I tend to think of resolutions as an assurance of disappointment. Invariably, I commit to ideas that are just ridiculous, the breaking of habits that I know (deep down) I have no intention of breaking. So instead of figuring out all the stuff I'm going to stop doing, I figured I'd start 2010 with a proactive pursuit.
I've been debating what to do with my running goals. Post-marathon I've been running very little, sticking more to classes at the Y, logging maybe 10-15 miles a week. While I do feel like I have another marathon in me, I don't think 2010 is the year. Instead, I'm committing to six half-marathons, one for each month May through October. I'd like to be faster, with several races to look forward to instead of one GINORMOUS event that overwhelms my life for months on end. Half-marathons are also just easier to plan around, easier to fit into my world, and take far less time for recovery.
I will never be fast. But I can be faster.
A tentative schedule...the only one I've registered for is the July 4 Half as I was afraid it would fill up fast and there aren't many Half-Marathons in July. Maybe Minnesotans think it's hot here in July? Strange. The first and last entry are in parentheses because I'm not sure if I want my first in the series to be in April, when it could still be yucky outside. I did the Get-in-Gear 10K last year and it was pretty rainy when we started. Hmmm. But I could see myself getting jazzed for racing early in the season so maybe I'll embrace the potential chill. I'm also torn between the Lake Minnetonka race and Stillwater. I bet the Minnetonka race is very pretty, but since Stillwater was my first half-marathon I have a certain affection for it. Happy decisions to be made in the New Year...
(April 24: Get in Gear Half)
May: Either May 2 Lake Minnetonka Half OR May 30 Stillwater Half
June 12: Grampa Stays Home Half, Bald Eagle Lake
July 4: Red, White, and Boom Twin Cities Half
August 28: Rochester Half
September 25: Birkie Trail Half (Hayward, WI)
(October 10: Whistlestop Half (Ashland, WI))
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
River
My family makes a familiar drive this week to Arkansas. It's remarkable only in its sameness, its Americana-drenched stereotype of road trips and gas stations and kids ignoring Dads, noses buried in books.
But the drives I've made criss-crossing the Midwest and the Central South, remind me constantly of how tied my family is to this deep, darling trench carved by the Mississippi. I have lived in Arkansas, Missouri, Louisiana, and Minnesota, four states equally beholden to the might of that river. I felt it least, perhaps, in Arkansas, as I was a child and largely remember smaller rivers and streams.
In Missouri and Louisiana, however, it was a powerful, destructive, glorious force. Not long after moving to St. Louis, I remember volunteering with dad to sandbag areas threatened by the Great Flood. I remember that dark, gloomy water creeping up to the topmost steps of the Arch grounds, remember the newscasters and their shock at 100 year water levels. But in most instances the Mississippi in St. Louis was a sleeping giant. A river that loved the Cardinals, and lovingly reflected the blues and greens and reds of fireworks at the VP Fair.
The river in New Orleans was more than a river. More than a highway. It was sister to an ocean that threatened us. Sister to a Lake that flooded us. In every request for directions, it was a landmark, a true North. "Drive toward the river. Drive toward the lake." By the time she reaches New Orleans, the river is so strictly corseted by levees, one can hardly fault her for impertinence. Her deadly, hurricane-laden anger. But in her peaceful moments, she was a beautiful silver thing. And when I watched her spill into the Gulf, watched that brown bleed into blue, it seemed like the world was made correctly, with no flaws, that God knew how to make water, knew how to build land with tiny, tiny, tiny pinpricks of sand, knew how to return it all to the sea.
I have lived away from this river and I have loved the years I spent away from her. But there is something haunting and tempting and simply home-like in driving through the farmland and cities she built. It is land she carried and created, like some happy alchemist, depositing promises of fertility in dark dirt. I feel at home in many places. In the mountains of East Tennessee. In Jackson Square in New Orleans. On top of the Sindi Sud in Marrakech. Climbing those blasted rocks on Pinnacle Mountain. But there is a familiarity and warmth in simply living and traveling and building a life in this cradle of the Mississippi. And that was a five paragraph title for the following poem:
I leave the river often, freedom knit to my brow
And I am strong and unkind to memories of her mud
Wrapped round my ankles, cushioning my falls
I leave and she is worthless in her beautiful flood.
Sometimes I run, breathless in my escape
Fingers stretched wide on the wheel, heel to the road
You are a bitch, you River, you destroyer of cities,
You burn, you break, and you carry me home.
Sometimes I wander, eyes cast on some distant parade
Of adventures and dreams and dark, riverless nights.
I forget the river, her slow, steady explosion
And weave ribbons instead of water into my riverless life.
But always I return, feet, heart, head
Glued to this open, cupped palm of a river
This open wound of a river, itching for new blood
Always I stray, and always I return
Into and away, beyond and beholden
To my sly, angry, precious Mississippi mud.
But the drives I've made criss-crossing the Midwest and the Central South, remind me constantly of how tied my family is to this deep, darling trench carved by the Mississippi. I have lived in Arkansas, Missouri, Louisiana, and Minnesota, four states equally beholden to the might of that river. I felt it least, perhaps, in Arkansas, as I was a child and largely remember smaller rivers and streams.
In Missouri and Louisiana, however, it was a powerful, destructive, glorious force. Not long after moving to St. Louis, I remember volunteering with dad to sandbag areas threatened by the Great Flood. I remember that dark, gloomy water creeping up to the topmost steps of the Arch grounds, remember the newscasters and their shock at 100 year water levels. But in most instances the Mississippi in St. Louis was a sleeping giant. A river that loved the Cardinals, and lovingly reflected the blues and greens and reds of fireworks at the VP Fair.
The river in New Orleans was more than a river. More than a highway. It was sister to an ocean that threatened us. Sister to a Lake that flooded us. In every request for directions, it was a landmark, a true North. "Drive toward the river. Drive toward the lake." By the time she reaches New Orleans, the river is so strictly corseted by levees, one can hardly fault her for impertinence. Her deadly, hurricane-laden anger. But in her peaceful moments, she was a beautiful silver thing. And when I watched her spill into the Gulf, watched that brown bleed into blue, it seemed like the world was made correctly, with no flaws, that God knew how to make water, knew how to build land with tiny, tiny, tiny pinpricks of sand, knew how to return it all to the sea.
I have lived away from this river and I have loved the years I spent away from her. But there is something haunting and tempting and simply home-like in driving through the farmland and cities she built. It is land she carried and created, like some happy alchemist, depositing promises of fertility in dark dirt. I feel at home in many places. In the mountains of East Tennessee. In Jackson Square in New Orleans. On top of the Sindi Sud in Marrakech. Climbing those blasted rocks on Pinnacle Mountain. But there is a familiarity and warmth in simply living and traveling and building a life in this cradle of the Mississippi. And that was a five paragraph title for the following poem:
I leave the river often, freedom knit to my brow
And I am strong and unkind to memories of her mud
Wrapped round my ankles, cushioning my falls
I leave and she is worthless in her beautiful flood.
Sometimes I run, breathless in my escape
Fingers stretched wide on the wheel, heel to the road
You are a bitch, you River, you destroyer of cities,
You burn, you break, and you carry me home.
Sometimes I wander, eyes cast on some distant parade
Of adventures and dreams and dark, riverless nights.
I forget the river, her slow, steady explosion
And weave ribbons instead of water into my riverless life.
But always I return, feet, heart, head
Glued to this open, cupped palm of a river
This open wound of a river, itching for new blood
Always I stray, and always I return
Into and away, beyond and beholden
To my sly, angry, precious Mississippi mud.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Twas the Night Before Turkey
I'm at my parents' house making pecan pie. I've mixed the dough for the crust and it's resting, wrapped in plastic wrap (I hate plastic wrap), butter properly melting into what will be the perfect base for a classic Southern mixture of karo syrup, pecans, and molasses.
My brother won't be here this year, which is more than sad. It is less of a home for the holidays when one of us is missing. All the food will be the same (with the addition of black-eyed peas) but without Rob's characteristic laugh and teasing of older and younger sister, it just won't be quite as warm a day as it could be.
It's odd, how relationships change. I remember my dad telling me once that I was "more related" to my brother and sister than I was to my parents. I am made up of half my mom, half my dad (simplifying the genetics, I know) so we are only half-related to either of them. But my siblings and I are all the same combo, the same starting point, the same raised voice when we came home too late, the same kiss on a skinned knee, the same "no, you cannot skip church" to the same impertinent teenage question.
But despite that sameness, I honestly loathed my brother when we were younger. I really did not understand the point of his existence. If he had a purpose beyond annoying the snot out of me, I could not figure it out. In my eyes, we had nothing in common, nothing to bond over, nothing to share. This anti-relationship continued until I was in high school, a couple years after my sister entered the world. My baby sister was impossibly easy to love. She was like my little doll and she loved me unconditionally, never yelled, never snatched the TV remote from me, never tattled. Not like my brother. At all.
My relationship with Rob shifted in high school. I remember realizing once that we liked the same band, which seemed odd to me. And I gave him a hug when he fought with dad. But I think we really grew closer in the summers after freshman and sophomore year of college, when I was waitressing the graveyard shift at Denny's, 10pm to 6am. On my off days, when my sleep pattern was totally messed up, I'd bring Rob into Denny's for cheap seasoned fries and we'd sit in the smoking section so I could be the bad influence and coolly smoke cigarettes and drink coffee and expound upon the life experiences of a college student. I still think cigarettes make a person look cool. Anti-smoking campaigns in the education systems of Arkansas and Missouri clearly failed me.
Shortly after getting his license, Rob drove with me back home after I graduated from college. Rob drove the majority of those miles, many of them in the winding mountain roads of West Virginia, as I sobbed over lost friends. And somewhere in Indiana we stopped at the worst excuse for a Denny's in America, whose lack of seasoned fries was the cap to an already surreal manic breakdown on the highway that left us both laughing so hard we had tears rolling down our faces. I have no idea what was so funny.
It's an odd, wonderful thing when your sibling becomes a person beyond your blood. When you realize you'd genuinely want to know them even if you didn't grow up in the same houses, with the same dogs. My brother and I are infinitely different. Conservative vs. liberal. Sports fan vs. theatre nerd. And the differences run deeper than those surface affiliations...
But I would not want to know the person I'd be without my brother. It is cliche to say, "I would not be who I am today..." but it is wholly accurate. And the people that truly fit that category, the people who have actually shaped the human you've become, are so precious and so few. To be surrounded on Thanksgiving Day by the other three people who have molded my life just makes it all the more striking that the fourth is not here.
I miss you, Rob. And we are due for seasoned fries.
My brother won't be here this year, which is more than sad. It is less of a home for the holidays when one of us is missing. All the food will be the same (with the addition of black-eyed peas) but without Rob's characteristic laugh and teasing of older and younger sister, it just won't be quite as warm a day as it could be.
It's odd, how relationships change. I remember my dad telling me once that I was "more related" to my brother and sister than I was to my parents. I am made up of half my mom, half my dad (simplifying the genetics, I know) so we are only half-related to either of them. But my siblings and I are all the same combo, the same starting point, the same raised voice when we came home too late, the same kiss on a skinned knee, the same "no, you cannot skip church" to the same impertinent teenage question.
But despite that sameness, I honestly loathed my brother when we were younger. I really did not understand the point of his existence. If he had a purpose beyond annoying the snot out of me, I could not figure it out. In my eyes, we had nothing in common, nothing to bond over, nothing to share. This anti-relationship continued until I was in high school, a couple years after my sister entered the world. My baby sister was impossibly easy to love. She was like my little doll and she loved me unconditionally, never yelled, never snatched the TV remote from me, never tattled. Not like my brother. At all.
My relationship with Rob shifted in high school. I remember realizing once that we liked the same band, which seemed odd to me. And I gave him a hug when he fought with dad. But I think we really grew closer in the summers after freshman and sophomore year of college, when I was waitressing the graveyard shift at Denny's, 10pm to 6am. On my off days, when my sleep pattern was totally messed up, I'd bring Rob into Denny's for cheap seasoned fries and we'd sit in the smoking section so I could be the bad influence and coolly smoke cigarettes and drink coffee and expound upon the life experiences of a college student. I still think cigarettes make a person look cool. Anti-smoking campaigns in the education systems of Arkansas and Missouri clearly failed me.
Shortly after getting his license, Rob drove with me back home after I graduated from college. Rob drove the majority of those miles, many of them in the winding mountain roads of West Virginia, as I sobbed over lost friends. And somewhere in Indiana we stopped at the worst excuse for a Denny's in America, whose lack of seasoned fries was the cap to an already surreal manic breakdown on the highway that left us both laughing so hard we had tears rolling down our faces. I have no idea what was so funny.
It's an odd, wonderful thing when your sibling becomes a person beyond your blood. When you realize you'd genuinely want to know them even if you didn't grow up in the same houses, with the same dogs. My brother and I are infinitely different. Conservative vs. liberal. Sports fan vs. theatre nerd. And the differences run deeper than those surface affiliations...
But I would not want to know the person I'd be without my brother. It is cliche to say, "I would not be who I am today..." but it is wholly accurate. And the people that truly fit that category, the people who have actually shaped the human you've become, are so precious and so few. To be surrounded on Thanksgiving Day by the other three people who have molded my life just makes it all the more striking that the fourth is not here.
I miss you, Rob. And we are due for seasoned fries.
Monday, November 16, 2009
So This Is Adulthood
I am a big fan of getting older. I've wanted to be 30 for at least a decade. 30 always sounded so grown-up, as if the world would suddenly crack open and make sense. I'm approaching 29 and I assume no life-shattering truths will be revealed on my birthday either this year or next. But I imagine quasi-adulthood (am I a full blown adulthood yet?) has its ebbs and flows like any other process. Moments of "Yes! I can do this!" coupled with moments of "My life is completely stupid!"
Tonight included one of the latter, tomorrow morning, I hope, will include one of the former.
I took the trash out tonight in slip-on shoes, sweatpants, and a tshirt. It's 30 degrees outside but the dumpster sits just behind my building and I was too lazy to grab my coat. I grabbed the trash and my keys (my building locks automatically when the door closes) and slipped down the hall, out the door, to the dumpster. I then tossed said trash into the dumpster as well as my keys. A string of curse words might have ensued. I had to climb into the dumpster (which is not an open dumpster, you have to hold open the lid while you climb in and this is really tricky) in my tiny, unhelpful shoes, in the dark and feel around for several minutes for my keys. After a couple minutes one of my neighbors came out to throw his trash away, only to find me cussing and shivering, digging through trash. He was kind enough to hold the lid open for me and was about to climb in to help me (bless him!) when I found the little buggers. He helped me climb out and I returned to my apartment smelling like pizza, laundry detergent, and diapers. This was a moment in which my life felt completely, ridiculously stupid.
But early tomorrow morning we're supposed to have a meteor shower. I always try to get up early to watch them when they're predicted, even though I live in a city and I know the chances of spotting even one are slim. I saw a falling star in Morocco once, on a night that I slept on a roof on the outskirts of the Sahara. It was Thanksgiving Day 2002, I had turned 22 and celebrated with a pseudo-carrot cake baked in an ornery butane oven. We slept on the roof overlooking date palms and I will never adequately describe that sky. The falling star was perfect, and so quick that when I asked my friends if they'd seen it, they said no. A blink or a nod of the head and you'd have lost it. I've always wanted to see another but never have. I don't mind if I don't see it tomorrow morning. I'm sure I'll find one eventually, probably, hopefully, when I least expect it. But I still get up to watch them if I can, if I learn of some shower making its presence known in the Northern Hemisphere. I'm practicing my falling star-spotting, I guess.
