From Here

My dad and I went to the Shakopee auction on Friday night.  We got there too early and left well before the normal three hour event wrapped up.  We came home with nothing, despite a couple of attempts at a food processor (for me) and some well-stocked tackle boxes (for dad). We shared a not-good pretzel (what is that cheese stuff made out of anyway? melted tonka trucks?) and largely sat and watched a small slice of Americana unfold.

Despite many differences and my penchant for bleeding-heartedness, my dad and I share a certain element of romanticized love for our country.  I say romanticized not because we're naive or silly but because I think each of us, in our way, recognizes how things should be long before we decide the proper path to that result.  We each recognize the goodness in simplicity and communal solidarity and the likelihood of corruption when things (government, church, restaurants) get too big to be handled effectively.  We may differ in the party we align our (both of us) tenuous allegiance to today, but I think our hopes and worries are probably painfully similar.  And both, at their core, stem from a hope that we are directing our path in a way that honors God first, country following far, far behind.

I only mention this now because I imagine some of my father's attachment to our Friday activity was similar to my own. Some of that enjoyment was likely inspired by a good dose of patronizing people watching (who in heaven's name needs a box of dog costumes?!) but some of it was inspired by the good kind of people watching, the kind that makes you think, "yes, this is how it should be." 

Before the auction got rolling the announcer opened up with a sad and common story.  Fred (or Joe or Hank or Charlie, I forget), who'd lived in Shakopee all his life, who'd raised his kids in Shakopee, whose youngest went to the high school, went to the doctor because he wasn't feeling well and came home with a diagnosis of cancer.  There's going to be an auction in April, catered by our friends at Buca di Beppo, and we're selling tickets for $10 apiece, every cent to Fred and his family.  She spoke and encouraged sales for less than 3 minutes, probably sold half a dozen tickets right there.  No doubt she'll sell them every Friday for the next month, and they'll be pushing them at the cashier's window when everybody pays their night's tally. 

My first thought, upon hearing this announcement, was, "yes! this is how it should be! In a perfect world, this is how communities should act."  But Shakopee is not a perfect world.  So why limit perfection to Perfection? A perfect world, in tiny increments, can exist in auction houses on Friday nights selling bad pretzels and taco-in-a-bag. 

I'm co-leading a bible study right now on C.S. Lewis's The Great Divorce.  It is one of the most gratifying spiritual exercises I've ever experienced, and one of the toughest mentally.  For those who don't know the story, Lewis explores Heaven and Hell by way of a busride between the two.  An ancient Catholic thought was that souls in Hell would be given a "day off" out of Hell, a sort of merciful respite from damnation.  Lewis used this concept to bring those souls to the outskirts of Heaven, to allow them to glimpse that side of eternity and, perhaps, realign their perspective in a way that got rid of self-involvement enough to contemplate Grace.  Each of the lost souls Lewis examines is self-absorbed in some way or another, it's the link that binds the lost together.  Whether it be shame, or pride, or addiction to recognition, or lust, all of the sins that make it impossible for the souls to visualize God are sins that place Self far above the Almighty.

In one especially powerful conversation between a lost soul and a "solid person" (Heaven's inhabitants), the Heavenly person says:

There have been men before now who got so interested in proving the existence of God that they came to care nothing for God Himself...as if the good Lord had nothing to do but exist!  There have been some who were so occupied in spreading Christianity that they never gave a thought to Christ...Did ye never know a lover of books that with all his first editions and signed copies had lost the power to read them? Or an organiser of charities that had lost all love for the poor? It is the subtlest of all the snares.

This passage has been resonating with me since I first read it, weeks ago, bouncing off the edges of my brain and resurfacing at seemingly odd moments, like when I'm debating the worth of a used food processor at a small town auction.  I think it struck me while the announcer was talking about this stricken townsmember because her plea for ticket sales and her description of the dilemma were in the same tone of voice.  They were of equal import.  The request for aid was a statement as much as it was an actual invitation. It is a plea but it is also a Truth, that we, as a community, should wrap around this man and do what we can.  So tonight, in this auction house, we will sell a few tickets, and then we will sell a few more.  Because that is what good people do, it's what a community should be, and it's what the struggling, the poor, are promised by the Lord, in the person of the Church.

Now we weren't in a church.  And I have no way of knowing whether the people who bought tickets were Christians.  I didn't buy one.  But it struck me that the Church fails, miserably and often, in addressing the needs of the poor, in doing exactly what God tells us to do when he tells us to take care of them.  And because the Church fails, the State steps in.  Poverty is a broad, terrifying thing, but the wealth and power of every Church in America, together, could eliminate it in this country.  We do not.  The Church fails.  There are great strides made, wonderful sacrifices, glorious dedication from men and women and children at various orphanages, soup kitchens, halfway houses, AA meetings, prisons, and wrong-sides-of-the-tracks.  But it will never be enough unless charity grows out of a love for the poor translated into a duty to serve, and not a duty worth nothing more than a tithe. 

 When the auction announcer began her ticket sale for Fred, she appealed to his roots.  He's from Here.  He grew up Here.  He raised his kids Here.  As a community we should rise up and serve him, honor him, bless him in every way we can.  It struck me, I suppose, of how powerful it would be to make the same statement about every single human being on the face of the planet.  If "here" is but a synonym of "God's child," then we are all guilty, everyday, of ignoring our brethren. 

