Running, etc.

I signed up for my first half-marathon (doomsday is late spring) and I'm trying to run pretty much every day to gear up for "real" training. I don't do much at this point, sometimes I do 4 miles, sometimes only 3, yesterday I did 2.5 and rode the bike for half an hour. I just tend to run until I 1) get bored or 2) get tired. And honestly, the former is usually the true culprit in finishing me off. I loathe running on a treadmill but that is the only way it's happening in this cold and with this ice. So I catch up on my Newsweek, listen to too much bad 80s dance music, and pound out whatever has tied my shoulders into knots during the course of the day.

The amazing thing to me is not that I run. What startled me the other day was that I didn't have to talk myself into it. I wasn't going to the gym because I have a date on Friday (ha! like running 3 miles on Wednesday would do anything to help a girl out on Friday...but I have told myself that lie MANY times). Or because I would beat myself up over not going. I didn't go because I know I'm going out to eat a couple times this weekend. I just go. I just want to run. I just feel less happy if I don't sweat at some point in the day. I enjoy wearing myself out. Sometimes I think the only time I'm not twisted tight as drum (damn my shoulders and their tension-vacuum) is the 10-15 minutes after I run. It's the only time I feel like every joint is where it's supposed to be, every vertebrae aligned, every muscle smoothed over every bone in exactly the right way.

I long ago accepted the fact that I am not a relaxed person. I used to try and do the "happy-go-lucky" thing and I think my personality is sunshiney enough to give that impression. But underneath, I'm a stressball. A worrier. A tangle of knots. I like to think I'm like one of those matchbox cars that you have to pull back in order to wind the wheels before it shoots off into oblivion.

Relaxation has always been something I have to work at, and that's not something I ever expected of myself. Some part of me has always wanted to be a little hippie, a little commune-loving, long hair-wearing, flower child that did yoga for the love of it and ate granola because it tasted good and hugged trees and lazily waltzed from one adventure to another. But, in all honesty, that life sounds incredibly boring. I crave structure, pockets of quiet in a day of noise, people, fast things, spicey things, unorganic things, and steel. Despite my love for the environment, I cannot help but love (and I mean LOVE) the sight of factories and mills and refineries. I used to drive by a refinery in Louisiana at night, just off the bayou, to watch that flicker of flame dance off the water.

Running is the closest thing to refinery fire I've found for my personal life. Running requires simple effort, not philosophy or overanalyzation. Sure, it's tough. And tiring. But it feels natural and unforced. It's just my body moving at the pace God intended (slowish), heart beating faster and hard, back straight but not tense, shoulders loose, fingers unclenched. It's something my body was built to do, the same as it was built to eat and laugh and dance poorly, maybe have babies. The same way, to me, those refineries and factories seem oddly organic. A natural mental evolution of human effort. The next step. Which isn't to say that those factories, that flame burning oil off the coast, can't be perfected and improved to protect the land and resources that make such effort possible. I love and marvel at wind turbines with the same reverence as that tiny Louisiana flame.

And sometimes, when I run, I think that man is simply amazing. What his body can do. What his mind can build. And with only sheer, simple, uncomplicated effort.

Do Something

Barack Obama was sworn in as the 44th President today. I watched his inaugural address in the skyway in downtown St. Paul, next to the convenience store where I buy my not-great-but-not-awful coffee every morning.

I was on my way back from Subway, where I bought a 6-inch turkey on honey oat, a splurge for me these days as I can't really justify the $3.44 when I have perfectly good turkey and bread at home. I look forward to the day when Subway is no longer a "treat" or something I have to feel guilty for.

There was a large crowd gathered around the tube, which kept sputtering at inopportune moments.

I thought the President's speech was well done, inspiring, thoughtfully somber given the times. But in my gut, lovely speeches aside, when the people around me clapped politely at his invocations of freedom and change and history and patriotism, the hopeful realist in me merely whispered, "do something."

Do something. Do something to show me, to prove to me, your doubtful constituent, that you are what you are promising to be. I want to believe you when you throw around ideas regarding investing in transmission, powering the country with the ingenuity of alternative energy, building our schools in ways that will no longer embarass us internationally, declaring to our enemies that we will not be defeated. You sound very sure of yourself and very sure of your position in history. And I hope, no, I pray, that you are correct.

I am not so ignorant as to believe that your "change" is somehow immediate, or that a politician in Washington can impact my life more than my own sweat. I will work hard to make my life better, regardless of whether or not my President makes that easier for me. And I believe the vast majority of Americans are aware of that same truth. We are not prosperous because our government made us so. We are prosperous because we work. Hard.