And that fits nicely in the "Yes! I can do this!" category.
Tonight included one of the latter, tomorrow morning, I hope, will include one of the former.
I took the trash out tonight in slip-on shoes, sweatpants, and a tshirt. It's 30 degrees outside but the dumpster sits just behind my building and I was too lazy to grab my coat. I grabbed the trash and my keys (my building locks automatically when the door closes) and slipped down the hall, out the door, to the dumpster. I then tossed said trash into the dumpster as well as my keys. A string of curse words might have ensued. I had to climb into the dumpster (which is not an open dumpster, you have to hold open the lid while you climb in and this is really tricky) in my tiny, unhelpful shoes, in the dark and feel around for several minutes for my keys. After a couple minutes one of my neighbors came out to throw his trash away, only to find me cussing and shivering, digging through trash. He was kind enough to hold the lid open for me and was about to climb in to help me (bless him!) when I found the little buggers. He helped me climb out and I returned to my apartment smelling like pizza, laundry detergent, and diapers. This was a moment in which my life felt completely, ridiculously stupid.
But early tomorrow morning we're supposed to have a meteor shower. I always try to get up early to watch them when they're predicted, even though I live in a city and I know the chances of spotting even one are slim. I saw a falling star in Morocco once, on a night that I slept on a roof on the outskirts of the Sahara. It was Thanksgiving Day 2002, I had turned 22 and celebrated with a pseudo-carrot cake baked in an ornery butane oven. We slept on the roof overlooking date palms and I will never adequately describe that sky. The falling star was perfect, and so quick that when I asked my friends if they'd seen it, they said no. A blink or a nod of the head and you'd have lost it. I've always wanted to see another but never have. I don't mind if I don't see it tomorrow morning. I'm sure I'll find one eventually, probably, hopefully, when I least expect it. But I still get up to watch them if I can, if I learn of some shower making its presence known in the Northern Hemisphere. I'm practicing my falling star-spotting, I guess.
And that fits nicely in the "Yes! I can do this!" category.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Now What?
I ran my first marathon over a month ago. After a couple weeks hiatus from any kind of serious workout, I joined the YWCA and committed myself to giving a few new classes a whirl. I've found a couple I really enjoy, and I plan on making use of the pool one of these days. But I am not someone who can go to a gym without a goal. Or, rather, I can, but I know that working out "for the fun of it" lasts about 6 weeks for me and then the invariable, "now what?" begins. I don't always need a race or a time to train towards, but I need something, and classes in a gym rarely do that for me. Although I will admit to seeing a woman do a really wacky one-legged dancer-y pose in yoga class that I would not mind attempting someday...
But since I've started thinking about the "now what?" I've also started thinking about other races. I decided less than a week after the Twin Cities Marathon that I wanted to run Grandma's, everyone says it's so beautiful, maybe shoot for a better time. If I was 10 lbs lighter I'm positive I could shave at least 10 minutes off my time. And I'd train better this time around, I know where I was a little fuzzy, where I could have buckled down a bit more.
But I also know how huge a time commitment that is and I'm not sure I'll have it in me come February, when I'd need to start training again (I run now occassionally but really just for fun or to warm up, I'm not tracking mileage or anything). I definitely want to keep doing races but I really think I may just be a half-marathon girl. I did my marathon. I crossed that line. But when I look at the pics of that day, those first 13 miles I am smiling the whole time. Those 13 were FUN. And 13 isn't anything to sneeze at! That's a good ole run! And training for half-marathons is much more manageable in terms of having a life. Plus, I'd really like to be a bit faster. I've started thinking that maybe I could focus on half-marathons instead, work on getting my speed up that way. And if eventually I feel like doing a marathon again, there's nothing stopping me. Right?
It's early days yet. Grandma's sign-up isn't until mid January. I may get a post-New Year's boost and feel the need to get geared up for another marathon. After all, if I ran Grandma's and not Twin Cities, I would have all summer to just ENJOY, and not be training with long runs every Saturday/Sunday while everybody else is out doing what people do in the summertime. I didn't go out on boats near enough this summer. And I can probably count on one hand how many beers I drank on a patio.
This isn't to say that the training wasn't worth it. Running that marathon was one of the best experiences of my life. Definitely one of my proudest. But, as with anything, you do make sacrifices for the sake of your goals. Less time with friends, staying away from the cheese fries, exhaustion. Mmmmm, cheese fries...
So I'm building a "what" in answer to the "now what" that's been popping in my head recently. It's a heady thing, to know you have a feasible, totally accomplishable choice. I know I can do a marathon, that's no longer the question.
Do I want to do it again?
But since I've started thinking about the "now what?" I've also started thinking about other races. I decided less than a week after the Twin Cities Marathon that I wanted to run Grandma's, everyone says it's so beautiful, maybe shoot for a better time. If I was 10 lbs lighter I'm positive I could shave at least 10 minutes off my time. And I'd train better this time around, I know where I was a little fuzzy, where I could have buckled down a bit more.
But I also know how huge a time commitment that is and I'm not sure I'll have it in me come February, when I'd need to start training again (I run now occassionally but really just for fun or to warm up, I'm not tracking mileage or anything). I definitely want to keep doing races but I really think I may just be a half-marathon girl. I did my marathon. I crossed that line. But when I look at the pics of that day, those first 13 miles I am smiling the whole time. Those 13 were FUN. And 13 isn't anything to sneeze at! That's a good ole run! And training for half-marathons is much more manageable in terms of having a life. Plus, I'd really like to be a bit faster. I've started thinking that maybe I could focus on half-marathons instead, work on getting my speed up that way. And if eventually I feel like doing a marathon again, there's nothing stopping me. Right?
It's early days yet. Grandma's sign-up isn't until mid January. I may get a post-New Year's boost and feel the need to get geared up for another marathon. After all, if I ran Grandma's and not Twin Cities, I would have all summer to just ENJOY, and not be training with long runs every Saturday/Sunday while everybody else is out doing what people do in the summertime. I didn't go out on boats near enough this summer. And I can probably count on one hand how many beers I drank on a patio.
This isn't to say that the training wasn't worth it. Running that marathon was one of the best experiences of my life. Definitely one of my proudest. But, as with anything, you do make sacrifices for the sake of your goals. Less time with friends, staying away from the cheese fries, exhaustion. Mmmmm, cheese fries...
So I'm building a "what" in answer to the "now what" that's been popping in my head recently. It's a heady thing, to know you have a feasible, totally accomplishable choice. I know I can do a marathon, that's no longer the question.
Do I want to do it again?
Monday, October 26, 2009
What I Wish For A Sister
I was twelve when my sister was born. There is no era of her life that I don't remember. While there were large chunks of her growth that I learned of through emails and phone calls while I was in college and Peace Corps and Kansas City and law school, there is no year of her life that is not vividly etched in the experience of my own.
She's a junior in high school now. I am sure she has hazy but distinct memories of me at that age, she would have been four. She remembers me singing her to sleep maybe, or watching me line up for photos with friends in various poufy, poufy prom dresses. She doesn't remember the fights I had with Dad, or the exhaustion of too many honors classes and too many plays. She doesn't remember me as the often sullen, sulky, teenagery girl I'm sure my parents occassionally recall.
When she was younger, and I was younger, I often marveled at how alike we were. Both sunny and smart, dramatic, (overly) sensitive, curious. But as I got older parts of me became less of those things and more of others. And while I still feel like we are more alike than we are different, our differences are acute and powerful, which is exactly how it should be. She was never supposed to be a newer version of me, a cleaned up copy without my flaws. She was only supposed to be her.
I'm in Madison, WI this week for work. I've never been to this town before and I like it. And I like being here alone, with nobody but myself to entertain. I like walking down State Street and eating Afghani food (too salty) and browsing a dusty used bookstore for an hour. And as I walked around campus and into shops my sister would love, I remembered how caged I felt at 16. How desperate I would have been for a small window of time where I just got to wander, with nobody to report to, no papers to write, no boyfriends to break up with and cry over. Just wander, eat weird things, smile at strangers, buy books I don't need, and apologize to noone for my selfishness.
I look at my sister sometimes and I remember that caged feeling, when you know your parents mean well and love well, but you have a world to see. And I want to just hold her and tell her to survive another couple of years, to thrive in them and enjoy the occassional lack of responsibility. Because two years from now she will be tucked away in some college with more freedom than she can imagine, enough freedom to be terrifying and exhilirating all at once.
I do not feel old. While I am quickly approaching 29, I have never had that odd fear many women (including my friends) have regarding the 30th birthday. I have always felt that life must get exponentially better as time progresses, because the older one is, the more adventures one has had. You can't subtract the fun from years. So adding time just seems like adding opportunities for happiness you didn't know you had coming. But, young as I feel, and young as I am, I can look at my sister and be both envious of the years she has before her and worried, as I know I would not really wish to repeat them.
I wish many Afghani/Laotian/Tahitian/Moroccan/Catalan restaurants tucked in side streets for my sister. And tiny bookshops with winding iron stairs. And views from the tops of mountains and the sides of hills in cities and states and countries she hasn't thought about visiting yet. And teachers that inspire her. And classes that she thought she'd love that she discovers she hates. And vice versa. Friends that will go on road trips with her to illogical places. Lucky breaks. A pretty church. Music in parks with blankets tossed on cool, green grass. A million reasons to take a picture.
She's a junior in high school now. I am sure she has hazy but distinct memories of me at that age, she would have been four. She remembers me singing her to sleep maybe, or watching me line up for photos with friends in various poufy, poufy prom dresses. She doesn't remember the fights I had with Dad, or the exhaustion of too many honors classes and too many plays. She doesn't remember me as the often sullen, sulky, teenagery girl I'm sure my parents occassionally recall.
When she was younger, and I was younger, I often marveled at how alike we were. Both sunny and smart, dramatic, (overly) sensitive, curious. But as I got older parts of me became less of those things and more of others. And while I still feel like we are more alike than we are different, our differences are acute and powerful, which is exactly how it should be. She was never supposed to be a newer version of me, a cleaned up copy without my flaws. She was only supposed to be her.
I'm in Madison, WI this week for work. I've never been to this town before and I like it. And I like being here alone, with nobody but myself to entertain. I like walking down State Street and eating Afghani food (too salty) and browsing a dusty used bookstore for an hour. And as I walked around campus and into shops my sister would love, I remembered how caged I felt at 16. How desperate I would have been for a small window of time where I just got to wander, with nobody to report to, no papers to write, no boyfriends to break up with and cry over. Just wander, eat weird things, smile at strangers, buy books I don't need, and apologize to noone for my selfishness.
I look at my sister sometimes and I remember that caged feeling, when you know your parents mean well and love well, but you have a world to see. And I want to just hold her and tell her to survive another couple of years, to thrive in them and enjoy the occassional lack of responsibility. Because two years from now she will be tucked away in some college with more freedom than she can imagine, enough freedom to be terrifying and exhilirating all at once.
I do not feel old. While I am quickly approaching 29, I have never had that odd fear many women (including my friends) have regarding the 30th birthday. I have always felt that life must get exponentially better as time progresses, because the older one is, the more adventures one has had. You can't subtract the fun from years. So adding time just seems like adding opportunities for happiness you didn't know you had coming. But, young as I feel, and young as I am, I can look at my sister and be both envious of the years she has before her and worried, as I know I would not really wish to repeat them.
I wish many Afghani/Laotian/Tahitian/Moroccan/Catalan restaurants tucked in side streets for my sister. And tiny bookshops with winding iron stairs. And views from the tops of mountains and the sides of hills in cities and states and countries she hasn't thought about visiting yet. And teachers that inspire her. And classes that she thought she'd love that she discovers she hates. And vice versa. Friends that will go on road trips with her to illogical places. Lucky breaks. A pretty church. Music in parks with blankets tossed on cool, green grass. A million reasons to take a picture.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Memory
I was having trouble writing for work and so began to write for fun (how else do you get rid of a Block?). I initially emailed this to a friend but thought I'd post it here, too, for posterity's sake. Just a memory of a place I would occassionally rather be...
I didn't intend to be in Marrakech alone. I'd traveled there many times to join other volunteers, and that time was no different. I packed my small bag and walked to the taxi stand outside the village, the sand still angry and sharp after the previous day's storm. I called out for a cab to 'Maraksh' and half a dozen men started yelling their price, some exorbitantly high, and some suspiciously low. I picked the cab with mostly women, paid my fare, and climbed in, preparing myself for the requisite poking, questioning stares of strangers. Red hair always gave me away.
The cab ride was always two hours or so through dry, almost dead-looking countryside. I don't know if I will ever be able to adequately describe the color of Moroccan dirt. A pinkish, clay color that mixed with eons of Saharan sand and black, black crumbled rock. The red of carpets was a near camouflage to the ground the prayer rugs graced, and I remember aching for green, for leaves, for the cool of fresh grass. But in my slice of Morocco, red dirt was God's palate of choice.
The cab wound East from my village, ending at a huge cab stand on the outskirts of Maraksh, where I gathered my things and found a second cab to take me into the city. The discussion was always the same:
Rashida: Salam Ealaykom (blessings and peace)
Cab: Wa ealykom salam (blessings and peace to you)
R: Labas? (is everything well?)
C: Labas, hamdollah (everything is well, thanks be to God), ntee? (and you?)
R: Kolshi bekheer, hamdollah (everything is good, thanks be to God). Bgheet mshew Jma El Fna (I'd like to go to the main square)
C: Enchallah (if God wills it)
R: Enchallah (if God wills it), wash le magana kdhem? (does the meter work?)
C: Khdeem (it works)
R: Waxa, yalla (ok, lets go)
The cab ride to the main square was always different, never the same route, as we always had to dodge a donkey cart or a fruit stand surprisingly set up in the middle of a road. This time, midway through the ride, I received a text from the two friends I was meeting, one was ill (ah, parasites) and the other had missed the one bus out of her village for the day. I was officially in Marrakech alone. I left the cab with my requisite blessing and thanks, the smell of roasting nuts and the bang of drums drowning the tears that would have cropped up at the prospect of exploring my favorite, terrifying city alone for 3 days. I made my way through the twists and turns of an alley to the inn I always stayed in, the Sindi Sud, where for $2 a night I could unwind my sleeping bag on the roof and sleep under the stars, the sounds of the night market booming below me.
After storing my things and inquiring if any other Americans had stopped by (no luck, only a German), I emerged into the city I'd never explored on my own. I walked to the cafe overlooking the square for a late breakfast of eggs and bread and thick, black coffee with cream. The drums never ceased in the square. But their rhythm was never disturbing or overly loud, it was a drumming like heartbeats, with the peppering of shouts and price wrangling and the squeal of a stray cat under somebody's cart. After breakfast I wrapped a long shawl around my head to hide the shock of my red, Western hair, and ventured into the souk, the overwhelming market of cloth and food and trinkets that never ceased to swallow me whole. I wandered, shooing away most vendors with better Arabic than they expected from a blue-eyed tourist, and found myself lost near a pile of fermented olives being sold by a child no older than 7. I bought olives and bread and almonds from her, slid them into my bag for later, and set out to find a carpet seller.
After inquiring of several smiling, suspicious vendors, I found the carpet hovel of SiMohammad, who welcomed me in with a tray of mint tea and disgusting cookies. Moroccans are excellent cooks and I ate the most delicious foods of my life while living there, but the cookies were occassionally sawdust with sugar. He was a tiny man, wiry and dark, with clear hazel eyes and a long cream jelaba (robe). He was very religious and so would not touch me, when I offered my hand he sweetly placed his hand on his heart in greeting and I knew my unmarried touch was sinful to him. But his demeanor was warm and friendly, and he asked how I came to wander alone. We talked as much as we could in my broken Arabic and his broken French and after a half hour of laughter and his enjoyment of my pronunciation of several words that were probably offensive, he allowed me to wander his shop, pointing at the rugs I loved, asking their price. Soon he discovered my price range, my color choice, my length preference, and within minutes I bought a long, beautiful Berber rug, tucking it under my arm and promising blessing upon his house as I Ieft.
