body or sacrifice her loudness for his, just, teaches him how to play tennis, maybe. Because women do that in real life.

Anyway, so I’ve been thinking a lot about how to be a writer that calls attention to, for example, the frustrating aspects of being a female, without perpetuating the idea that that’s all we are, or that things completely are and always will be the way they sometimes seem or feel. The simple answer is to avoid certain tropes or female characters who exist only as a function of the male’s identity or journey. But it’s a tricky balance – writing the things we want to happen while holding a mirror up to the things that do happen, that we wish didn’t. Portrayal of females is important to me personally, but the same holds true in many realms; there will probably always be some dissonance between the reality we want to convey and the ideal we want to imagine, and I guess if we can write or create from that place, we can create from a position of hope.

On a related note and in a belated celebration of Women’s Day I thought I’d share a favorite poem: The Mushroom Hunters, by musician Amanda Palmer’s husband, the writer Neil Gaiman:


Science, as you know, my little one, is the study
of the nature and behaviour of the universe.
It’s based on observation, on experiment, and measurement,
and the formulation of laws to describe the facts revealed.

In the old times, they say, the men came already fitted with brains
designed to follow flesh-beasts at a run,
to hurdle blindly into the unknown,
and then to find their way back home when lost
with a slain antelope to carry between them.
Or, on bad hunting days, nothing.

The women, who did not need to run down prey,
had brains that spotted landmarks and made paths between them
left at the thorn bush and across the scree
and look down in the bole of the half-fallen tree,
because sometimes there are mushrooms.

Before the flint club, or flint butcher’s tools,
The first tool of all was a sling for the baby
to keep our hands free
and something to put the berries and the mushrooms in,
the roots and the good leaves, the seeds and the crawlers.
Then a flint pestle to smash, to crush, to grind or break.

And sometimes men chased the beasts
into the deep woods,
and never came back.

Some mushrooms will kill you,
while some will show you gods
and some will feed the hunger in our bellies. Identify.
Others will kill us if we eat them raw,
and kill us again if we cook them once,
but if we boil them up in spring water, and pour the water away,
and then boil them once more, and pour the water away,
only then can we eat them safely. Observe.

Observe childbirth, measure the swell of bellies and the shape of breasts,
and through experience discover how to bring babies safely into the world.

Observe everything.

And the mushroom hunters walk the ways they walk
and watch the world, and see what they observe.
And some of them would thrive and lick their lips,
While others clutched their stomachs and expired.
So laws are made and handed down on what is safe. Formulate.

The tools we make to build our lives:
our clothes, our food, our path home…
all these things we base on observation,
on experiment, on measurement, on truth.

And science, you remember, is the study
of the nature and behaviour of the universe,
based on observation, experiment, and measurement,
and the formulation of laws to describe these facts.

The race continues. An early scientist
drew beasts upon the walls of caves
to show her children, now all fat on mushrooms
and on berries, what would be safe to hunt.

The men go running on after beasts.

The scientists walk more slowly, over to the brow of the hill
and down to the water’s edge and past the place where the red clay runs.
They are carrying their babies in the slings they made,
freeing their hands to pick the mushrooms.


Dreamy Los Coihues

I thought that after the last post I would fill in some information. My sweetheart Will and I are currently staying in a neighborhood called Los Coihues, outside of Bariloche, Argentina. Bariloche is a large city and a big outdoor tourism destination, nationally and internationally. When I was in Buenos Aires last year, we visited Bariloche and stayed in Los Coihues, and really kinda fell in love. As soon as I got home, I started looking for teaching+volunteer options here, and soon found one through an English School aptly named La Montaña, or The Mountain school. I’ll start soon!

We fell in love with Los Coihues for so many reasons, and some are easier to name than others: it’s nestled into the slope of the mountains, and around a sparkling lake; the entrance to a national park is at the far end of the neighborhood, the people are friendly, the bus stops here, we can access trails from our road. But there are a lot of less explicit reasons to feel drawn to this place. The people all seem friendly – everyone hitchhikes and gives rides – when I practice walking with my crutches on the road, someone always asks me if I need a ride to the lake or bus stop or wherever. There is a sense that everyone who is here has come here deliberately, or stayed deliberately, and not as an indication of status, or isolation.

