I never wanted to be one of those people who felt naked without their phone. But my phone appears to have jumped ship somewhere between the pool and my hotel room so I am, for the time being, unreachable. I can't text people about inane subjects, can't call my Mom with my flight info, can't play and replay the preview game of Tetris.
I'm on my way home, people-I-would-normally-text-with-this-information. So if you would like to connect with me this weekend you will have to utilize such methods as email, blog commenting, knocking on my window, leaving a note on my windshield, etc.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Memorize
I have a friend who knows several Shakespearean sonnets by heart. I memorized one when I was in high school which I still love and recite occassionally (especially on lonely, long car rides). But I've decided I need to memorize more poems. And, seeing as Yeats is my favorite poet, I will begin with this:
No Second Troy, by William Butler Yeats
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
No Second Troy, by William Butler Yeats
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Goodbye, My Fellow Southerner
Sandy and I met my first Sunday at Woodale Church. A group went out to lunch after service and I, feeling like a 5th grader, asked if I could sit at her table. We soon stumbled upon the topic of where we grew up and as she's from Lynchburg, Virginia I probably semi-attacked her and begged her to be my friend since she was the first fellow Southerner I'd met.
Over the past year we've shared job woes and dreamed of opening a lovely consulting firm someday in a sweet Georgetown pad that somehow incorporates her public policy degree and my nerdy fascination with energy regulation. We've also simply gotten to be good friends and she never teased me for saying "y'all" and always shared my love of in depth policy discussion (and there aren't many people who actually enjoy that).
Sandy is moving away this week, back home to the Old Dominion. Part of me is incredibly jealous. As much as I love being near my family, love having a job that's actually in the field I'm interested in (I still pinch myself over that), love living in a state that is decidedly Blue, I still miss The South. I miss the warmth and familiarity of the Arkansas/Louisiana territory, and the beauty and old charm of Virginia and the Carolinas. I wish I could drag my family and my job to, say, Charlotte. Or New Orleans. Or Richmond. Or Little Rock. But I know I can't have everything. And if home is where the heart is, and if I'm sick of living thousands of miles from my family, then home is here.
Sandy always felt that she was meant to be somewhere other than here. And I completely relate to that. I will miss having someone around who understands what it feels like to have ended up somewhere that surprises you. I don't think the Minnesota surprise was a bad one, for me, and there are adventures to be had in the snowy North. But I will miss my fellow Southern compatriot. My adventures will be a bit more scary, without Sandy to laughingly encourage my path. There is no doubt in my mind that God brings people into your world when you need them. I needed Sandy this year and I cannot imagine what this year would have felt like, had I not had her smile to look forward to on Sunday mornings. She feels like a special, individual blessing just for me, even though I know she is assuredly a blessing to many other people. She will be dearly, lovingly missed.
Best of luck, friend, and God bless you.
Friday, October 24, 2008
A New Thing I Love
I ran at night for the first time today. I have a couple workout DVDs that I tend to do when I get home late and it's "too dark" to go running.
Too dark?
Very shortly it will be "too dark" by 4:30. I refuse to relegate myself to that awful, annoying woman on the DVD who tells me to "dig deep" and then tells me if I want abs like hers I have to "grunt and pant" myself through her workout. No. Thank. You.
I don't know why it took me so long to run at night. I suppose there's the safety element, being a woman. But I live in a very well lit, very suburban area and I only ran on the busiest street with ample sidewalks. I suppose the chill scared me off a bit, too, but it was warmer tonite than it has been on a couple afternoons I've hit the trail.
I loved it and I think I ran faster. I don't time myself so I'm really just going by my gut.
I think, with the darkness, I'm forced to focus more. I'm not sidetracked by pretty leaves or other runners or avoiding the barking dog or wondering if my ponytail is lopsided. I concentrate on the sidewalk, concentrate on the cracks and fissures and the curbs and the grates. And I count the headlights rushing towards me, take note of the ones that have a dimming bulb. I wonder who is in the cars and where they are going. It is Friday night, after all, and I can only assume that the bulk of humanity is out socializing instead of waxing poetic on the beauty of night running. I wonder who is getting divorced, who is falling in love, who hates their best friend, who shouldn't have bought those shoes, who misses their Dad, who is late for a first date, who is singing along to songs they don't admit to knowing, who is moving away, who just arrived. I like to think of all the people inside those cars, extraordinary people with ordinary lives, vice versa.
And I'm outside, wrists bared to the wind, concentrating on sidewalks, counting headlights.