I sat down against a wall to eat my olives and almonds, watching women dye cloth in huge vats of dark, shimmering liquid. They pressed the huge strips with large wooden poles and, seeing me watch them, they waved and welcomed me and let me sit near a vat and listen to them sing. The sting of lye or vinegar in the dye made my eyes tear and the insides my nose burn in the first minutes, but over time the heat of the day, the cool of shared orange juice, and the laughter of children pushed the vinegar away and I layed down near an old woman knitting socks to sleep.
By the time I woke the sky was darkening, so I began to stumble my way out of the souk, moving always towards the sound of drums. When I emerged, night had arrived, dark in its way, but bursting with independently strewn lights across the square. Each light danced on skewers of meat, fresh fish, frying potato, hot bread stuffed with fat and spices. I sat at the first table I could find and ordered a dish of meat I, to this day, could not recognize. I ate and chatted with a French couple next to me who were shocked at my solo exploration, and impressed by my easy ordering skills. I recommended they stay away from the fish sold by the one-legged man unless they enjoyed the bathroom of their hotel quite fiercely.
I bought msimin, hot layered bread with pockets of olive oil and sage, and began to walk back to the inn, tired and ready for sleep. I climbed to the roof and unrolled by bed, tucking my new rug beneath my head as a hard, souk-smelling pillow. Cool desert air blew in from the Sahara and the shadow of Mount Toubkal was thrown in relief against a sky lit equally by stars and market lights. I fell asleep to the heartbeat of drums.
I didn't intend to be in Marrakech alone. I'd traveled there many times to join other volunteers, and that time was no different. I packed my small bag and walked to the taxi stand outside the village, the sand still angry and sharp after the previous day's storm. I called out for a cab to 'Maraksh' and half a dozen men started yelling their price, some exorbitantly high, and some suspiciously low. I picked the cab with mostly women, paid my fare, and climbed in, preparing myself for the requisite poking, questioning stares of strangers. Red hair always gave me away.
The cab ride was always two hours or so through dry, almost dead-looking countryside. I don't know if I will ever be able to adequately describe the color of Moroccan dirt. A pinkish, clay color that mixed with eons of Saharan sand and black, black crumbled rock. The red of carpets was a near camouflage to the ground the prayer rugs graced, and I remember aching for green, for leaves, for the cool of fresh grass. But in my slice of Morocco, red dirt was God's palate of choice.
The cab wound East from my village, ending at a huge cab stand on the outskirts of Maraksh, where I gathered my things and found a second cab to take me into the city. The discussion was always the same:
Rashida: Salam Ealaykom (blessings and peace)
Cab: Wa ealykom salam (blessings and peace to you)
R: Labas? (is everything well?)
C: Labas, hamdollah (everything is well, thanks be to God), ntee? (and you?)
R: Kolshi bekheer, hamdollah (everything is good, thanks be to God). Bgheet mshew Jma El Fna (I'd like to go to the main square)
C: Enchallah (if God wills it)
R: Enchallah (if God wills it), wash le magana kdhem? (does the meter work?)
C: Khdeem (it works)
R: Waxa, yalla (ok, lets go)
The cab ride to the main square was always different, never the same route, as we always had to dodge a donkey cart or a fruit stand surprisingly set up in the middle of a road. This time, midway through the ride, I received a text from the two friends I was meeting, one was ill (ah, parasites) and the other had missed the one bus out of her village for the day. I was officially in Marrakech alone. I left the cab with my requisite blessing and thanks, the smell of roasting nuts and the bang of drums drowning the tears that would have cropped up at the prospect of exploring my favorite, terrifying city alone for 3 days. I made my way through the twists and turns of an alley to the inn I always stayed in, the Sindi Sud, where for $2 a night I could unwind my sleeping bag on the roof and sleep under the stars, the sounds of the night market booming below me.
After storing my things and inquiring if any other Americans had stopped by (no luck, only a German), I emerged into the city I'd never explored on my own. I walked to the cafe overlooking the square for a late breakfast of eggs and bread and thick, black coffee with cream. The drums never ceased in the square. But their rhythm was never disturbing or overly loud, it was a drumming like heartbeats, with the peppering of shouts and price wrangling and the squeal of a stray cat under somebody's cart. After breakfast I wrapped a long shawl around my head to hide the shock of my red, Western hair, and ventured into the souk, the overwhelming market of cloth and food and trinkets that never ceased to swallow me whole. I wandered, shooing away most vendors with better Arabic than they expected from a blue-eyed tourist, and found myself lost near a pile of fermented olives being sold by a child no older than 7. I bought olives and bread and almonds from her, slid them into my bag for later, and set out to find a carpet seller.
After inquiring of several smiling, suspicious vendors, I found the carpet hovel of SiMohammad, who welcomed me in with a tray of mint tea and disgusting cookies. Moroccans are excellent cooks and I ate the most delicious foods of my life while living there, but the cookies were occassionally sawdust with sugar. He was a tiny man, wiry and dark, with clear hazel eyes and a long cream jelaba (robe). He was very religious and so would not touch me, when I offered my hand he sweetly placed his hand on his heart in greeting and I knew my unmarried touch was sinful to him. But his demeanor was warm and friendly, and he asked how I came to wander alone. We talked as much as we could in my broken Arabic and his broken French and after a half hour of laughter and his enjoyment of my pronunciation of several words that were probably offensive, he allowed me to wander his shop, pointing at the rugs I loved, asking their price. Soon he discovered my price range, my color choice, my length preference, and within minutes I bought a long, beautiful Berber rug, tucking it under my arm and promising blessing upon his house as I Ieft.
I sat down against a wall to eat my olives and almonds, watching women dye cloth in huge vats of dark, shimmering liquid. They pressed the huge strips with large wooden poles and, seeing me watch them, they waved and welcomed me and let me sit near a vat and listen to them sing. The sting of lye or vinegar in the dye made my eyes tear and the insides my nose burn in the first minutes, but over time the heat of the day, the cool of shared orange juice, and the laughter of children pushed the vinegar away and I layed down near an old woman knitting socks to sleep.
By the time I woke the sky was darkening, so I began to stumble my way out of the souk, moving always towards the sound of drums. When I emerged, night had arrived, dark in its way, but bursting with independently strewn lights across the square. Each light danced on skewers of meat, fresh fish, frying potato, hot bread stuffed with fat and spices. I sat at the first table I could find and ordered a dish of meat I, to this day, could not recognize. I ate and chatted with a French couple next to me who were shocked at my solo exploration, and impressed by my easy ordering skills. I recommended they stay away from the fish sold by the one-legged man unless they enjoyed the bathroom of their hotel quite fiercely.
I bought msimin, hot layered bread with pockets of olive oil and sage, and began to walk back to the inn, tired and ready for sleep. I climbed to the roof and unrolled by bed, tucking my new rug beneath my head as a hard, souk-smelling pillow. Cool desert air blew in from the Sahara and the shadow of Mount Toubkal was thrown in relief against a sky lit equally by stars and market lights. I fell asleep to the heartbeat of drums.
Monday, October 05, 2009
Renew
I ran (and finished) my first marathon yesterday.
It was chilly to start, low 40s. I had some gloves to begin but was able to toss those aside after two or three miles. I started chatting with another girl at the start and we ran together the first 5 miles. Unfortunately, her pace was faster than I usually start for long runs and I paid for that later in the race.
The first 8/9 miles went incredibly easy. Beautiful route around the lakes, sunshine, lots of crowds cheering everyone on and more boomboxes playing "Eye of the Tiger" than was really necessary.
I got lovely, supportive hugs twice from Sharon in that first leg, and again around 12 where I also saw my parents and sister. Julie was waiting for me around mile 14 and at 20 my parents and sister were on the sidelines again, cheering me on. My boyfriend, Jason, had the misfortune of missing me around mile 25, which was partly my fault as by that point I had stopped scanning the crowds and had my eyes firmly stitched to the pavement.
The race was not difficult until mile 18 or so. I suppose that's pretty typical. At 18 I was bored and frustrated by the pain in my left foot, aggravated that a pain I'd never had on any training run was choosing Marathon Day to introduce itself. Is that a muscle? A bone? Whatever it was, it ached for four miles straight and then disappeared (replaced by other pains, of course). At 20 I was exhausted and felt like if I stopped at all I would never get my engine started again. So when I saw my family just past the 20 mile mark, I couldn't stop for hugs. I did smile, I think.
Mile by mile, I can't differentiate much between the miles 21 to 26. But I did cry a bit at mile 23, stopping for powerade. A little old woman shook her fist at me goodnaturedly and said, "you can do it, sweetie." I felt like a wimp, crying in public like that. But I bucked up with the powerade. 23 and 24 were pure misery. The miles felt twice as long as I thought possible and the "you're almost there"s being screamed from the crowd started to annoy me. Because after running 24 miles, knowing I still have 2 more to go does not feel like "almost there" in the slightest. It feels like an eternity. I could tell the screams that were coming from former marathoners (or maybe they just had a better grasp of the pain involved) because their cheers were more specific. "8/10 of a mile more of this hill and then it's flat again" "less than half a mile until the next water stop"...those smaller milestones were much more reasonable in my head.
I carried two Bible verses with me, Isaiah 40:31 (but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength, they will rise up on eagles' wings, they will run and not grow weary, walk and not grow faint) and Hebrews 12:1 (therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that entangles and run with perseverance the race set before us). I have both memorized, generally, but carried post-its with me to read over while warming up at the Metrodome and just in case some emotional meltdown required some spiritual sustenance down the road. Mile 23/24 required such sustenance. I didn't break out the post-its (I think I forgot they were tucked in my pocket, actually). And I couldn't remember much of the verses at all. Hebrews altogether vanished. All I could remember of Isaiah was eagle wings and "renew their strength" so each beat on the pavement was accompagnied by an (I assume) intelligible-only-to-God prayer to give me wings and "renew" my strength. I remember praying something along the lines of, "I know you promise only to renew my strength, you don't promise that this will feel good. I know it will hurt. Just renew my strength enough to get me to the end. However that renewal works, just renew me enough to finish. Please. Amen."
And, as is so often with God, his answer was weird. For some reason the eagle wing thing got me thinking about birds which led to me thinking about this baby bird I found growing up in Arkansas, that my parents let me attempt to nurse to health from the comfort of a cardboard box in the garage. I spent at least 10 minutes trying to remember the name I gave that bird. And then what about that kitten I found once? Did I name that? Did we give him away or did he run away? I couldn't remember. Oh, and Rocky! The "flying" squirrel that fell on my head off our roof in St. Louis and we kept in an easter basket hung from a tree limb for a day before calling animal control. But what was the name of that bird I found? I remember it started with a T, I think. Or maybe an S. And what happened to him? I assume he died. Did I bury him? I remember burying some goldfish. And a couple hamsters, including Buster, who might have been inadvertently murdered. What was the name of that bird?
This mental detour carried me through 23 and midway into 24. By the time I realized I'd been running that entire time I could see the sign for mile 25. I felt lifted. Renewed?
I will admit that 25 felt good. Not physically good. My heart just felt tired, my lungs felt tired. I thought maybe that's what it feels like to die, or if not to die, to grow old. Sounds morbid, but the thoughts get a little wacky near the end. 25 felt physically awful. But mentally, it was the first time I'd thought, "you're actually going to pull this off."
Before 25 I was mainly going for mini-milestones. Mile 6, eat a gel. Mile 8, put the iPod on shuffle. Mile 12, eat a gel. Mile 19, get a banana. Mile 23, eat a gel. Intersperse some powerade stops in there. But at 25 it dawned on me that I was 1.2 miles from the finish. Even if I walked the rest (which I didn't), I would finish with time to spare. So 25 was a happy mile and knowing I'd done it helped me believe that mile 25 was not actually 7 miles long (although it felt that way). I thought that must be what "renewal" feels like, in any sense of the word. To feel completely exhausted and yet suddenly find some wellspring of energy or hope or passion that just makes you know that what felt over is not actually over. You still have work to do. And you have been blessed with the power to complete it.
At the top of the hill, with about .4 miles left to go, you can see the finish line. A huge American flag waving over a line at the foot of the Capital. I turned off my iPod then, wanting to remember the sound of finishing. And I told myself to remember what that felt like. Not to forget that feeling, too, and not just the feeling of leaden icepicks driving through my thighs. Remember that lump in your throat when the finish line was visible. A metaphor for everything. (And yes, only an English major would state to themselves--you're living through an actual metaphor right now, not a simile, a metaphor!)
Isaiah 40:31 doesn't waste its time on simile either. Upon renewal, you do not rise up on something like eagles wings. Those wings are actual and real. Wings that carry you when you recognize you can no longer carry yourself. Wings that give you a moment to catch your breath, renew. Then cross that line.
It was chilly to start, low 40s. I had some gloves to begin but was able to toss those aside after two or three miles. I started chatting with another girl at the start and we ran together the first 5 miles. Unfortunately, her pace was faster than I usually start for long runs and I paid for that later in the race.
The first 8/9 miles went incredibly easy. Beautiful route around the lakes, sunshine, lots of crowds cheering everyone on and more boomboxes playing "Eye of the Tiger" than was really necessary.
I got lovely, supportive hugs twice from Sharon in that first leg, and again around 12 where I also saw my parents and sister. Julie was waiting for me around mile 14 and at 20 my parents and sister were on the sidelines again, cheering me on. My boyfriend, Jason, had the misfortune of missing me around mile 25, which was partly my fault as by that point I had stopped scanning the crowds and had my eyes firmly stitched to the pavement.
The race was not difficult until mile 18 or so. I suppose that's pretty typical. At 18 I was bored and frustrated by the pain in my left foot, aggravated that a pain I'd never had on any training run was choosing Marathon Day to introduce itself. Is that a muscle? A bone? Whatever it was, it ached for four miles straight and then disappeared (replaced by other pains, of course). At 20 I was exhausted and felt like if I stopped at all I would never get my engine started again. So when I saw my family just past the 20 mile mark, I couldn't stop for hugs. I did smile, I think.
Mile by mile, I can't differentiate much between the miles 21 to 26. But I did cry a bit at mile 23, stopping for powerade. A little old woman shook her fist at me goodnaturedly and said, "you can do it, sweetie." I felt like a wimp, crying in public like that. But I bucked up with the powerade. 23 and 24 were pure misery. The miles felt twice as long as I thought possible and the "you're almost there"s being screamed from the crowd started to annoy me. Because after running 24 miles, knowing I still have 2 more to go does not feel like "almost there" in the slightest. It feels like an eternity. I could tell the screams that were coming from former marathoners (or maybe they just had a better grasp of the pain involved) because their cheers were more specific. "8/10 of a mile more of this hill and then it's flat again" "less than half a mile until the next water stop"...those smaller milestones were much more reasonable in my head.