Will remarked this week that Los Coihues is singular in its clustered community: it is by most measurements a rural spot, isolated from the frenzy of the city + brick-and-mortar-based tourism, but it is not rural in the sense that we understand rural towns – the houses are all lined up next to one another, the roads are narrow, dirt, people walk everywhere, and there are enough little shops in the neighborhood to get the basics and then some. There are, it sometimes seems, more dogs than people. They cause mischief all through the night. From our yard we hear kids playing and hollering through the streets, streets which they seem to own. If I could pick a place to grow up in, from all the places I’ve ever been, I think Coihues would be it. From the span of house size and appearance and cars and the way people dress, most seem on an equal economic level.

Once, when our power went out, we went to the shop across the street and asked if they had any ideas; the owner just happened to have the property managers phone number in his phone. It’s a small place, or at least a knowable one. I guess more what I’m saying is that it’s a place that seems like, objectively, it might be populated by people seeking isolation and privacy, but once inside it seems the opposite, that most came here to be closer to people and nature, and further from the incidental things that are by-product of civilization and which sometimes strip the human from the encounter – mostly, big sports stores, bars and restaurants, tourism businesses, the whole economic hustle. I know the economic hustle is for most of us a necessity, but it’s nice to have our home in a place where we aren’t overwhelmed by it. And I’m sure I’m probably generalizing but the comparison I draw is living in Maine and feeling like we must choose between Portland or the woods, and while we love the woods we also love people, and walking to places where people might be; and it seems like we get only either the calm but not the people, or the people but not the calm. In Los Coihues I feel we are getting both. It’s pretty lovely.

Adventure in Bariloche

For the past four months, I have been more or less housebound because of a broken foot I got while running on Mackworth Island. Four months is an eternity to be without a thing that makes you you – it is, in this case, difficult to not be able to run, but I find that what I miss most excruciatingly is the actual simple autonomy that mobility provides. However, I’m going to delve into the caged feelings of the last four months another time, or as I go. On this blog, I’m going to start where I am: 4 months in a walking boot and some form of crutches, on my second volunteer semester in Argentina, this time in a small neighborhood outside of a city in Patagonia, and in my final year of grad school.

Today marked the beginning of the school year for the kids here, and I decided to leap into my own “restart” too. I’ve been doing a lot of physical therapy and gradually working up strength on walks etc, so I got it in my mind that today I’d go into town, alone, on the bus. I could feel the exhilaration of being alone and unknown among a group of strangers in a new place. To get to the bus stop required a walk that would take me about 45 minutes, which is about as far as I can manage at once. Two minutes into that walk, however, a woman asked what I was up to and where I was going. Maria. A minute later Maria offered me a ride to the bus stop and then she ended up taking me all the way in town – a 20 minute drive. We chatted about her family and she told me how one of the main tourist attractions here donates all of its income to the city’s public hospital. As we drove the land rose up in tall pine trees and layers of mountains and lakes. When she dropped me off she told me I had better get an ice cream while on my grand adventure.

In the Centro I sat on a bench and watched people. It was my first time out alone since I’ve been here, and, really, for the past couple months. Never in my life have I been a person who survives easily without alone time, and the sense of being monitored of chaperoned has wore on me. An older couple sat on the bench next to me and we chatted about our lives. They were from Buenos Aires and lived a few blocks away from where I stayed last year. Regarding my foot, they told me that time is the best healer and that I would be lucky here in bariloche, resting up and writing. As they left they told me not to laugh but could I believe that they were celebrating their 58th year together?! Then they winked and walked off holding hands. It was a short blip in the afternoon, but it stuck with me. I don’t know why I chose to tell them it was my first real adventure on my own in months or how long I’d been in a boot and not running or any of that stuff I would’ve normally kept to myself, but I was glad I did.