I am a Doubting Thomas these days politically. I do not trust my new president to provide everything he has promised, how could he? I am well aware of the machine that gets men (ahem) elected to the Presidency and I know compromises were made to accomplish a larger goal. But I want proof of sincerity now. I want action that speaks to the million promises he made, broke, remade, along his path to the White House. I want you, Mr. President, to do something.

And I, and everybody else, will expect that something to begin tomorrow.

Half Life

This week I went to the icon exhibit at the Russian Museum of Art. While I was walking around the education area, reading about egg yolks and gold leaf, I realized I went to Russia almost exactly 14 years ago. Exactly half my life ago. My sister was barely two. My brother was almost nine. I was a handful of months away from my first seizure. I'd had my first kiss. I hated my haircut and was obsessed with one green sweater, which I wore as often as possible.

It was my first trip abroad and I was in a small town in Russia, Tver, for three weeks. I was never homesick. It's probably the longest span of time I've gone without missing my family. I just remember being incredibly happy to be surrounded by so many odd, cold, new things. I sang my host little brother and sister to sleep with the same songs I sang to my sister back home (mostly showtunes) with only one change. My Russian siblings loved The Lion King so I sang Hakuna Matata to them several times a day, and it was their favorite lullaby. I can still picture Kolya and Nastya, curled up in their bunk beds, tiny and happy, saying "Hakuna Matata! Hakuna Matata!" and I would sing it over and over again until Mama Trushikova came in and told them to go to sleep. The sister, Masha, closest to my age spoke some English but we mainly spoke in French. Looking back, I wonder how that was possible. At that point I'd had a little over two years of French and yet I remember having long, incredible conversations with her. I suppose a lot can be communicated regardless of mutual confusion over verb tenses.

The icons at the museum reminded me of Russia very little. I only went to one church while I was there and I remember it feeling crowded and glaring and gawdy. I think the church bored me, honestly, and I wish I'd paid more attention. I had a crush on one of the Russian students and I believe that took up the bulk of my brain space.

The Russia I visited was less about the country and more about my own realization that the world was huge and exciting and I needed to be in it in as many ways as possible. I needed to see and do everything, be everything I could think of, taste everything I could never pronounce, and write about it whenever I could find the words. Since traveling to Russia, I've also studied in France and England, traveled to Hungary and Austria and Mexico, and lived in Morocco. I'm headed to Dubai in a month.

I think my wide-eyed 14 year-old self would be impressed by my passport and experiences thus far. And I imagine, in classic teenage fashion, she would expect even greater adventures to come.

I would hate to disappoint her.

Whew!

I've always been semi-self-conscious of my hands. They're rather freakishly small. One guy in college lovingly referred to me as Carny Hands (ie. Carnival people...small hands...creepy). So I've had a bit of a complex about the fact that my hands have been smaller than my kid sister's for at least five or six years (that's right, since she was 10).

But, I am excited to learn that, small or not, because of the ratio of my ring finger to my index finger (my ring finger is longer), I am destined for financial success:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090113/ap_on_sc/sci_financial_finger

Good to know I can stop stressing out about my student loans.

Katrina-ing

Hurricane Katrina was a long, long time ago. Over three years. I have graduated from law school, moved a thousand miles North, passed the bar, found running, found a church, found friends, decorated an apartment, revisited New Orleans, embraced cooking, built a life since that evacuation. And now, on most days, Katrina is a memory and not a process I'm living through. I'm not "Katrina-ing" anymore, not wondering why or how or shouting angrily at God or redesigning a life out of the bits left behind. But Katrina was a moment, a large chunk of a moment, about a year of a moment that sticks in my head and divides my life into chapters. There is pre-Peace Corps and post-Peace Corps. And there is pre-Katrina and post-Katrina. Divisions of living wrapped up in a life.

Many people up here ask me about Katrina, ask me about New Orleans, wonder aloud why anyone would live somewhere "like that". More than one person has smilingly assumed I was thrilled to be up here as opposed to "down there", thrilled to have found the light evidently and moved away from that scary, sunken city. While such assumptions offend me to no end, they don't hurt like they used to. I was so, so disappointed in myself for not being strong enough to stay. I was quick to attack those who spoke disparagingly of my darling, battered city and quick to defend what I abandoned. I realize now that New Orleans, leaving Her, was something I felt I needed to be forgiven for, which is silly.