I carried two Bible verses with me, Isaiah 40:31 (but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength, they will rise up on eagles' wings, they will run and not grow weary, walk and not grow faint) and Hebrews 12:1 (therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that entangles and run with perseverance the race set before us). I have both memorized, generally, but carried post-its with me to read over while warming up at the Metrodome and just in case some emotional meltdown required some spiritual sustenance down the road. Mile 23/24 required such sustenance. I didn't break out the post-its (I think I forgot they were tucked in my pocket, actually). And I couldn't remember much of the verses at all. Hebrews altogether vanished. All I could remember of Isaiah was eagle wings and "renew their strength" so each beat on the pavement was accompagnied by an (I assume) intelligible-only-to-God prayer to give me wings and "renew" my strength. I remember praying something along the lines of, "I know you promise only to renew my strength, you don't promise that this will feel good. I know it will hurt. Just renew my strength enough to get me to the end. However that renewal works, just renew me enough to finish. Please. Amen."
And, as is so often with God, his answer was weird. For some reason the eagle wing thing got me thinking about birds which led to me thinking about this baby bird I found growing up in Arkansas, that my parents let me attempt to nurse to health from the comfort of a cardboard box in the garage. I spent at least 10 minutes trying to remember the name I gave that bird. And then what about that kitten I found once? Did I name that? Did we give him away or did he run away? I couldn't remember. Oh, and Rocky! The "flying" squirrel that fell on my head off our roof in St. Louis and we kept in an easter basket hung from a tree limb for a day before calling animal control. But what was the name of that bird I found? I remember it started with a T, I think. Or maybe an S. And what happened to him? I assume he died. Did I bury him? I remember burying some goldfish. And a couple hamsters, including Buster, who might have been inadvertently murdered. What was the name of that bird?
This mental detour carried me through 23 and midway into 24. By the time I realized I'd been running that entire time I could see the sign for mile 25. I felt lifted. Renewed?
I will admit that 25 felt good. Not physically good. My heart just felt tired, my lungs felt tired. I thought maybe that's what it feels like to die, or if not to die, to grow old. Sounds morbid, but the thoughts get a little wacky near the end. 25 felt physically awful. But mentally, it was the first time I'd thought, "you're actually going to pull this off."
Before 25 I was mainly going for mini-milestones. Mile 6, eat a gel. Mile 8, put the iPod on shuffle. Mile 12, eat a gel. Mile 19, get a banana. Mile 23, eat a gel. Intersperse some powerade stops in there. But at 25 it dawned on me that I was 1.2 miles from the finish. Even if I walked the rest (which I didn't), I would finish with time to spare. So 25 was a happy mile and knowing I'd done it helped me believe that mile 25 was not actually 7 miles long (although it felt that way). I thought that must be what "renewal" feels like, in any sense of the word. To feel completely exhausted and yet suddenly find some wellspring of energy or hope or passion that just makes you know that what felt over is not actually over. You still have work to do. And you have been blessed with the power to complete it.
At the top of the hill, with about .4 miles left to go, you can see the finish line. A huge American flag waving over a line at the foot of the Capital. I turned off my iPod then, wanting to remember the sound of finishing. And I told myself to remember what that felt like. Not to forget that feeling, too, and not just the feeling of leaden icepicks driving through my thighs. Remember that lump in your throat when the finish line was visible. A metaphor for everything. (And yes, only an English major would state to themselves--you're living through an actual metaphor right now, not a simile, a metaphor!)
Isaiah 40:31 doesn't waste its time on simile either. Upon renewal, you do not rise up on something like eagles wings. Those wings are actual and real. Wings that carry you when you recognize you can no longer carry yourself. Wings that give you a moment to catch your breath, renew. Then cross that line.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
The Day Before
I will run my first marathon tomorrow. I've thought all day about what I should write for this post. Last minute soul searching? Countdown anxiety? I'm not sure how specific I can be as to how or what I'm feeling, so I figure I'll just detail this day for posterity's sake.
I finally fell asleep last night a little after midnight, woke up around 9am. A solid sleep, despite my inability to calm down last night. I picked up my race packet yesterday and spent much of the evening reading and rereading the participant materials, trying on my race day clothes, debating how cold 45 degrees would feel midrun. I settled on the same concoction of clothing I'd chosen pre-debate (typical), grey knee-length pants, dad's 1985 marathon tshirt, red long sleeve technical shirt with world's greatest pocket, smartwool socks, blue sweatshirt for warming up.
After breakfast (oatmeal, baked apple, 2 eggs) I went to Running Room for spectator books, Target for new earphones, and Trader Joe's for bananas and milk (two things I will need tomorrow morning). I got a call from a friend and so stopped by her home where she gave me celebratory flowers and I spastically described my race day plans. I might have qualified as hyper at that point. Came home and cut the flowers too short so now they look a little weird in my one and only vase (I need a tall vase). But they're bright and happy and remind me of supportive friends so a sloppy arrangement (wholly my fault) is easily ignored.
I've been downloading new songs for iPod, some suggestions from fellow runners, some just homey songs that will remind me of the people that helped me get here. Alabama and Creedence Clearwater Revival for my Dad. Guns n' Roses for Jason. Garth Brooks and bad euro dance music for Christina. U2 for Megan. 80s randomness and Rogue Wave for Juice. Decemberists and Dan Auerbach for Chris. Richard Marx (no joke) and Wynton Marsalis for Stephanie. It's an eclectic mix, to say nothing else. There's always a purpose to my music, and at mile 21 I know I'll need constant reminding of the people who high fived me the first time I ran 3 miles, much less 26.
I bought a tshirt yesterday at the expo. It says, "The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start." I won't wear it until tomorrow afternoon but the quote is dead-on. If someone had told me 4 years ago, at my heaviest (230+ lbs), newly evacuated from New Orleans and feeling completely uninspired by my life, that in 4 years I'd weigh 80+ lbs less (roughly, I'm a girl, I'm not stating my EXACT weight), a half-marathon and 20-mile race under my belt and a marathon on the horizon...well. I don't think I would have had any choice but laugh at that idea. It still seems mildly ludicrous to me, so I can't imagine how I would have reacted back then.
I can't say that I was miserable back then, at that size. I knew I was unhealthy and that I could be healthier. But I have always adapted to my world and my circumstances very easily. I was (and am) a naturally happy person. But after evacuating I was overcome with a sense that such a disaster would be easier somehow if I had control over something, if I could at least depend on my own body to survive such a thing. I felt that I was making my life more difficult by the choices I was making and that seemed illogical. With better choices, healthier decisions, I could fight whatever disasters rolled my way with less heartache (perhaps) and I could, when things got really bad, always know that I'd done everything in my power to make sure I was physically capable of conquering whatever needed conquering. I simply felt weak. And that stopped being okay.
That was 4 years ago so the road was long. But I suppose the road usually is when it's something worthwhile. And 4 years ago I didn't set out to one day run a marathon. I just wanted to be stronger. Better. At that point I had no concept of what that looked like, I only knew I had a long way to go. So tomorrow's event was never my goal, it couldn't have been. I don't typically shoot for impossible things and that's exactly what a marathon would have been at that point.
Goals shift. At the marathon expo yesterday I was wandering around taste testing clif bars and juices, looking at newfangled socks and visors. I chatted with a couple other runners, some doing the 10 mile race, others doing the marathon. Someone came on the loudspeaker and made some announcement, "Runners, don't forget..." "Runners, make sure you stop by..." "Runners, welcome and please bring..."
Runners.
If I had had some faraway, wildly unattainable goal 4 years ago, if I'd admitted as much to myself, it would have been to be part of such a collective. To be a "runner" maybe. Or just a "healthy" person. Part of some easily defined group of persons pursuing a physical goal. It would have been a vague dream at that point 4 years ago. But if I'd had the courage to name it, that would have been it. I wanted to be an athlete, however that was defined for the body God gave me.
Today I ran errands. I figured out my running clothes. I mapped things, emailed my race number to people. Made plans and preparations to meet friends and family along the route. Because it may be hard to find me tomorrow, one of 11,000. I will be part of a collective. A big, sweaty, happy, healthy collective.
I will be one of the Runners.
I finally fell asleep last night a little after midnight, woke up around 9am. A solid sleep, despite my inability to calm down last night. I picked up my race packet yesterday and spent much of the evening reading and rereading the participant materials, trying on my race day clothes, debating how cold 45 degrees would feel midrun. I settled on the same concoction of clothing I'd chosen pre-debate (typical), grey knee-length pants, dad's 1985 marathon tshirt, red long sleeve technical shirt with world's greatest pocket, smartwool socks, blue sweatshirt for warming up.
After breakfast (oatmeal, baked apple, 2 eggs) I went to Running Room for spectator books, Target for new earphones, and Trader Joe's for bananas and milk (two things I will need tomorrow morning). I got a call from a friend and so stopped by her home where she gave me celebratory flowers and I spastically described my race day plans. I might have qualified as hyper at that point. Came home and cut the flowers too short so now they look a little weird in my one and only vase (I need a tall vase). But they're bright and happy and remind me of supportive friends so a sloppy arrangement (wholly my fault) is easily ignored.
I've been downloading new songs for iPod, some suggestions from fellow runners, some just homey songs that will remind me of the people that helped me get here. Alabama and Creedence Clearwater Revival for my Dad. Guns n' Roses for Jason. Garth Brooks and bad euro dance music for Christina. U2 for Megan. 80s randomness and Rogue Wave for Juice. Decemberists and Dan Auerbach for Chris. Richard Marx (no joke) and Wynton Marsalis for Stephanie. It's an eclectic mix, to say nothing else. There's always a purpose to my music, and at mile 21 I know I'll need constant reminding of the people who high fived me the first time I ran 3 miles, much less 26.
I bought a tshirt yesterday at the expo. It says, "The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start." I won't wear it until tomorrow afternoon but the quote is dead-on. If someone had told me 4 years ago, at my heaviest (230+ lbs), newly evacuated from New Orleans and feeling completely uninspired by my life, that in 4 years I'd weigh 80+ lbs less (roughly, I'm a girl, I'm not stating my EXACT weight), a half-marathon and 20-mile race under my belt and a marathon on the horizon...well. I don't think I would have had any choice but laugh at that idea. It still seems mildly ludicrous to me, so I can't imagine how I would have reacted back then.
I can't say that I was miserable back then, at that size. I knew I was unhealthy and that I could be healthier. But I have always adapted to my world and my circumstances very easily. I was (and am) a naturally happy person. But after evacuating I was overcome with a sense that such a disaster would be easier somehow if I had control over something, if I could at least depend on my own body to survive such a thing. I felt that I was making my life more difficult by the choices I was making and that seemed illogical. With better choices, healthier decisions, I could fight whatever disasters rolled my way with less heartache (perhaps) and I could, when things got really bad, always know that I'd done everything in my power to make sure I was physically capable of conquering whatever needed conquering. I simply felt weak. And that stopped being okay.
That was 4 years ago so the road was long. But I suppose the road usually is when it's something worthwhile. And 4 years ago I didn't set out to one day run a marathon. I just wanted to be stronger. Better. At that point I had no concept of what that looked like, I only knew I had a long way to go. So tomorrow's event was never my goal, it couldn't have been. I don't typically shoot for impossible things and that's exactly what a marathon would have been at that point.
Goals shift. At the marathon expo yesterday I was wandering around taste testing clif bars and juices, looking at newfangled socks and visors. I chatted with a couple other runners, some doing the 10 mile race, others doing the marathon. Someone came on the loudspeaker and made some announcement, "Runners, don't forget..." "Runners, make sure you stop by..." "Runners, welcome and please bring..."
Runners.
If I had had some faraway, wildly unattainable goal 4 years ago, if I'd admitted as much to myself, it would have been to be part of such a collective. To be a "runner" maybe. Or just a "healthy" person. Part of some easily defined group of persons pursuing a physical goal. It would have been a vague dream at that point 4 years ago. But if I'd had the courage to name it, that would have been it. I wanted to be an athlete, however that was defined for the body God gave me.
Today I ran errands. I figured out my running clothes. I mapped things, emailed my race number to people. Made plans and preparations to meet friends and family along the route. Because it may be hard to find me tomorrow, one of 11,000. I will be part of a collective. A big, sweaty, happy, healthy collective.
I will be one of the Runners.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Little Engine That Could
I will attempt to run my first marathon on Sunday.
Nope.
I will run my first marathon on Sunday.
That's better.
Nope.
I will run my first marathon on Sunday.
That's better.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Bringing Up The Rear
I have never had any intentions of being speedy. I run for three reasons: solitude, sweat, and survival. I didn't mean for all of those to start with "s" but I'm going to embrace alliteration today. I value the loneliness of runs, especially long runs. I value how exhausted it makes me, how I can manage to push one more mile out of a body that long since begged mercy. And I value how it ties me more firmly to the earth, to my life and living it, makes me prioritize what I need and what I do not, the people I want and the people I do not, makes me carve time to ensure my own happiness, the survival of my own well-being.
On Saturday I ran the White Bear Lake 20-miler. Twenty miles. This was my longest training run so I thought a race would make it moderately more passable. Races are more energetic. There's a requisite bounce when you have a number pinned to your chest, water belt strapped to your hips, gels tucked neatly in a cunning little pocket. Before a race, I always feel strong. I feel small, pretty, and tough, despite the crust of sleep in my eyes. The light is warm and lovely at 7:30 a.m. on a summer Saturday.
However, racing niceties aside, this one was tricky. Ten minutes or so after arrival I knew where I fell in the grand scheme of things. Slim, sinewy runners surrounded me talking about 3:40 marathon times being such a bummer (I wouldn't finish 20 miles in 3:40, much less 26.2). They didn't stretch, they floated from one limber, muscled pose to another, leaning on car bumpers or boyfriends, sliding their heels down a curb to ease the tension in some Achilles. All the sudden, looking around, I realized that there was a very good chance I would be the last one to cross the finish line.
I've never been last before. I've always been somewhere near the back of the middle 50%. And I'm okay with that. Speed isn't my goal, after all. But there is something terrifying about being dead last. What if they're packing up when I curve around the bend? What if they've torn down the "Finish" sign before I pass? How embarassing. They promised peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the finish line, what if those are all gone by the time I get there (I was really concerned about the pb & j)? How disappointing.
As I thought it would be better to start off at the back, as opposed to enjoying the breeze as each and every runner rushed past me, I took my spot at the very back of the group. I told myself that this race, this 20-miler, was the same as the marathon. My only opponent, my only competition, was the voice in my head that occassionally told me I could not do this. Just me. I only had to beat me. And the only way to beat me was to finish. Just finish.
The course wasn't bad, mostly flat, with two long laps around Bald Lake (a 7 mile circumference) following a windy jaunt down neighborhood streets. The laps were the painful part, of course. To be at mile 10 and have somebody speed past you, knowing they were on mile 17...that hurts. But slowly, over the course of the first hour, I passed a handful of people. I saw another handful quit around mile 12, one ambulance called. I don't feel like a better runner than these people. I just had a better day. I drank my water better. Slept better the night before. Had lots of "good luck"s from friends and family beforehand. Just a better day for me. And around that midway point I acknowledged that I would, in fact, not be last, which gave me some small comfort. And such small comfort was quickly replaced by the new anxiety: now there were 12 people behind me who would witness my defeat if I quit.
Despite passing a few people, the bulk of my time was spent alone. I never rejoined the main herd, although I saw a glimpse of a group curving around mile 13. The majority of the race was just me, winding and plodding around the lake, bribing myself with energy gels (miles 6, 12, and 18 got gels), forcing my eyes to the ground, squinting almost, when that voice started to tell me I could just quit now. The weather was bad Saturday. Perfect, perhaps, for a day on the beach, but way too warm and humid for 20 miles in the sun. A couple of times I was momentarily blinded by a bead of sweat falling slowly from a right eyelash into an innocent contact lens. I could feel prickly heat creeping up my neck, itching and promising to annoy the tar out of me later. It's in those tiny moments of annoyance, however, that I usually get my gumption back, my exhaustion lessens, my heartbeat calms, my knees agree to carry me just a bit further. I think I take such minor grievances as tiny attacks, little windows of opportunity for that part of me that doubts I am capable of this to slide in and cinch her hold (I sound schizophrenic). And so I gnash my teeth (metaphorically) and tip my head to the ground, make my peace with the road, and move on.