Later, I got the bus back to our neighborhood outside the city. I put my headphones in and watched the mountains and felt the thrill of being anonymous in a group of people moving purposefully from the rush of the city to the ease of home. From the bus stop, I had about a forty minute walk back home, and I was exhausted. A couple blocks in I stuck my thumb out and the next driver that passed gave me a lift right to my house. After all of it, my body felt the deep worn-out satisfaction it normally feels after a hard run, and my mind felt the sense of movement and newness; of having gone to a new place, spoken to some strangers, and found my way home, thanks to another stranger. And if I hadn’t taken the lift with Maria in the morning, I probably wouldn’t have made it to town to begin with, and then the whole day rode on that momentum.

Thinking about that, and the ‘coincidence’ of running into Maria just as she was leaving for the centro, reminded me of being on the road running across the US and France, and most specifically, the one thing I learned anew every day on those endeavors: ask for help, and accept it when it’s offered. People are nice.


First Weeks in Buenos Aires

My first few weeks in Buenos Aires have been amazing! The most shocking thing, right away was the heat and humidity. When I left Maine it was in the teens, and here it reaches ninety most every day. I’m staying in a neighborhood called Palermo and am very near to a ton of connected parks where I can go running. They call the parks Los Bosque de Palermo- the woods of Palermo. And they are full of beautiful old generation Tipa trees, which have such lush emerald leaves. In the spring, they blossom in brilliant purple flowers. On my daily run I also pass by the former zoo, which is transitioning to an eco park. Most of the animals have been transferred to another zoo or returned home, but I can peek thru a spot in the fence and see a family of giraffes, and it’s a favorite part of my days.

The school where I’ve been teaching this month is located in the microcenter of town, which is where most of the businesses are located. It’s a very old and historic part of town. The students are adults from their mid-twenties up, and right now it’s just me and them, without any co-teachers, so that has been both fun and a challenging learning experience for me. The students come to class in the evenings after work, and are all pretty motivated to learn and to improve their English. It’s also fun getting to know them personally and to learn about their way of life! A few things I’ve learned from them are that it’s common to live with your parents well into your twenties, family is very important here and central to most people’s lives and social circles, and that their previous political election had a lot of similarities to ours. I’ve also discovered that the city is very active and many people like to do outdoor sports. Also, strangers seem very polite here, and more outwardly friendly than in New England.

There are a bunch more things and small observations accumulated already in a few weeks, so I’ll try to round up the most memorable ones here, and share more in the next post.

Yesterday and last week we had a blackout in our neighborhood block, which the students told me is quite normal here. It gets so hot and all the air conditioners are running high, and I guess it overloads the system. This weekend is a holiday weekend for Carnaval, and we are going to watch some parades in our neighborhood and enjoy the festivities! Yesterday I was behind a woman at the grocer who bought $350 worth of groceries and I imagine she must be throwing a huge party this weekend. There is also a surprising fascination with platform sandals here, and many other aspects from the nineties – belly shirts, rainbows, velcro, chokers. Honestly every other woman seems to be wearing platform sandals or sneakers. Last week we saw our first tango in a public square in San Telmo, and had a long conversation with a drunk man in the park about politics of Argentina and the US. We’ve been mostly cooking at home but we went out for asado, the very typical and very delicious grilled meat dish here, and it was wonderful.That’s all for now, hopefully the pictures help fill it all in! 


When Things Feel Bad, Look for What’s Good

The mounting angst behind the election + TEDxDirigo

Lately I’ve been feeling worried about what the day and month and year after this election will look like. I’m anxious about who will win, but I’m more afraid that we all won’t find a way to reasonably get along or agree to disagree without needing to disparage one another.

This fear could simply be part of growing up, but it could also be the nature of this election and how precarious things feel. It could be the way segregation and racism and all the isms are still holding back all of us and killing some, or the way we make assumptions and don’t communicate honestly and substantively. It could be the way we choose adopting the idea of something over actually seeing one another. In dialogue on inequalities, safe spaces, political predictions, etc., it’s begun to feel like we’d rather be right, and stay right, than pursue any more complicated alternative.