Too dark?
Very shortly it will be "too dark" by 4:30. I refuse to relegate myself to that awful, annoying woman on the DVD who tells me to "dig deep" and then tells me if I want abs like hers I have to "grunt and pant" myself through her workout. No. Thank. You.
I don't know why it took me so long to run at night. I suppose there's the safety element, being a woman. But I live in a very well lit, very suburban area and I only ran on the busiest street with ample sidewalks. I suppose the chill scared me off a bit, too, but it was warmer tonite than it has been on a couple afternoons I've hit the trail.
I loved it and I think I ran faster. I don't time myself so I'm really just going by my gut.
I think, with the darkness, I'm forced to focus more. I'm not sidetracked by pretty leaves or other runners or avoiding the barking dog or wondering if my ponytail is lopsided. I concentrate on the sidewalk, concentrate on the cracks and fissures and the curbs and the grates. And I count the headlights rushing towards me, take note of the ones that have a dimming bulb. I wonder who is in the cars and where they are going. It is Friday night, after all, and I can only assume that the bulk of humanity is out socializing instead of waxing poetic on the beauty of night running. I wonder who is getting divorced, who is falling in love, who hates their best friend, who shouldn't have bought those shoes, who misses their Dad, who is late for a first date, who is singing along to songs they don't admit to knowing, who is moving away, who just arrived. I like to think of all the people inside those cars, extraordinary people with ordinary lives, vice versa.
And I'm outside, wrists bared to the wind, concentrating on sidewalks, counting headlights.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Running
I am slow.
I don't even time myself when I run. Sometimes it takes everything I have to run 2 miles. And then yesterday I hit 5 miles and felt I could run forever. Never, ever stop.
I don't look like a runner.
I feel like runners should be tall, lithe, smooth. I see them often around here. They're like statues with moving parts, and I have to force myself not to stare at that amazing slice of leg right above the knee. What muscle is that? I, on the other hand, am not tall, nor lithe, nor smooth. In fact, I am short, roundish, and have the grace God gave a donkey. I trip a lot. My nose runs. I have to remind myself to stand up straighter or my neck starts to hurt. I'm 70 lbs thinner than I used to be, which is lovely. But I still feel rather oafish sometimes when I run, like if I only had a few more inches I'd be better balanced, faster, smoother. And I can't help but hope that when the last 20 lbs is gone I will feel like I fit the road better. I don't care that I don't look like other runners. I'm not going to grow or suddenly have long, long legs. But I would like to feel like the road is meant for me, too, and not just them. And for now, I still feel like a usurper. Just a little more time, just a little more patience, many more miles, and I'll own a stretch of road, too, don't you think?
Slow and non-runneresque though I may be, I do love it. I love that 20 minutes or so into a run I hit some magical, bizarre, perfect stride that makes the ground feel softer and my legs feel like steel. I love that when I'm tired I just have to play a few keys songs on the Ipod ("Bixby Canyon Bridge" by Death Cab for Cutie, "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash, or "Mysterious Ways" by U2) to force a grin and another mile. I love that the weather is perfect for a t-shirt and my comfy North Face fleece. I love that my Asics are molded to my feet. I love that feeling right when I stop running, when I'm at the end, when my legs go from tense to sleepy, and my heart skips a bit and calms, I love how it feels to have done something hard. Done it well. I love that my body can do things now that it could never have done 70 lbs ago. I love that I'm strong and that I made myself strong. And I'm grateful God gave me that chance.
I don't even time myself when I run. Sometimes it takes everything I have to run 2 miles. And then yesterday I hit 5 miles and felt I could run forever. Never, ever stop.
I don't look like a runner.
I feel like runners should be tall, lithe, smooth. I see them often around here. They're like statues with moving parts, and I have to force myself not to stare at that amazing slice of leg right above the knee. What muscle is that? I, on the other hand, am not tall, nor lithe, nor smooth. In fact, I am short, roundish, and have the grace God gave a donkey. I trip a lot. My nose runs. I have to remind myself to stand up straighter or my neck starts to hurt. I'm 70 lbs thinner than I used to be, which is lovely. But I still feel rather oafish sometimes when I run, like if I only had a few more inches I'd be better balanced, faster, smoother. And I can't help but hope that when the last 20 lbs is gone I will feel like I fit the road better. I don't care that I don't look like other runners. I'm not going to grow or suddenly have long, long legs. But I would like to feel like the road is meant for me, too, and not just them. And for now, I still feel like a usurper. Just a little more time, just a little more patience, many more miles, and I'll own a stretch of road, too, don't you think?