I finished in 3 hours, 54 minutes, which was 6 minutes less than what I envisioned as a great race. It got me thinking that maybe, just maybe, if the weather was cool the day of the Marathon, maybe I could finish just shy of 5 hours. But I'm not getting ahead of myself. I was proud of my overheated, largely solo, sub-4 hour 20-miler. I did, in fact, miss out on the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (if they ever really existed), but there were plenty of bananas and oranges to feed my carb-deprived state, and a great friend standing by with a hug after cheering me on. Bringing up the rear of the race was no embarassing feat, I clapped and smiled for those who came in after me, and they smiled the same exhausted, contented, pained smile I'm sure I displayed at my own finish. What is a spare 2 minutes? Or 2 hours? Different goals, different bodies, different battles. Each of us, at the simplest level, running against only one person, competing with the only opponent worth any attention: Doubt.
On Saturday I ran the White Bear Lake 20-miler. Twenty miles. This was my longest training run so I thought a race would make it moderately more passable. Races are more energetic. There's a requisite bounce when you have a number pinned to your chest, water belt strapped to your hips, gels tucked neatly in a cunning little pocket. Before a race, I always feel strong. I feel small, pretty, and tough, despite the crust of sleep in my eyes. The light is warm and lovely at 7:30 a.m. on a summer Saturday.
However, racing niceties aside, this one was tricky. Ten minutes or so after arrival I knew where I fell in the grand scheme of things. Slim, sinewy runners surrounded me talking about 3:40 marathon times being such a bummer (I wouldn't finish 20 miles in 3:40, much less 26.2). They didn't stretch, they floated from one limber, muscled pose to another, leaning on car bumpers or boyfriends, sliding their heels down a curb to ease the tension in some Achilles. All the sudden, looking around, I realized that there was a very good chance I would be the last one to cross the finish line.
I've never been last before. I've always been somewhere near the back of the middle 50%. And I'm okay with that. Speed isn't my goal, after all. But there is something terrifying about being dead last. What if they're packing up when I curve around the bend? What if they've torn down the "Finish" sign before I pass? How embarassing. They promised peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the finish line, what if those are all gone by the time I get there (I was really concerned about the pb & j)? How disappointing.
As I thought it would be better to start off at the back, as opposed to enjoying the breeze as each and every runner rushed past me, I took my spot at the very back of the group. I told myself that this race, this 20-miler, was the same as the marathon. My only opponent, my only competition, was the voice in my head that occassionally told me I could not do this. Just me. I only had to beat me. And the only way to beat me was to finish. Just finish.
The course wasn't bad, mostly flat, with two long laps around Bald Lake (a 7 mile circumference) following a windy jaunt down neighborhood streets. The laps were the painful part, of course. To be at mile 10 and have somebody speed past you, knowing they were on mile 17...that hurts. But slowly, over the course of the first hour, I passed a handful of people. I saw another handful quit around mile 12, one ambulance called. I don't feel like a better runner than these people. I just had a better day. I drank my water better. Slept better the night before. Had lots of "good luck"s from friends and family beforehand. Just a better day for me. And around that midway point I acknowledged that I would, in fact, not be last, which gave me some small comfort. And such small comfort was quickly replaced by the new anxiety: now there were 12 people behind me who would witness my defeat if I quit.
Despite passing a few people, the bulk of my time was spent alone. I never rejoined the main herd, although I saw a glimpse of a group curving around mile 13. The majority of the race was just me, winding and plodding around the lake, bribing myself with energy gels (miles 6, 12, and 18 got gels), forcing my eyes to the ground, squinting almost, when that voice started to tell me I could just quit now. The weather was bad Saturday. Perfect, perhaps, for a day on the beach, but way too warm and humid for 20 miles in the sun. A couple of times I was momentarily blinded by a bead of sweat falling slowly from a right eyelash into an innocent contact lens. I could feel prickly heat creeping up my neck, itching and promising to annoy the tar out of me later. It's in those tiny moments of annoyance, however, that I usually get my gumption back, my exhaustion lessens, my heartbeat calms, my knees agree to carry me just a bit further. I think I take such minor grievances as tiny attacks, little windows of opportunity for that part of me that doubts I am capable of this to slide in and cinch her hold (I sound schizophrenic). And so I gnash my teeth (metaphorically) and tip my head to the ground, make my peace with the road, and move on.
I finished in 3 hours, 54 minutes, which was 6 minutes less than what I envisioned as a great race. It got me thinking that maybe, just maybe, if the weather was cool the day of the Marathon, maybe I could finish just shy of 5 hours. But I'm not getting ahead of myself. I was proud of my overheated, largely solo, sub-4 hour 20-miler. I did, in fact, miss out on the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (if they ever really existed), but there were plenty of bananas and oranges to feed my carb-deprived state, and a great friend standing by with a hug after cheering me on. Bringing up the rear of the race was no embarassing feat, I clapped and smiled for those who came in after me, and they smiled the same exhausted, contented, pained smile I'm sure I displayed at my own finish. What is a spare 2 minutes? Or 2 hours? Different goals, different bodies, different battles. Each of us, at the simplest level, running against only one person, competing with the only opponent worth any attention: Doubt.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Guns, Beer, Bacon-On-A-Stick
I feel like I need to prove to my readers (yes, all 6 of you) that I have a life beyond training for the marathon. My blog has been a bit consumed by that endeavor, as has my life, so I think it's time to discuss something other than mileage and toe issues.
This week I shot my first gun. Yup. I should qualify that statement as my dad reminded me that I did pull the trigger on his shotgun when I was younger (I have somewhat vague memories of being in a field, not really aiming at anything, on some squirrel hunting trip...if it's the same trip/memory, I believe the people we were with shot a deer and I was somewhat traumatized by seeing it, dead and bloody, in the back of their truck). But this was definitely the first time I'd held, much less fired, a handgun.
I'm very anti-handgun, honestly. I think the Second Amendment, as currently interpreted, is a far cry from its original intentions. I don't question that the right to bear arms has been established to include the current ownership and usage of handguns, I just think that interpretation is wrong. I don't deny the right, I just wish it didn't exist in the way it does today. But I will concede that the "right", while irrevocably flawed, is also irrevocably established. It's not going anywhere. So, I wasn't a big fan of the idea of shooting my boyfriend's gun. I don't have a problem with him having one, I just don't really feel the need to be reminded of it. I decided to do it largely because he doesn't complain when I drag him to ethnic restaurants that require him to eat strange globs of food with his hands.
All that being said, I had a blast! I like to shoot guns. I especially like to shoot guns in places next to bars with bingo games. Who knew that bingo was fun?? For all my handgun hatred, I know I want to shoot one again. Possibly often. And next time I want to use a target that's shaped like a human instead of a bull's eye. Very, very odd.
In keeping with my lets-do-things-I-usually-don't-do theme, I celebrated an 18 mile run yesterday with a trip to the state fair and the requisite gorging on fried foods. I usually eat very clean, healthy, often organic foods. I go days without eating meat sometimes. I don't drink often. I'm a big fan of barley. Wheatberries. Fresh spinach. You get the picture. Last night I ate a corndog, a mini hamburger (on a stick), a couple bites of bacon (on a stick), half a deep fried Snickers (on a stick), potatoes with swiss cheese deep fried and covered in ranch, a couple jalapeno poppers, and some grape leaves (on a stick), all washed down with a bit of beer. I don't think there is room left in an artery today for any amount of fat. I plan on having lettuce, maybe an egg, for dinner. But it felt good to eat junk for a change. Makes me appreciate how much better I feel when I'm eating healthily. The human body simply runs better on cleaner fuel. Period. But, every once in awhile, it's good remind oneself of that fact by a respectable deep fried hurrah.
It all comes back to the running. This week was one of my best running-wise. I ran the farthest I ever have (18 miles!!) and enjoyed some longer mid-week jaunts. And I think part of that success was wrapped up in living a bit outside the mileage. It's easy for me to get wrapped up in the stress of training, working, fitting in runs, trying to be a decent friend/sister/daughter, etc. I feel very compressed for time on most days. It was nice to escape a bit and worry about shooting a gun (noisy! scary! I'm going to look stupid!), debate the merits of deep fried Snickers vs. deep fried Milky Way, and just enjoy hours not spent with my feet pounding the pavement. Makes the running feel doable, like a slice of my life, and not the stick by which my days are measured
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
So This is "Low"
I expected a low point somewhere along the way. Nobody can maintain enthusiasm forever. But, officially, I'm going to state right now that I think marathon training is ridiculous. I told someone today that I feel like I'm the most boring human on earth. I think it's worse than that. I feel like the antithesis of fun. I am a fun vacuum.
I run. I get hungry. I eat. I run. I sleep. I worry about my knees. I worry about my toes. I run. I get hungry. I eat. I weigh myself. I worry that I'm too slow. I run. I sleep. I can't sleep. I take Tylenol PM. I sleep. I run. I get hungry. I get hungry again. I run. I eat. I weigh myself. I get hungry. I sleep. I worry about my toes.
I don't know why ANYONE is hanging out with me right now. I'd like to give a high five to the following people: Dad, Mom, Caroline, Jason, Sharon, Julie, Chris. What exactly are you getting out of this relationship right now other than constant reminders that I am 1) tired 2) hungry 3) and/or unable to hang out with you because I have to go run?
My long run on Saturday went (objectively) fine. 17 miles, two of which were walked. I'm not chastising myself too sharply for those two walked miles because Saturday's weather was awful. Hot, humid. Awful. My pace was dismal but, again, I'm faulting the weather. This was really the first long run I had to force myself to finish. I've had very tough runs before (one resulting in a good cry under a bridge) but this one was the first one that actually made me somewhat angry. It was the first time I questioned the logic of my decision to sign up for a marathon. And it was the first time I had to call upon that old devil, Pride, to carry me through to the end. You see, too many people know about this race now. Too many people would have to be told about my failure, and the thought of that gives me hives. Too many people have said they'll be there, cheering me on. And if they're going to wait for my butt to cross the finish line at 5 hours and 30 minutes (fingers crossed), I better cross it alive, intact, at a stride that resembles "running".
Saturday was the first day I hated this. And I just need to say that outloud so I can walk away from it. The weather is supposed to perk up this weekend. Not quite so hot, not quite so humid. Pretty days. Gentle days to remind me, maybe, that my toes will probably not fall off (going to the doctor Friday to confirm that), that I will probably cross the line with time to spare, and that after all this is over, I will be grateful I stood at the bottom and looked up.
I run. I get hungry. I eat. I run. I sleep. I worry about my knees. I worry about my toes. I run. I get hungry. I eat. I weigh myself. I worry that I'm too slow. I run. I sleep. I can't sleep. I take Tylenol PM. I sleep. I run. I get hungry. I get hungry again. I run. I eat. I weigh myself. I get hungry. I sleep. I worry about my toes.
I don't know why ANYONE is hanging out with me right now. I'd like to give a high five to the following people: Dad, Mom, Caroline, Jason, Sharon, Julie, Chris. What exactly are you getting out of this relationship right now other than constant reminders that I am 1) tired 2) hungry 3) and/or unable to hang out with you because I have to go run?
My long run on Saturday went (objectively) fine. 17 miles, two of which were walked. I'm not chastising myself too sharply for those two walked miles because Saturday's weather was awful. Hot, humid. Awful. My pace was dismal but, again, I'm faulting the weather. This was really the first long run I had to force myself to finish. I've had very tough runs before (one resulting in a good cry under a bridge) but this one was the first one that actually made me somewhat angry. It was the first time I questioned the logic of my decision to sign up for a marathon. And it was the first time I had to call upon that old devil, Pride, to carry me through to the end. You see, too many people know about this race now. Too many people would have to be told about my failure, and the thought of that gives me hives. Too many people have said they'll be there, cheering me on. And if they're going to wait for my butt to cross the finish line at 5 hours and 30 minutes (fingers crossed), I better cross it alive, intact, at a stride that resembles "running".
Saturday was the first day I hated this. And I just need to say that outloud so I can walk away from it. The weather is supposed to perk up this weekend. Not quite so hot, not quite so humid. Pretty days. Gentle days to remind me, maybe, that my toes will probably not fall off (going to the doctor Friday to confirm that), that I will probably cross the line with time to spare, and that after all this is over, I will be grateful I stood at the bottom and looked up.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Flowers and Indian Food and Such
I bought myself flowers today at the farmer's market in downtown St. Paul. Flowers and fresh radishes and peppers (including a purple bell pepper...I did not know they come in purple). After work I raced home to trim the flowers, plop them in a too-short vase, change clothes, and hurry to meet a dear friend for Indian food a few blocks from my place.
I met this friend through this blog. He found my blog and noticed I was a transplant, originally from Arkansas, and having spent a good deal of time himself in Little Rock, was pleased to find an Arkansan braving a Minnesota winter. We eventually met for breakfast and have been friends ever since. He's my running coach/cheerleader, although I'm sure he doesn't think of himself as such. He reassures me that my toes won't actually fall off, running downhill sucks for everyone, and I can, in fact, do this. And all while being humble and kind and encouraging, despite my incessant insecurity and occassional whining.
I say all this because at dinner I was struck by how bizarre and serendipitous life can be. I find friends in such odd, spectacular ways, I can only attribute such blessings to God. How gentle and brilliant of God to know that running would be important, that training would be important, and that I'd need a new friend to hold my hand, so to speak, when mile 13 seemed impossible. I honestly don't know if I would have signed up for the half-marathon had I not met Chris. We actually talked about it the first time we met, I mentioned running, that I enjoyed it, and then, out of nowhere, I said I'd thought about a half-marathon in the spring. Really? I'd thought about that? When? Where on earth did that come from? But Chris jumped right in, encouraged me, and within weeks I was signing up for Stillwater. Which isn't to say that Chris hasn't been important in other ways, or that I value him only for his marathon training prowess and constant support, but pursuing this goal is very new, and sometimes scary, for me. Chris has made committing easier, made it seem less daunting.
I'm always impacted when people are not surprised. The last time I saw my Grandfather Welch alive he asked me what I wanted to do or be after college. I told him I wasn't sure, but maybe an actress, or a writer. He smiled and said, "that wouldn't surprise me." It sounds like nothing, I realize. But sometimes having someone support you and not be surprised by the challenges you place before you or the goals you set for yourself is a powerful, powerful thing. My Grandfather didn't say anything typical regarding how tough it is to be an actress or how being a writer really wouldn't be financially viable. He just smiled, loving and kind, and I knew he expected what I wanted to expect of myself. And that was a great gift. Chris has the same influence on my running, which has become a very important slice of my life. Despite my doubts and hesitance, Chris is not surprised by my goal, and his assurance that I'm capable of success fuels me well when mile 15 hurts.
There are many people who influence my training and who keep me going. My dad is incredibly important in this as his encouragement (beyond just your basic daddy-daughter stuff) is born of a similar drive to run, some similar struggles, similar obsession with competing more with oneself than with the World. My dad gets It, and that's key. My dad is the one who taught me to run by daily, diligent example.
But Chris was the first one that inspired me to race. Not against anyone or anything. Just race. And his lack of surprise at my progress makes me feel like maybe someday I won't be surprised either when I succeed.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Rain Running
Today I ran in the rain for the first time in my training. I've run in little sprinkles before, some snow flurries, but not all-out RAIN. It felt wonderful, honestly. I think it's probably a mood thing, sometimes I could see rain being a frustration. But today the humidity was disgusting and a brief downpour was welcome to cut the curtain of moisture in the air.