In an MFA seminar this summer, Ada Limón, a faculty poet, told us to consider writing as a way of honoring. She’d assigned a book of poetry by Ross Gay, his Catalogue of Unabashed Gratitude, and she asked us to examine his tender scrutiny of hurt and happiness, and the way he navigates between gratitude and sadness. It’s a hard way to write and thus an important thing to practice. So although this is only a blog post, I thought I’d honor something that’s been a remarkably provocative and positive part of my days this election season: TEDxDirigo.

The theme for this Saturday’s TEDx is Dissonance, and many talks will emphasize perspectives that are uncomfortable to hear. Many speakers will take the stage this Saturday not to placate but to challenge the ideas we take for granted.

TED requires that every speaker must have a coach, and in the requisite hours a coach and speaker spend going over the talk together, there are, inevitably, *kapow* moments. Moments when a speaker says something to you as a coach that simply plows right through whatever polite wall you generally have up when talking to strangers, and you just think, well, fuck, what am I to do with this new perspective? Because I can’t possibly just keep living my life the same exact way, the way I did before this conversation. That would be impossible.

With Dissonance, that scenario has happened again and again. As a coach it’s happened quietly and loudly, in shared spaces of preparation and alone at night in restless moments of deliberation. This fall’s speakers have carried me far beyond the confines of a “speaker coach” and pushed me to think harder and actually do better. It hasn’t been easy, this isn’t a simple thanks for the memories, and that’s the point. Each speaker knows there’s still a lot of work to be done, and they’re asking us to join them in doing it.

Perhaps the kapows have happened so often because this theme is more personal and less comfortable than others, and it’ll probably reveal an anxiety a lot of us are feeling about the ways our differences are being politicized, scrutinized, and penalized. Perhaps it’s because every speaker has a brave freaking rockstar soul and is not the least bit interested in being silenced.

Whatever it is, I’m thankful. Back in June, we joked about how the event would be just a few days before Election Day, and wouldn’t that be interesting. I don’t think we realized how keenly some of the talks would help contextualize the election angst and its mounting, complex backgrounds. In the last weeks when I’ve needed some place to look for something different, for something life-affirming without being mollifying, or simple, or at all reductive, it’s been the people and ideas of TEDxDirigo. Thank you all for being there, and especially thank you speakers for taking the stage this Saturday.





A piece of Portland

I mentioned posting some writing about Santiago, but here’s a short ditty I wrote to welcome myself back to my imperfect hometown, Portland, Maine. Apologies for any odd formatting.


What Floor Were You On? Did You Have a Good View?

Last week I left work

to tackle some spirits

of the tequila sort.

I went to a place where the West meets the East,

up there at the Top

They wouldn’t serve me a shot.

It caught me off guard.

Up next, Portland’s Oldest Pub

with some now fellow thugs.

By then I’d learned

to enact a more adult code:

I asked for tequila and soda,

but this time

they told me,

they could only do a shot.

Which portland is more Portland?

That’s what I thought

as I sipped my tequila

last week after work.


A New Era


Welcome to a new era for Zoe Goes Running, in which the next big adventure is a labor of mind rather than body. For the next two years I’ll be an MFA student, writer, and Rotary Global Scholar. I’ll spend two years writing, reading, and teaching, including six months teaching in South America.



A couple weeks after returning from Santiago, Chile, I’m now finally settling into a blog post. I went to Santiago to start an MFA program in creative writing with Queens University of Charlotte, NC. Most of the program is done remotely, except for every year, we meet for several weeks in one of three different South American cities, in late summer. This summer it was Santiago, next will be Buenos Aires, and my third and graduating residency will likely be in Rio. During the residency in each city, we attend seminars by award-winning faculty, readings, field trips, cultural lectures, and daily tutorials where we have the chance to line edit with our faculty mentor.