Slow and non-runneresque though I may be, I do love it. I love that 20 minutes or so into a run I hit some magical, bizarre, perfect stride that makes the ground feel softer and my legs feel like steel. I love that when I'm tired I just have to play a few keys songs on the Ipod ("Bixby Canyon Bridge" by Death Cab for Cutie, "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash, or "Mysterious Ways" by U2) to force a grin and another mile. I love that the weather is perfect for a t-shirt and my comfy North Face fleece. I love that my Asics are molded to my feet. I love that feeling right when I stop running, when I'm at the end, when my legs go from tense to sleepy, and my heart skips a bit and calms, I love how it feels to have done something hard. Done it well. I love that my body can do things now that it could never have done 70 lbs ago. I love that I'm strong and that I made myself strong. And I'm grateful God gave me that chance.
Friday, October 17, 2008
I Couldn't Decide Which Blog to Post This On...
I have a food-related blog (http://www.edibleavocation.blogspot.com/) which I started at the beginning of the year to detail some cooking disasters and successes. I post on it infrequently (shocker, I know) but I occassionally become inspired by what I'm eating or trying to cook or hoping to bake.
I am usually a recipe girl. I have several tried-and-true recipes courtesy of my Marmee, Mamaw, Grandmother, etc., and I also stumbled upon a few excellent ones on allrecipes.com. But I always wanted to get to a point where I could simply look at the ingredients in my cupboard and just bake something. And tonight that finally happened. I created a lovely batch of cookies which I have yet to name (Vanilla Cinnamon Kisses? Spicey Sugar Cookies?) and they're now cooling on my counter, the smell of cinnamon and some burnt sugar (just one cookie suffered that fate) still wafting through my apartment.
My apartment is pretty ugly. It's a typical, better-than-a-college-apartment-but-still-too-broke-for-a-decent-place type apartment. And that's fine, I make it as pretty as I can and dream of the day when my loans are more manageable (I can't even fathom paying them off) and I can afford the mortgage on a small brick house with room for a dog. But, daydreams aside, the apartment does not have a ton going for it. The smell of cookies, however, makes me love it more. The tiny kitchen feels snug and warm, the plain white walls feel less clinical, the dirt-colored carpet in my bedroom feels less like a brillo pad, and the window that always sticks seems to slide a bit better (maybe it's the butter in the air).
I rarely eat what I bake. I'll have a cookie or I'll taste the batter of a cake, but because I'm pseudo-psycho about my running and weight loss I don't allow myself much. It's the smell I love, and the act of taking a bunch of bits and rolling them into something that makes people smile. I don't create things at work, don't build or design anything. So, occassionally, it's nice to make something and know that it wouldn't exist but for my personal combination of butter, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, flour, baking soda, more butter...
I am usually a recipe girl. I have several tried-and-true recipes courtesy of my Marmee, Mamaw, Grandmother, etc., and I also stumbled upon a few excellent ones on allrecipes.com. But I always wanted to get to a point where I could simply look at the ingredients in my cupboard and just bake something. And tonight that finally happened. I created a lovely batch of cookies which I have yet to name (Vanilla Cinnamon Kisses? Spicey Sugar Cookies?) and they're now cooling on my counter, the smell of cinnamon and some burnt sugar (just one cookie suffered that fate) still wafting through my apartment.
My apartment is pretty ugly. It's a typical, better-than-a-college-apartment-but-still-too-broke-for-a-decent-place type apartment. And that's fine, I make it as pretty as I can and dream of the day when my loans are more manageable (I can't even fathom paying them off) and I can afford the mortgage on a small brick house with room for a dog. But, daydreams aside, the apartment does not have a ton going for it. The smell of cookies, however, makes me love it more. The tiny kitchen feels snug and warm, the plain white walls feel less clinical, the dirt-colored carpet in my bedroom feels less like a brillo pad, and the window that always sticks seems to slide a bit better (maybe it's the butter in the air).
I rarely eat what I bake. I'll have a cookie or I'll taste the batter of a cake, but because I'm pseudo-psycho about my running and weight loss I don't allow myself much. It's the smell I love, and the act of taking a bunch of bits and rolling them into something that makes people smile. I don't create things at work, don't build or design anything. So, occassionally, it's nice to make something and know that it wouldn't exist but for my personal combination of butter, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, flour, baking soda, more butter...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)