For fear of shorting out my iPod, the rain also forced me to run musicless for much of my long run. I'm amazed at how much I can process and reprocess, obsess and regress over while I'm pushing through miles. I've been stressed over a few things recently and each got their moment of over-analyzation, each question and answer pounded home (emphatically) with footfalls.
The heaviest bit of the storm occurred while I was rounding Lake Calhoun, the Minneapolis skyline in the distance. The rain was heavy enough to blur the buildings, make the city a mirage with fuzzy sailboat gliding to and fro.
I'm running the Twin Cities Marathon 8 weeks from tomorrow. It's funny, the things that stick in your head, or rather, the things that upon experiencing them you know they will be stuck in your head. I was running and anxiously counting the number of weeks to the race, wondering if I was training hard enough, wondering if I should worry about the occassionally twinge in my left knee, wondering if my toenail is supposed to look like that, wondering if my friends and family would be disappointed in me if I failed, when the rain started to really, really pound. I looked out at Lake Calhoun right as it picked up, when the tiny pinpricks of rain on the water surface became huge, crowded splashes, like pebbles thrown from a million happy children. I'll remember that little moment, that pace and that hot, summer rain, that crescendo of Rain on Lake. I was running. I was soaked. I was happy. I am not worried.
For fear of shorting out my iPod, the rain also forced me to run musicless for much of my long run. I'm amazed at how much I can process and reprocess, obsess and regress over while I'm pushing through miles. I've been stressed over a few things recently and each got their moment of over-analyzation, each question and answer pounded home (emphatically) with footfalls.
The heaviest bit of the storm occurred while I was rounding Lake Calhoun, the Minneapolis skyline in the distance. The rain was heavy enough to blur the buildings, make the city a mirage with fuzzy sailboat gliding to and fro.
I'm running the Twin Cities Marathon 8 weeks from tomorrow. It's funny, the things that stick in your head, or rather, the things that upon experiencing them you know they will be stuck in your head. I was running and anxiously counting the number of weeks to the race, wondering if I was training hard enough, wondering if I should worry about the occassionally twinge in my left knee, wondering if my toenail is supposed to look like that, wondering if my friends and family would be disappointed in me if I failed, when the rain started to really, really pound. I looked out at Lake Calhoun right as it picked up, when the tiny pinpricks of rain on the water surface became huge, crowded splashes, like pebbles thrown from a million happy children. I'll remember that little moment, that pace and that hot, summer rain, that crescendo of Rain on Lake. I was running. I was soaked. I was happy. I am not worried.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Pride Before the Fall
This picture does not do justice to the damage I've done to my feet. The bandaids are hiding one toenail that is begging to fall off and one that just really loves to form blisters around the nailbed. I didn't want anyone to be too disturbed by my photography.
I've been getting cocky about my mileage.
Two weeks ago I did seventeen miles, the longest I'd ever done. At the end of the run I was exhausted, emotional, and hurting, but I also had the feeling there was more in me. I didn't feel defeated.
Yesterday I planned on an 18 mile run. I told my boyfriend I was shooting for 18. I told people at work I was shooting for 20. I really was psyching myself up for 18, and 20 if I had the wind behind me and enough juice to do an extra lap around Lake Harriet. At no point gearing up for the training run did I wonder if I could do it, if it was possible, if I was ready. Pshaw, I did 17 two weeks ago! I can totally do 18...
Hell. No. I hit the wall at the end of SIXTEEN. I don't know what happened. My shoes were too old. I ate too much the night before. I started too fast. The wind was against me. My right foot ached. I woke up with a weird ornery feeling in my left shoulder. I disintegrated under the bridge between Lake Calhoun and Lake of the Isles, with a measly 2 miles left in my minimum goal for the run. I burst into tears, in public, under that bridge, kinda like a sad, sweaty troll.
I walked the last two miles, very gingerly, and after pulling myself together I could pinpoint everything I did wrong. I'd done two-a-days (two runs in one day) twice that week, plus weight training, plus normal runs on two other days. I'd run hard two days after the 10 mile race, even though my shins were still screaming from those stupid downhills. I'd eaten poorly Thursday and Friday, lots of fats that I normally don't eat, and not enough healthy run-fueling carbohydrates. I slept poorly the night before. My body gave out because I gave it no choice.
I am no good at rest or asking for help. I could psychoanalyze myself and say that this is true in MANY situations but I'll keep that observation in the running context for now. I knew my shoes were old and probably ill-fitting but I didn't want to man up and go somewhere and ask someone to watch me walk and tell what I'd be doing wrong for the last year. Sure enough, I went today and the guy at The Running Room watched me walk for less than 3 minutes and was shocked to hear the shoe I'd been running in, given my tendency to overpronate and my flat-footedness. As soon as I slipped on my new Asics Gel Foundation 8s, the heavens opened and birds sang. That is a SHOE! The guy was very nice and gave me some ideas on where I can do hill training. I could have saved my feet some scars and myself some foot aches if I'd just asked someone these questions earlier.
So, note to self, 1) don't get arrogant about how far you've come, there's still a long way to go 2) stock up on bandaids 3) ask for help and 4) embrace that hot pink shoe.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Sappy, Yes
Two years ago this week I took the bar exam. I stayed in a very seedy hotel in St.Paul the evenings before the exam with the intention of having somewhere quiet to study, decompress, possibly swim. The hotel was a complete dive and a drunk guy woke me up the night before the first day of the exam by pounding on my door and yelling that he loved me.
The morning of the first day of the exam I woke up too early, as always, got ready too early, and headed to the exam too early. On my drive to downtown St.Paul I realized I did not have a watch. No way to keep track of my time in the exam. No way to gauge how anxious I needed to be at any given moment. I stopped at the CVS on Snelling, pictured above, and bought a huge and hideous men's watch as it had the clearest watch face and every hour was numbered (I knew that if I relied on fancy slashes or dots circling the watch face I would end up losing valuable milliseconds figuring out the time). The store clerk argued with me for several seconds that I surely did not want to buy a man's watch and he tried to point me in the direction of a tiny, hours-told-by-little-sparkly-things watch. I may have cussed.
I drove by that CVS tonight, coming home from a baseball game. It hadn't struck me until then that it has been two years since that awful, lonely, anxious summer. In those months, and many of the months that followed, I could not imagine what possessed me to move here. To be so far from friends and my carefully constructed life was insurmountably depressing, despite the enjoyment of living near my family again. I thought the people at my church were cold and unfriendly, I hated my job, the friends I made here seemed to be shadows of "real" relationships I'd had elsewhere. These Norwegian/Swedish/German folk are not easy people to get to know.
And now I'm home after a warm, brief trip to the ball park, peanut shell caught in my hair. My summer is full. Full of running and races, dinners, visits, coffees, games, concerts, dates, new restaurants, and lakes. And friends. Good ones.
I was anxious and terrified for so long, even after passing the bar, that Life would now be Ordinary. That the exciting decisions had already been made and now, only Mundane, Necessary, Unbeautiful decisions were left. Not long after passing the bar I started thinking of where I should take it next, where I should move, and not because I was violently unhappy, but because I could not figure out how to live in one place without the expectation of another on the horizon. I do not think I have ever in my life enjoyed or accepted where I am. I fret and fidget in a place, love it, leave it, and then ache for what is left behind.
It's just nice to have no preparation for departure. To plan for next summer. For the winter. To plan for races and new pizza joints. To grow cozy and comfortable. To pass places with memories attached to them, good and bad. To remember who I was, buying that watch two years ago, and how unhappy and unsatisfied I felt with my seemingly happenstance arrival in Minnesota. And to drive by that corner now, which probably still sells hideous watches, with peanut stuck in my teeth, sun setting over the skyline as I make my way home, and feel content.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Music-less
I usually run with my iPod shuffle firmly snapped to the collar of my shirt. The mix alternates between happy, poppy, perhaps country tunes and angry, I-will-set-myself-on-fire-before-I-give-up type stuff. Sometimes I forget that I have music, my mind wanders, I realize I've run a couple miles dreaming up recipes or organizing all the minor compartments of my life and have paid no mind to whatever song is supposed to be inspiring my pace.
Yesterday I forgot my iPod. I changed at work, per the usual routine, then found that my bag lacked the signature blue tangle of ear phone chords. I momentarily thought of driving home before heading to the lake, but decided that one afternoon alone with my thoughts wouldn't kill me. People trained for marathons before Walkmans, right? And it's only recently that earphones have been allowed on most courses. Proof, I assured myself, that humans can run without the aid of a step-synchronized, peppy beat.
I didn't have a long run planned. I'm tapering before my long run tomorrow. So yesterday the plan was a speedy (or, speedy for me) 3 miles, followed by another 3 miles at a brisk walk/jog. The first half mile sans musique was painful and slow. But after 5 minutes or so my dependence on a slightly spastic song choice faded and I grew comfortable with the sound of my own foot falls, the wind, the chatter of people I passed, the breathing of those passing me. Some of the merit of music on a run is that it helps me forget I'm running, helps me drift a bit when my thighs get tense or my neck aches. But there is a great deal of worth in the pseudo-silence of music-less running, too. I felt my body more acutely, was more conscious of the steps that landed hard, more aware of how stiff I let my shoulders become.
When I got my first car (a dear, beaten family treasure of a car, Spike, the gas-guzzling Pathfinder) and was driving it to college, my dad told me that every once in awhile I should turn the radio off, roll the windows down, and listen to the car as I drove. Listen for weird sounds, be aware of things that rattle or squeak or just sound off. I remembered that direction from Dad when I was running yesterday, listening to my footsteps, and the wind. Listening for a bad rattle, a loose wheel. I think I sounded like I was in good working order, ready for more.
Yesterday I forgot my iPod. I changed at work, per the usual routine, then found that my bag lacked the signature blue tangle of ear phone chords. I momentarily thought of driving home before heading to the lake, but decided that one afternoon alone with my thoughts wouldn't kill me. People trained for marathons before Walkmans, right? And it's only recently that earphones have been allowed on most courses. Proof, I assured myself, that humans can run without the aid of a step-synchronized, peppy beat.
I didn't have a long run planned. I'm tapering before my long run tomorrow. So yesterday the plan was a speedy (or, speedy for me) 3 miles, followed by another 3 miles at a brisk walk/jog. The first half mile sans musique was painful and slow. But after 5 minutes or so my dependence on a slightly spastic song choice faded and I grew comfortable with the sound of my own foot falls, the wind, the chatter of people I passed, the breathing of those passing me. Some of the merit of music on a run is that it helps me forget I'm running, helps me drift a bit when my thighs get tense or my neck aches. But there is a great deal of worth in the pseudo-silence of music-less running, too. I felt my body more acutely, was more conscious of the steps that landed hard, more aware of how stiff I let my shoulders become.
When I got my first car (a dear, beaten family treasure of a car, Spike, the gas-guzzling Pathfinder) and was driving it to college, my dad told me that every once in awhile I should turn the radio off, roll the windows down, and listen to the car as I drove. Listen for weird sounds, be aware of things that rattle or squeak or just sound off. I remembered that direction from Dad when I was running yesterday, listening to my footsteps, and the wind. Listening for a bad rattle, a loose wheel. I think I sounded like I was in good working order, ready for more.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
My Time
My grandmother, my dad's mom (who has always been "Grandmother," not "Grandma" or "Granny" or "Mamaw"...always "Grandmother"), came to town this week. As work and running tend to take up much of the day for me, my visits with her have been mostly in the evening. Games are played, stories swapped, mild arguments on various offenses are traded, and all is settled and comfortable, the way a family should be. We sit around my parents' kitchen table, my Grandmother's coffee cup freshened, and play Chickenfoot or Take One or Scrabble or Mexican Dominoes or any game not involving cards. And as we circle the table, each player's turn approaching, my Grandmother will ask, almost rythmically, "my time?" It was never, "my turn?" or any other such phrase. My time? I've caught myself saying it, as well. Not so bizarre, really, but a slightly quirky turn of phrase I attach to my Grandmother, to our games, to her warmed coffee mug.
After church and after lunch, Grandmother and I sat in the atrium on the wicker couch (which I think is incredibly uncomfortable) and chatted. I showed her the enchilada recipe I was going to try this evening (beef and jalapenos are currently simmering on my stove top) in a valiant attempt to impress my Mexican food-loving boyfriend. I asked her if I should cover the dish with foil the whole time or remove it midway? Should I mix the cheese inside or sprinkle most on top? Do beef and spinach go together?
I will never remember her answers to these questions. This recipe could be a dud (I'm not a huge fan of Mexican anyway) and this attempt will fall away in my memory as any one of the long list of near misses and shallow victories I place on my table. But sitting on that couch, sunlight shining through to tease the clock's reflection in the mirror, my Grandmother's singsong Tennessee voice instructing me in various methods of tortilla-heating...that I will always remember.
She gave me a dish this afternoon, a milk glass serving dish etched with grapes, that belonged to my Great-Grandmother. I have few things of my grandmother's parents, two quilts made by my great-grandmother and one lone sock and some coal receipts from my great-grandfather's sock shop next door to their house in Elizabethton. While I remember them vividly, I have little in the way of trinkets to remind me of that squeaky porch swing, that terrifying coal-burning heater in the cellar, that tiny bed we all slept on as children with the orange, itchy cover, that air vent that allowed for perfect child ears to eavesdrop on parents in the kitchen. To have one more small thing (perfect, according to Grandmother, for serving a roasted cauliflower with a cheese sauce) to prove the lineage of women in my mental kitchen means a great deal to me.
It is easy to forget how lucky I am sometimes. Easy to forget that not everyone grows up with Grandmothers and Grandfathers and Mamaws and Papaws and Great Aunts and Great Uncles and Great-Grandparents and Cousins-who-knows-how-many-times-removed. And it seems silly to me that certain conversations, purposeless ones about enchiladas, and tiny trinkets are the catalysts for such reflection. But sometimes it takes small, lively moments and old, time-worn things to remind me that I am only the most recent generation in a long line of men and women who have loved God well and tried to do as well by each other.
And now it is my time.
After church and after lunch, Grandmother and I sat in the atrium on the wicker couch (which I think is incredibly uncomfortable) and chatted. I showed her the enchilada recipe I was going to try this evening (beef and jalapenos are currently simmering on my stove top) in a valiant attempt to impress my Mexican food-loving boyfriend. I asked her if I should cover the dish with foil the whole time or remove it midway? Should I mix the cheese inside or sprinkle most on top? Do beef and spinach go together?
I will never remember her answers to these questions. This recipe could be a dud (I'm not a huge fan of Mexican anyway) and this attempt will fall away in my memory as any one of the long list of near misses and shallow victories I place on my table. But sitting on that couch, sunlight shining through to tease the clock's reflection in the mirror, my Grandmother's singsong Tennessee voice instructing me in various methods of tortilla-heating...that I will always remember.
She gave me a dish this afternoon, a milk glass serving dish etched with grapes, that belonged to my Great-Grandmother. I have few things of my grandmother's parents, two quilts made by my great-grandmother and one lone sock and some coal receipts from my great-grandfather's sock shop next door to their house in Elizabethton. While I remember them vividly, I have little in the way of trinkets to remind me of that squeaky porch swing, that terrifying coal-burning heater in the cellar, that tiny bed we all slept on as children with the orange, itchy cover, that air vent that allowed for perfect child ears to eavesdrop on parents in the kitchen. To have one more small thing (perfect, according to Grandmother, for serving a roasted cauliflower with a cheese sauce) to prove the lineage of women in my mental kitchen means a great deal to me.