I haven't thought about Katrina in awhile. I try not to. I think of and miss New Orleans daily. But Katrina I try to ignore. However, I saw a movie last night (The Curious Life of Benjamin Button) that brought her home. Seeing all of the New Orleans footage was wonderful, loving those streets again, remembering those balconies and that river and that streetcar. But the last scene of the movie shows a large, beautiful clock in a warehouse as it is flooded by Katrina's waters. And for a moment in that theatre I could not breathe. The walls closed in, my face went numb, and I felt my heart stutter. For a split second I felt every inch of water that crept into my building on State Street, saw the windows of the Delachaise shatter, saw the water line, breathed that horrible death smell, stared at my perfect pink bike twisted and gnarled against my house, wondered if the heavy oak that was left leaning against our roof would break through my bedroom, picked up the stacks of poems and stories destroyed by the window I left open, threw out the molded furniture, dry heaved on side steps as we cleaned out the freezer, walked along a street-a million streets-where noone lives anymore, saw the houses, all those pretty houses, wondered how many were dead in each attic.

It was just a moment. But it made me want to hold New Orleans in my hand, sing her to sleep, smile at her and how far she has come. To be so bruised, so destroyed, and to have regained so much...I was proud to have known her, pre-Katrina, as she knew me. And I am proud that we both emerged from that deluge, shaky but assuredly standing.

The Things I Do Not Finish

I'm not a quitter, per se. In fact, I would say I probably lean to the other extreme and have a hard time dropping things that I should. I'm not a big believer in lost causes and feel like everything can be accomplished eventually, with just a wee bit more time, a tweak of perspective, a smidge of blind will. One of my favorite quotes is, "Everything is possible. Impossible just takes longer."

That being said, I continuously quit one thing that I love. Routinely. I begin and quit more short stories and poems and essays than I can count. I start off strong, overcome with the itch that is inspiration. I write beautiful, winding paragraphs that lead nowhere. I create characters that have no purpose other than to be created and then left to rot. I find a rhythm in a poem that sings and hiccups perfectly, only to find my last line stifled by boredom or annoyance.

I was not always this way. Some part of me hesitates to blame law school and my career because I recognize that the failure to stick to a story is my fault, not the fault of my education. But I feel like law school rewired my brain in a way that makes creative writing trickier. Where once I allowed myself the freedom to be overly romantic or silly or dramatic, now I chastise myself for using too many adjectives. Not sticking to the facts. In some ways I think law school has made me a much stronger writer in that I am able to hone in more precisely on an idea and not get lost in the "fluff" that used to cushion my older poems. But that fluff is still important. That excellent, inspired fluff has been replaced by concrete, no room to stretch and weave and coddle whatever poetic seed I am nursing. I feel sorry for my creative ideas now, they must be so bruised, with nothing but concrete to embrace.

This is the only poem I've finished in the last six months. The rest are skeletons. Fitting, I think, that it's a poem of Arkansas in the summer. I always write better in the heat.

Insect

The hum of mosquitoes has a dirty smell,
thick with middle-aged sweat, gasoline, and honeysuckle.
Each step up, each slide, each shimmy, each lazy sit-down
has the pulse of insects, the soft drum beat of
slammed screens and an unfastened buckle.

Lemonade smells of Off! and wax paper cups,
and my tongue licks bug spray and sugar in one heavy glide.
The slap, “got ‘em”, one second too late and the hazy show-down
between my hand and their millions begins with
Tiny welts, tiny carcasses on a tiny red tide.

“Sweet blood,” says Momma, cigarette on her lip
And I wonder how sweet my blood would be to drink, how cool.
Blood seems warm, seems to steam, but today, with the breeze of sweat
I am sure my blood is iced, lemons, sugar
Licking bug spray and blood off my arm, it feels cool.

I Promise

I've never been a huge fan of resolutions in the New Year. They always seem a bit trite and so destined for failure that I feel like I'm in some way jinxing my goal. 95% of my resolutions since age 10 have involved losing weight, which makes me sad for myself. How many times have I tried and failed and tried and failed and tried and failed...And the "I will lose 50 lbs if it kills me" or "I will never eat carbs" (circa 2001 or so) battle cry is so incredibly shallow, not to mention unhealthy. I should have been kinder to myself.

This year I have no resolutions to lose weight. None. That is not a goal. I do resolve to train for my first half-marathon, which occurs in late May. If I lose weight in the process, nifty. If I stay exactly the same weight but trade some fat for muscle, even niftier. I just want to be stronger. Faster. I know the body I am supposed to have (not the perfect, idyllic pilates-crazed celebrity body...but the perfect, redheaded, short, hands-too-small, hips-too-wide, is-my-nose-too-big, pretty smile, freckled, becoming-a-runner Rachel body) and that's the body I'm working towards. No more meanness. Lots of kindness. And new running shoes.