I’ve also received a Rotary Global Scholars Grant for this program, which will allow me to spend two of four semesters volunteer-teaching in Argentina and/or Chile. This MFA program would not have been possible without Rotary’s support and I cannot thank them enough. I worked specifically with the Rotary Club of South Richmond (VA) in the application process, and their district, district 7600, will be my American host club during the program, joined by Rotary La Lucila in Buenos Aires, Argentina, who will be my international host club. The objective of the scholarship is, broadly, to enable graduate students to use their education and qualifications to serve others. I will be continuing Rotary’s mission in basic education and literacy by volunteering at community schools in Argentina and/or Chile. I begin in February ’17, teaching in Buenos Aires, but more to come on that!



Santiago was, in a word, vivid. Everything about it. I was at first overwhelmed by how physically present the city is – there’s heavy smog, street dogs, once-a-week student protests, in answer to which the riot police regularly inundate the student crowds gathered in the main plaza with pepper spray, spray you feel in your chest for a long time afterward. You can buy anything you’ve ever wanted in the streets, people perform elaborate dances in the sidewalks between green lights, and every night in my neighborhood there were booming drum circles put on by the university students – who had been out of school for over a month in protest against rising tuition prices. Graffiti covers already-graffiti-covered surfaces. When I arrived at six in the morning, the sky was gray, spitting cold raindrops from too-close, overbearing clouds.

It was a lot to take in.

The first thing I did in my new city was to go for a run. A quarter-mile through my neighborhood brought me to the base of a very tall hill (Cerro San Cristobal) with an incredible view of Santiago and the mountains; I ended up running it almost every day. They call it a hill, I later discovered it’s taller than some of the mountains I used to train on in Virginia. Ha. What makes a mountain on the east coast of the US is referred to as a hill in Santiago. This was probably the moment the city began to endear itself to me.



There were twelve other students in the group, a couple coordinators, and four faculty – intelligent, provocative and courageous writers. From my apartment each morning I walked twenty minutes to the Catholic University where we had our seminars. The walk brought me past a construction site in and around a 70-yard-deep square ditch that covered an entire city block. I don’t know what they were building but I loved looking in that giant urban absence every morning. After that it was across the river, through the park, five minutes winding through a cobblestoned arts neighborhood, shortcut through the Gabriela Mistral museum, across the street to cut through the leafy, spacious courtyard of the University, down earthquake-proof stairs that bounced when you stepped on them, and into our classroom.

On our third day there was a small earthquake in the morning, the next day our afternoon walk was canceled because of the student protests, and in the second week my walk home took me straight across the long parade of protesters, past the huddles of riot police, and past broken glass bottles filled with paint, which some students throw at the police. Walking was my favorite thing, there was always something to think about. (Pic below from one such walk, taken outside a school not currently in session)


I ran every day and sometime around the fourth or fifth day I realized I really liked Santiago. After several days of clouds and rain, the sun came out and the Andes appeared as mystical backdrops to the skyscrapers of the city. I stopped bringing maps with me everywhere, I discovered a huge park four miles outside of town where I swear the air felt cleaner and I could practically touch the mountains, I went and watched the drummers perform at night, I shared tequila with the program director and our famously talented faculty, I made friends.



In our little group of writers, there were several who I naturally gravitated to and who became familiar almost instantly, in the way that happens when a bunch of semi-strangers are thrown into a foreign city together with no real obligations other than to attend activities in the presence of one another each day. This experience of friendship was one of my favorite parts of the trip. The new friends – a group of two poets and two fiction-writers – were all veterans to this program. Collectively they were goofy and deadpan, perceptive, up-for-whatever, and made me feel like I belonged right where I’ve always wanted to belong – in a group of weird, mostly-introverted writers.

My mentor in Santiago was Francisco Goldman. Look him up if you have a chance, he is a wonderful writer and a warm human being. I’ll continue working with him on one story a month this year. In Santiago we had to submit four stories, and nearly every afternoon Francisco and I met to go over the different submissions, the content, technique, narrative, voice, line-editing, etc. This was a heart-breaking, soul-crushing, and ultimately encouraging activity. Francisco was always honest and never unkind, and there’s no better sort of editor.

I could go on, and on, and on. I’m working on a short, comedic piece about Santiago, which I’m intending to share here in excerpts over the next few posts.