It is easy to forget how lucky I am sometimes. Easy to forget that not everyone grows up with Grandmothers and Grandfathers and Mamaws and Papaws and Great Aunts and Great Uncles and Great-Grandparents and Cousins-who-knows-how-many-times-removed. And it seems silly to me that certain conversations, purposeless ones about enchiladas, and tiny trinkets are the catalysts for such reflection. But sometimes it takes small, lively moments and old, time-worn things to remind me that I am only the most recent generation in a long line of men and women who have loved God well and tried to do as well by each other.
And now it is my time.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
The New Digs
I've moved a lot since leaving home over a decade ago. Four times in college. Twice in my village in Peace Corps. Once in Kansas City. Twice in New Orleans if you count the Katrina hoopla. And now twice in Minneapolis.I can honestly say, however, that this new apartment is the first one that feels wholly mine and wholly me.
The collegiate ones were picked largely for convenience and/or pricetag. Peace Corps-hmmm-I only moved in my village because my first landlord thought I was a spy. Hopefully that won't ever be an issue again. In Kansas City I lived in a dump, again, picked solely for cheapness. And the New Orleans apartment, though lovely in its way, was chosen due to its proximity to the law school, its oak-lined street, and the fact that my initial roommate (who later ditched me) liked the porch.
When I moved to my first apartment in the Cities, the choice was largely based on how quick a bus ride the apartment would be to downtown Minneapolis. Two months after signing the lease, however, I got my present job in downtown St. Paul. My commute tripled. And the location was just never that enjoyable. I'm not a fan of suburbia and St. Louis Park is suburbia. At some point in my life I may embrace the Americana that is the white picket fence, expertly trimmed hedge, and the ease of quiet streets. I am occassionally envious of my friends with homes in sweet, calm neighborhoods. But on most days, I much prefer a livelier environment. I appreciate the mohawks, tattoos, foreign languages, and the random guy who is always laying on the lawn next to my front stoop. I like the noise.
Every time I unpack in a new place different things take center stage on my bookshelf. I'm not sure if it's a processing of memory or a certain hunger for other time periods in my life, but the focus in this place is different from my last apartment. At my last apartment I peppered my shelves with pictures from everywhere I'd ever lived, every friend who had ever been important. Here, I'm much pickier. Pics of Morocco and New Orleans are the most prominent, with trinkets from Amsterdam and Dubai tucked into corners. Further evidence, I suppose, that while I can be content in one place, I will always wish to be elsewhere. Along my window ledge are pictures of family on The Mountain, more pics of Morocco, postcards from faraway places, and a picture I took from the top of Pinnacle Mountain in Arkansas about two weeks after Katrina. I hiked up alone, took a picture of a tree branch full of orange leaves.
Despite having lived in several states and a couple countries, and despite having visited many exciting cities both here and abroad, the globe on my bookshelf is always tilted in one direction. Always Africa.
Monday, June 22, 2009
A Slow Start
Not long after crossing the half-marathon finish line in Stillwater, I signed up for the October 4th Twin Cities Marathon. I was on a high. I had a blast at Stillwater. Thirteen miles wasn't easy but the once impossibility of it made me think that the completely ludicrous idea of running a marathon might actually be plausible...
I am having a really hard time regaining that momentum. It took me awhile to stop aching after the Half, and then life crept in and distracted me, and then I moved, and then it got warm (I do miss the days of running comfortably in a long-sleeved tshirt). Which isn't to say that I've abandoned running in the interim, but I have ignored it more than proper training would dictate.
Today I ran, perhaps, three miles. Four? I wasn't keeping a good count because I was so focused on not passing out in the 90 degree heat and the pretty-impressive-even-by-Southern-standards humidity. I'm quite happy to breathe in that heat while walking about, but running in it is completely miserable. I'm trying to comfort myself with the thought that I need to get used to running in the heat, the same way I had to learn how to run when it got below freezing. My body simply has to remember what this feels like, then the runs will improve. Right?
I'm also trying to remember how impossible a 5K once seemed, and a 10K, and a Half. I've been at that "this is insane and I was a moron to sign up for this" roadblock before. I don't quite remember how I got past it those other times, honestly, but it appears that I did. Or rather, I just kept running despite my quasi-expectation of failure. And so, for now, that is my only goal. To just keep running. The momentum will come back, the excitement will return, but for now the only fuel I have to get me to that point is blind pride.
I won't quit, dammit.
I am having a really hard time regaining that momentum. It took me awhile to stop aching after the Half, and then life crept in and distracted me, and then I moved, and then it got warm (I do miss the days of running comfortably in a long-sleeved tshirt). Which isn't to say that I've abandoned running in the interim, but I have ignored it more than proper training would dictate.
Today I ran, perhaps, three miles. Four? I wasn't keeping a good count because I was so focused on not passing out in the 90 degree heat and the pretty-impressive-even-by-Southern-standards humidity. I'm quite happy to breathe in that heat while walking about, but running in it is completely miserable. I'm trying to comfort myself with the thought that I need to get used to running in the heat, the same way I had to learn how to run when it got below freezing. My body simply has to remember what this feels like, then the runs will improve. Right?
I'm also trying to remember how impossible a 5K once seemed, and a 10K, and a Half. I've been at that "this is insane and I was a moron to sign up for this" roadblock before. I don't quite remember how I got past it those other times, honestly, but it appears that I did. Or rather, I just kept running despite my quasi-expectation of failure. And so, for now, that is my only goal. To just keep running. The momentum will come back, the excitement will return, but for now the only fuel I have to get me to that point is blind pride.
I won't quit, dammit.
Monday, May 25, 2009
13.1
This is me pre-race, pre-how-did-I-not-know-this-course-was-so-hilly, pre-finish line hugs. I thought of putting my finish line pic on here instead but I think the pre-race pose is more appropriate for this post.
Part of me feels that I should say this race was one of the hardest things I've ever done, that it involved a lot of dig-deep moments of strength and resolve. But it didn't, so I won't lie. This race definitely hurt. The mile 4 hill? Definitely a blow to my ego. Realizing my pace was significantly slower thanks to said hills? Another moment of unhappiness. But, overall, this race was fun. I smiled a lot. I waved at spectators. I high-fived small children. I drank a lot of blue powerade.
Somewhere around the 6 mile point we were on a stretch of flat highway snaking through farmland, no cloud in the sky. I wondered if a friend would be tucked along the route somewhere to cheer me on and hoped it was at the mile 9 or 10 point. I thought, I know I can make it to 10 on my own, but it would be nice to have some cheerleading at that point. The race wasn't particularly spectator-friendly so I wasn't sure if my friends, Sharon and Jennea, would be able to find me in time for said rah-rah-Go-Rachels. But after a bit I stopped worrying about it because I realized what I'd just admitted to myself. I could get to 10 on my own. 10 miles, totally doable. 10 miles, tough but definitely not impossible. I, formerly fat Rachel, was completely unfazed by the thought of reaching 10 miles. The hard part, the get healthy part, the make-yourself-run part, was no longer something I needed handholding for. It was mine. 13.1 was a new stretch, a new distance, and cheerleading was definitely appreciated (I am blessed with dear ones), but I appreciated those hurrahs so much more knowing that they were unnecessary. They were beautifully extra. An undeserved, much loved, hug around my day.
I think this is what I love most about running. It is, by nature, wholly solitary. No advice from friends or seasoned marathoners or cheers from the side can negate the fact that it is my choice whether I stop or keep, keep, keep going. No amount of pre-race hugs can quiet the nerves, no number of encouraging text messages can determine my success. While the love and encouragment of friends and family is incredibly important, it is not what makes that decision. Support does not determine my outcome. Only me. Only I can convince myself that my quads don't hurt that bad and only I can push through mile 8 knowing I have 5 more to go.
And that's why the race was fun. Because I was blessed with cheerleaders I didn't have to depend on. Over the course of the race I realized I was no longer wondering if I would finish the race. The if had been decided in the months before. This race was my reward.
And 24 hours after completing my first half-marathon, I signed up for my first full. October 4th, here I come...
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The Dress Rehearsal From Hell
My first half-marathon is this coming Sunday. Today was planned as the Last Push before the race, my last chance to beef up the confidence. Today did not work out as planned. Instead of ten miles I ran five, walked maybe three, as Minnesota was blessed with a random heat wave of 93 and sustained winds of 35 mph. As I made it back to the car, feeling awful about my chances for success this weekend, I decided that there is really only one way to think of my pathetic last run.
The final dress rehearsal is supposed to be crap. I should go onstage with my costume inside out (To Kill a Mockingbird). I should trip over the couch and sprain my ankle (Lost in Yonkers). I should get the hiccups during my opening monologue (The Bald Soprano). I should be forced to repeat the death scene 9 times because the director feels I'm not crying adequately (Falstaff). My heel should get caught in my hoop skirt during the emotional final scene (Secret Service). My nose should randomly start bleeding (The Crucible). I should forget my first line (Approaching Lavendar). My dress should rip (Steel Magnolias). I should get punched in the stomach by my partner when I twirl onstage (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead). I should bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood (Spinning into Butter). I should drop my cigarette and burn a hole in my negligee (Biloxi Blues).
I have never been one for fantastic last hurrahs. I've always faltered before the Big Day, the Big Race, the Big Test, the Big Move, the Big Anything. Maybe it's nerves. Maybe it's some subconscious need to get the bad, self-deprecating vibes out while there's still time to rebuild my hope. Today's run was just my requisite shit final dress rehearsal.
Opening night can still be golden.
The final dress rehearsal is supposed to be crap. I should go onstage with my costume inside out (To Kill a Mockingbird). I should trip over the couch and sprain my ankle (Lost in Yonkers). I should get the hiccups during my opening monologue (The Bald Soprano). I should be forced to repeat the death scene 9 times because the director feels I'm not crying adequately (Falstaff). My heel should get caught in my hoop skirt during the emotional final scene (Secret Service). My nose should randomly start bleeding (The Crucible). I should forget my first line (Approaching Lavendar). My dress should rip (Steel Magnolias). I should get punched in the stomach by my partner when I twirl onstage (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead). I should bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood (Spinning into Butter). I should drop my cigarette and burn a hole in my negligee (Biloxi Blues).
I have never been one for fantastic last hurrahs. I've always faltered before the Big Day, the Big Race, the Big Test, the Big Move, the Big Anything. Maybe it's nerves. Maybe it's some subconscious need to get the bad, self-deprecating vibes out while there's still time to rebuild my hope. Today's run was just my requisite shit final dress rehearsal.
Opening night can still be golden.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Mini-Confessions and the Forgiveness that Follows
This posting is inspired by the pattern of self-abuse and acceptance I have experienced of late, largely due to a schedule that has become a wee bit untenable. My blog postings are a victim of that crazy scheduling nonsense so I'll beg forgiveness from my handfull of regular readers and move on to the good stuff...
Training for a half-marathon is new to me. It's not something I've done before, nor something I ever expected myself to pursue. And one of the prices I have paid for this endeavor (ignoring the other prices, like the permanent scab where my iPod scratches my hip and the near daily tightness in my calves) is time. Precious time. Time that has grown more expensive as new adventures and people pop up in my life. I think my exhaustion is derived not from the physical exertion of 9 mile runs, but by the constant arranging and rearranging of my life so that I am both able to run and able to inconvenience as few people as possible as little as possible. And that isn't even mentioning the other responsibilities of life like work and prayer and church and family and grocery shopping and finding a new apartment within the next 26 days.
Needless to say, there are days when the running simply cannot happen. There are other things I have to do, and often there are simply people I want to see whose presence trumps the pavement. I can forgive myself for one day fairly easily. The body needs its rest. But two days? The self-loathing sets in fairly quickly at that point, with a dozen justifications and a dozen snarky rejoinders to make those justifications seem trite and slothful and cowardly. I have no doubt that in running, in racing, in reaching any kind of physical goal, my mind is my worst enemy. And unfortunately (fortunately?), that mind is also, short of God, the only ally I have on the road.
I have always been a punisher, someone who responds to failure with a list of things I did wrong and the unfortunate character traits that list surely proves. I have never been someone who could see roadblocks as simply pauses, changes in the plan, hiccups. They have always been a symbol of chaos to me; failure is the surest proof that I am doomed to mediocrity and even the smallest molehill feels like a mountain when its existence equals some Hamlet-esque tragic flaw.
But running has forced me to fix that about myself. It has not been easy, nor is the task complete. But I have realized that I have to stop running sometimes. There are days I simply cannot do it. There are days that it hurts too much. And there are days when it is more important to me to see my boyfriend or go out to dinner with a friend or read a book or buy groceries or hang out with my family. There are days when the sunshine does not inspire me to increase my mileage but only makes me want to wander somewhere slowly for beer on some patio by some body of water. I am no good at "laid back" and that is a term nobody will ever use to describe me, but there are days when my body needs to lay back, stretch, rest, restore. And those are days I should neither seek nor give forgiveness for.
This past week I went a couple days without running and another couple days my runs were short and slow and annoying. I hated myself for that lazyness, for the fact that there were other things in my world that took away my focus. But today I ran nine miles. The longest I have ever run. And at no point in that run did I feel like I couldn't go further, like I'd reached some sort of unpenetrable wall. I am tired now, but not unmanageably so. And it dawned on me that one of the reasons why I feel good now is because my body got a little window of a break this past week. I didn't push quite as hard as usual, I took a couple days off, and today my body was thrilled to run. It felt new and strong and powerful again, instead of bored and forced and exhausted. So while I have to be careful with my schedule, careful to maintain running as a priority, I have found that the self-flagellation that has been occurring due to occassional lapses in my training is unnecessary. I am doing very well. The mini breaks are not mini failures, but small respites on a path to success at my first half.
Perhaps this is some tiny, needling metaphor for other "failures" in my life. Perhaps such "failures" are nothing greater than slivers of breathing room, places where God is allowing me to pause and reassess. Or maybe there are such wonderful things ahead, God knows I need a moment to catch my breath before the next exciting thing begins.
I remember something my Dad said when I came back from Peace Corps. I was struggling with whether I should move to New York to give acting a whirl or apply to law school or apply to med school. I was whining at my Dad, possibly crying, bemoaning my luck at not knowing what on Earth I was supposed to do. And at one point I said, perhaps in reference to any of the three paths I'd chosen but I don't remember which specifically, that I was afraid to fail. My Dad was quick in his response. He said, "Yes, you might." He went on to say that failure was always a risk and that no matter what path I chose there would always be opportunities I missed. If I went to law school, I probably wouldn't end up with an Oscar. If I became an actress, the odds of me heading to med school were pretty slim. But at some point, I simply had to make a choice. Knowing failure was a risk, but not a promise, I had to step in some direction and decide to build my life. He never warned me that, inherently, failure is assured. It isn't a risk, it's a guarantee. But failure is simply part of the game, a step along the path, something to be dealt with in the same graceful way as success. He never said that outloud, but that's what I (eventually) heard. Failures, roadblocks: they are the price we pay in pursuit of dreams.
The running has forced me to be kinder to myself in those failures, to see them for what they are. Sometimes they are huge and surpassable only by prayer and a desire to come out on the other side in one piece. And sometimes, at mile 7 when I walk for a few steps to catch my breath, or on some Friday when I throw a ball for a certain dog instead of chase my own tail around Lake Calhoun, those aren't failures by any measure. They are rest. And happiness. I am stronger when I allow myself to rest. And I enjoy my world more when running is a facet of my days, but not the stick by which the worth of my days is measured. There are other things, more important things, to be measured, too.
Training for a half-marathon is new to me. It's not something I've done before, nor something I ever expected myself to pursue. And one of the prices I have paid for this endeavor (ignoring the other prices, like the permanent scab where my iPod scratches my hip and the near daily tightness in my calves) is time. Precious time. Time that has grown more expensive as new adventures and people pop up in my life. I think my exhaustion is derived not from the physical exertion of 9 mile runs, but by the constant arranging and rearranging of my life so that I am both able to run and able to inconvenience as few people as possible as little as possible. And that isn't even mentioning the other responsibilities of life like work and prayer and church and family and grocery shopping and finding a new apartment within the next 26 days.
Needless to say, there are days when the running simply cannot happen. There are other things I have to do, and often there are simply people I want to see whose presence trumps the pavement. I can forgive myself for one day fairly easily. The body needs its rest. But two days? The self-loathing sets in fairly quickly at that point, with a dozen justifications and a dozen snarky rejoinders to make those justifications seem trite and slothful and cowardly. I have no doubt that in running, in racing, in reaching any kind of physical goal, my mind is my worst enemy. And unfortunately (fortunately?), that mind is also, short of God, the only ally I have on the road.
I have always been a punisher, someone who responds to failure with a list of things I did wrong and the unfortunate character traits that list surely proves. I have never been someone who could see roadblocks as simply pauses, changes in the plan, hiccups. They have always been a symbol of chaos to me; failure is the surest proof that I am doomed to mediocrity and even the smallest molehill feels like a mountain when its existence equals some Hamlet-esque tragic flaw.
But running has forced me to fix that about myself. It has not been easy, nor is the task complete. But I have realized that I have to stop running sometimes. There are days I simply cannot do it. There are days that it hurts too much. And there are days when it is more important to me to see my boyfriend or go out to dinner with a friend or read a book or buy groceries or hang out with my family. There are days when the sunshine does not inspire me to increase my mileage but only makes me want to wander somewhere slowly for beer on some patio by some body of water. I am no good at "laid back" and that is a term nobody will ever use to describe me, but there are days when my body needs to lay back, stretch, rest, restore. And those are days I should neither seek nor give forgiveness for.
This past week I went a couple days without running and another couple days my runs were short and slow and annoying. I hated myself for that lazyness, for the fact that there were other things in my world that took away my focus. But today I ran nine miles. The longest I have ever run. And at no point in that run did I feel like I couldn't go further, like I'd reached some sort of unpenetrable wall. I am tired now, but not unmanageably so. And it dawned on me that one of the reasons why I feel good now is because my body got a little window of a break this past week. I didn't push quite as hard as usual, I took a couple days off, and today my body was thrilled to run. It felt new and strong and powerful again, instead of bored and forced and exhausted. So while I have to be careful with my schedule, careful to maintain running as a priority, I have found that the self-flagellation that has been occurring due to occassional lapses in my training is unnecessary. I am doing very well. The mini breaks are not mini failures, but small respites on a path to success at my first half.
Perhaps this is some tiny, needling metaphor for other "failures" in my life. Perhaps such "failures" are nothing greater than slivers of breathing room, places where God is allowing me to pause and reassess. Or maybe there are such wonderful things ahead, God knows I need a moment to catch my breath before the next exciting thing begins.
I remember something my Dad said when I came back from Peace Corps. I was struggling with whether I should move to New York to give acting a whirl or apply to law school or apply to med school. I was whining at my Dad, possibly crying, bemoaning my luck at not knowing what on Earth I was supposed to do. And at one point I said, perhaps in reference to any of the three paths I'd chosen but I don't remember which specifically, that I was afraid to fail. My Dad was quick in his response. He said, "Yes, you might." He went on to say that failure was always a risk and that no matter what path I chose there would always be opportunities I missed. If I went to law school, I probably wouldn't end up with an Oscar. If I became an actress, the odds of me heading to med school were pretty slim. But at some point, I simply had to make a choice. Knowing failure was a risk, but not a promise, I had to step in some direction and decide to build my life. He never warned me that, inherently, failure is assured. It isn't a risk, it's a guarantee. But failure is simply part of the game, a step along the path, something to be dealt with in the same graceful way as success. He never said that outloud, but that's what I (eventually) heard. Failures, roadblocks: they are the price we pay in pursuit of dreams.
The running has forced me to be kinder to myself in those failures, to see them for what they are. Sometimes they are huge and surpassable only by prayer and a desire to come out on the other side in one piece. And sometimes, at mile 7 when I walk for a few steps to catch my breath, or on some Friday when I throw a ball for a certain dog instead of chase my own tail around Lake Calhoun, those aren't failures by any measure. They are rest. And happiness. I am stronger when I allow myself to rest. And I enjoy my world more when running is a facet of my days, but not the stick by which the worth of my days is measured. There are other things, more important things, to be measured, too.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
And on the third day...
After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb. There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.
The angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.' Now I have told you."
So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them. "Greetings," he said. They came to him, clasped his feet and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, "Do not be afraid. Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me."
Matthew 28: 1-10
The angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.' Now I have told you."
So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them. "Greetings," he said. They came to him, clasped his feet and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, "Do not be afraid. Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me."
Matthew 28: 1-10
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Slow Saturdays
I am thawing frozen blueberries in the sink, listening to the drip of juice and the hum of cars passing out my open window. It's finally springtime, finally sunny and warm enough to open sliding glass doors and let a breeze wrap in. My hands are stained with blueberry juice, which I hope will be easily removed as my Easter dress will look significantly less pretty with stained purple fingernails. All for the sake of cobbler, a worthy price to pay.
I consider myself a social, story-telling person. I like finding new people to get to know, explore, learn about and from, laugh with, make laugh. I like parties and large groups, places that might merit a smiling center-of-attention lady like myself. But, the older I get, the more I value days where I am totally alone. I love afternoons of long, solitary runs (or walks) to the lake, walking to Starbucks for coffee I do not need, reading chapters of books I've read a thousand times before. I love evenings of baking, talking to myself, spilling flour everywhere, cursing the colander with the too-small holes, putting songs on repeat that would drive most people crazy. I love the ease of being by myself, entertaining no one, smiling only to myself, daydreaming about places and people and things without risking the faraway look (or absent-minded fish face) of such ponderings with company.
I would be miserable in such solitude if it were a daily occurrence. I need other voices to quiet my own. And I have found excellent, engaging friends here who make life out in the world happy and exciting. But balancing adventures with quiet is more important than it once was. While I am often anxious to explore new experiences, enjoy new people, I feel like I savor both with more vigor and intelligence when that anxiety is tempered with silence, sometimes alone and sometimes with quiet company.
I could talk the ear off a donkey. I could tell Peace Corps stories for hours. I could laugh at new jokes and discuss politics and debate the merit of blue high heels and the inadequacy of Northern salsa for an age.
And I could, happily, lay on my tiny blue couch next to my open window and listen to Johnny Cash, cars passing, blueberry juice dripping into a cracked ceramic bowl.
I consider myself a social, story-telling person. I like finding new people to get to know, explore, learn about and from, laugh with, make laugh. I like parties and large groups, places that might merit a smiling center-of-attention lady like myself. But, the older I get, the more I value days where I am totally alone. I love afternoons of long, solitary runs (or walks) to the lake, walking to Starbucks for coffee I do not need, reading chapters of books I've read a thousand times before. I love evenings of baking, talking to myself, spilling flour everywhere, cursing the colander with the too-small holes, putting songs on repeat that would drive most people crazy. I love the ease of being by myself, entertaining no one, smiling only to myself, daydreaming about places and people and things without risking the faraway look (or absent-minded fish face) of such ponderings with company.
I would be miserable in such solitude if it were a daily occurrence. I need other voices to quiet my own. And I have found excellent, engaging friends here who make life out in the world happy and exciting. But balancing adventures with quiet is more important than it once was. While I am often anxious to explore new experiences, enjoy new people, I feel like I savor both with more vigor and intelligence when that anxiety is tempered with silence, sometimes alone and sometimes with quiet company.
I could talk the ear off a donkey. I could tell Peace Corps stories for hours. I could laugh at new jokes and discuss politics and debate the merit of blue high heels and the inadequacy of Northern salsa for an age.
And I could, happily, lay on my tiny blue couch next to my open window and listen to Johnny Cash, cars passing, blueberry juice dripping into a cracked ceramic bowl.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Melancholy in Minneapolis
Now that I am no longer a Louisiana resident but a Minnesotan who longingly looks out car windows searching for snoball stands and jazz brunches and beads, I find that my trips back to New Orleans have become increasingly bittersweet. The longer I spend away, the more permanent the move feels. And the more I accept that moving was right, but that "right" is not necessarily supposed to feel good.
When I moved here I thought I would go back. At least, I think I thought I would. Or, if I didn't think that I'd return, that wasn't something I allowed myself to admit. New Orleans became a city I could only survive by myself. I could love it, love living in it, but I would never thrive, never do anything but survive its myriad temptations. I'm not saying I had a drinking problem or anything anyone needs to raise their eyebrows at. But New Orleans was entirely too comfortable for me. It fit me the way only Heaven should fit a person. The only time I truly grew in that span of time was when school forced me to think and the city forced me to leave. I could spend hours, days, years, in the Quarter, doing nothing but eat and write poetry and listen to jazz. And I suppose there are many who happily embrace that life. But it would have drained me eventually, that level of ease. Ah, the Big Easy, I'd never thought of that until now...so, so incredibly true. An ease that sucks you in and, for some, keeps sucking until any individual drive just disappears. But I've never been good with middle ground, moderation. New Orleans was the BIG Easy for me, it could never be the Moderately Easy, so as to leave room for personal success, passion, growth.
A colleague at work commented before I left that he thought it would take a good while longer before Minneapolis became more of a Home than New Orleans (here's your shout out, Stu). He's definitely right. While I can accept that New Orleans was never a Home for the long term, it was the first Home, after Morocco, that I made myself. And while there were elements of it that were emotionally and physically unhealthy, it was still a Home I was loathe to leave. I always felt remarkably understood in New Orleans, not only by the friends I found there, but by the city herself. So bright and battered and somewhat crazy and overly romanticized and silly and broken and gorgeous and terrifying and unbelievably strong. Not to put too cheesey a point on it, but She was all the adjectives I either attached or wished to attach to myself. So She was easy to love. Impossible to leave.
I will never feel in Minneapolis what I felt in New Orleans. Without a Jackson Square to curl my toes into and beignets to devour and perfect, perfect jazz floating down the river, Minneapolis has no hope in convincing me that she's a worthy replacement. But the longer I am away from New Orleans, the more I love to visit her, daydream about her, pretend she loved me back. The longer I'm away, the more anxious I am to love a city that pushes me and makes me slightly uncomfortable, a city that cocks its head at my accent. I don't have any immediate plans to leave Minneapolis. But if ever I were to leave this city, I want to love it enough to miss it.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
It's a Big World. But Sometimes I Like to Pretend it's a Small One.
Sometimes life in a city-that-is-not-the-city-you-expected-to-find-yourself-in is somewhat surreal. On most days, after a period of adjustment, it feels fairly comfy, familiar, and happy. You've made friends, built a social life, have places to be on Friday nights, have laundry to pick up, rent to pay. Life in the Unexpected City isn't that different from the City you unfairly (routinely) compare the Unexpected City to.
But on those other days, the days you feel like a sore thumb, it's nice to have tiny moments of recognition with the occassional stranger who chances your way with, perhaps, similar feelings of semi-isolation. While in line to pay for my salad today, I spied a man wearing a William & Mary sweatshirt. As this is the school many of my relatives/friends thought I attended (I went to Washington & Lee) and it's a similarly history-laden Virginia school, I asked him if he was an Alum. When he said yes I told him I had attended W & L and you would have thought I'd just promised him a golden egg. In a short but happy exchange we established that neither of us are Minnesotans, both of us born in small, poor Southern states (Arkansas for me, Alabama for him), both disgusted with today's snow, and both stupidly smitten with the fact that we stumbled upon one another in a checkout line in St. Paul.
It's funny, really. I've had a couple moments of similar mirth recently, meeting folks from south of the Mason-Dixon, and for some manner of moments we forget that The South is a big ole place. All of the sudden Beaumont and New Orleans and Birmingham and Austin and Charlotte and "it's a small town outside Nashville" are all close enough to Home to merit a smile. I suppose when you're this far removed from Home you tend to expand the limits of Home, increasing the likelihood that someone from Home will find you tucked away in this cold, Swedish-y place.
As is to be expected, when these serendipitous meetings occur, someone has to mutter, "what a small world!" And you both smile and nod your heads, laugh a bit, and somebody mentions the time they drove through your hometown or the cousin they have who went to school there. But the world has never seemed small to me. It has always felt enormously, excitingly HUGE, and the more places I live, the bigger it becomes. Every place I visit, every home I have, just exacerbates my feeling that my life will be way too short to enjoy every place I could potentially love. I'll never be able to see it all. I'll never find all the people I could befriend. I'll miss the climbing of various mountains. There will be delicious foods I will never eat, much less learn to cook. There are worlds out there I will never find if I am constantly, comfortably back Home.
So the run-ins with my compatriots, my fellow Southerners, my people who say "y'all" and find my pronunciation of "New Orleans" to be correct not cute, my friends who know good barbeque when they smell the smoke, such run-ins and hellos make me happy. They bring Home here for a little while. But they also make me happy to be elsewhere, some corner of the world I never would have ventured to if not for a combination of natural disaster, mistake, coin flip, curiosity, and homesickness.
But on those other days, the days you feel like a sore thumb, it's nice to have tiny moments of recognition with the occassional stranger who chances your way with, perhaps, similar feelings of semi-isolation. While in line to pay for my salad today, I spied a man wearing a William & Mary sweatshirt. As this is the school many of my relatives/friends thought I attended (I went to Washington & Lee) and it's a similarly history-laden Virginia school, I asked him if he was an Alum. When he said yes I told him I had attended W & L and you would have thought I'd just promised him a golden egg. In a short but happy exchange we established that neither of us are Minnesotans, both of us born in small, poor Southern states (Arkansas for me, Alabama for him), both disgusted with today's snow, and both stupidly smitten with the fact that we stumbled upon one another in a checkout line in St. Paul.
It's funny, really. I've had a couple moments of similar mirth recently, meeting folks from south of the Mason-Dixon, and for some manner of moments we forget that The South is a big ole place. All of the sudden Beaumont and New Orleans and Birmingham and Austin and Charlotte and "it's a small town outside Nashville" are all close enough to Home to merit a smile. I suppose when you're this far removed from Home you tend to expand the limits of Home, increasing the likelihood that someone from Home will find you tucked away in this cold, Swedish-y place.
As is to be expected, when these serendipitous meetings occur, someone has to mutter, "what a small world!" And you both smile and nod your heads, laugh a bit, and somebody mentions the time they drove through your hometown or the cousin they have who went to school there. But the world has never seemed small to me. It has always felt enormously, excitingly HUGE, and the more places I live, the bigger it becomes. Every place I visit, every home I have, just exacerbates my feeling that my life will be way too short to enjoy every place I could potentially love. I'll never be able to see it all. I'll never find all the people I could befriend. I'll miss the climbing of various mountains. There will be delicious foods I will never eat, much less learn to cook. There are worlds out there I will never find if I am constantly, comfortably back Home.
So the run-ins with my compatriots, my fellow Southerners, my people who say "y'all" and find my pronunciation of "New Orleans" to be correct not cute, my friends who know good barbeque when they smell the smoke, such run-ins and hellos make me happy. They bring Home here for a little while. But they also make me happy to be elsewhere, some corner of the world I never would have ventured to if not for a combination of natural disaster, mistake, coin flip, curiosity, and homesickness.
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