If every single person is from Here, from Him, rather, then we should all be buying tickets.

You're Watching What?

For the last three years my TV has been a device I've used largely for Office and 30 Rock marathons and the occasional it's-way-too-cold-or-I'm-way-too-lazy-to-leave-the-house workout sessions.  I'd easily go a couple weeks without turning it on, finding clipping recipes out of my various cooking magazines, reading, writing, running, or blowing things up in the kitchen to be infinitely more entertaining than the boob tube. 

I've always held myself to be somewhat superior to those who watch TV often. I feel much more sophisticated, a renegade, really, in my dismissal of the harbinger of all things socially relevant. I read, I blog, I write poems, surely I cannot be brainwashed by that insipid box.


But a couple weeks ago the TV (a hand-me-down from my parents) actually died.  The sound is fine but the screen rolls in waves and squiggles, not pleasant to stare at for any length of time.  So I've been TV-less for many days now and, I have to admit, I rather miss it.  I miss the 30 Rock intro music.  It has crept up in my dreams more than once. But my real concern isn't my current lack of DVD capability (althought that is a mild frustration), my bigger issue is that I crave really, really bad television.

I blame the gym.  They have those groovy little HD contraptions glued to every machine and they have the Bravo Network, which means I can watch hours upon hours of reruns of Top Chef All-Stars.  And I can cattily giggle at Joan River's snarky ripping apart of all things fashionable on the E channel.  I've even watched Real Housewives of Atlanta, heaven help me.  And I found myself connecting emotionally with one of the characters who not only married an ex-con but now wants to open a funeral parlor.  I liked her eyeshadow.  WHAT IS GOING ON?

I'm telling myself that this is really just the inherent laziness of late winter doing me in mentally.  I've lost it.  My mind has rejected the cold and, unable to survive without heaps of escapism, has turned to TV trash based in warmer climates or involving scantily clad celebrities who can't wear Armani to save their lives.  Once it's sufficiently warm enough to quit the gym and return for 6-7 glorious months to the pavement, I'll leave my new found TV obsession behind.  Happily. 

But for now, bring on the mental junk food.

Tallulah

I met Stephanie while in law school.  She, Kat, and I were inseparable, and many of my posts at the birth of this blog were inspired by our threesome's experiences with New Orleans, studying, and testdriving as many fancy cheeses and cheap wines as law school loans would allow. 

The bulk of my girlfriends, aside from Kat and Steph, are single.  Kat and Steph are two of my dearest ladies, and they also happen to be my closest friends who are married.  As is befitting that station, first comes love, then comes marriage, and now there's a baby carriage in the mix...

Steph is a Mama now, and has only recently entered that (I imagine) tenuous, thrilling, exhaustive period of figuring out how not to break the baby.  Itty bitty babies seem highly breakable to me, despite billions of them surviving babyhood every year.  I imagine this fragile-ness would feel all the more acute if you were actually said baby's mother.  So despite her son's big, healthy babyness, I imagine there is an element of "holy crap, I hope I don't screw this up!" coursing through her days, which would only be exacerbated by lack of sleep (again, this is just supposition on my part, I know when I'm sleepy I pour coffee in my cereal, and I would think as a mom there would be a worry that one would confuse, say, baby wipes and clorox wipes, or baby powder and boric acid...although hopefully nobody keeps baby powder and boric acid next to each other).

Steph's birthday is tomorrow and more so than any other year I know she is in awe of what changes the last year has brought.  To wrap marriage and a new baby in the same year just seems, perhaps, to be an overabundance of blessing.  How does a heart grow that much love in twelve months? And how do you embrace it on 3 hours of sleep?

Stephanie, you are the best of women and the best of friends.  You are everything a son could want in his Mama: strong, brilliant, beautiful, full of smiles, quick to tell you when you're wrong, and quick to cushion that hard truth with kisses.  You love well and gently, and your son already knows and cherishes that in you.  I hope your birthday is full of baby snuggling, naps, and cake.  And I pray the next year is full of marvels, both at motherhood's gifts and life's penchant for surprises.  You have hugged and loved me through three years of law school and beyond, and mothered Kat and I through any number of heartaches, frustrations, and joyous moments.  You have practiced motherhood as an awesome aunt and loving stepmom.  You've been a mama-to-be for years, and now it's a joy to see you embrace it with your own bundle of slobbering, gurgling, burping babyness.

Love you, lady!  Happy Birthday!

On Second Thought

My last post bemoaned my inability to train properly outside for my upcoming Half-Marathon and debated the merits of "wimping out" to the 4 mile race. I've been thinking it over and I've decided not to wimp.  I ran 6 miles this afternoon.  I was slower than I'd like but I'm going to credit one minute of that pace to the inherent slowness of running on snow-packed sidewalks.  When I ran on the well-cleared pavement around Lake of the Isles, my pace was very normal. 

I'm just stating this and sending it out into the innernets so that I feel all the more obligated to actually refrain from wimpage.  I won't be as well-trained as I'd like come race day, but I'll be well-trained enough to survive. And sometimes, survival is all one is shooting for. 

Wimping Out?

I signed up for the Get Lucky 21K (a less intimidating way to say "half-marathon") a couple months ago.  At the time, it seemed like the perfect motivation to get my butt outside on the pavement despite the general threats of wind, ice, snow, frozen dog poop, etc.  In actuality, the race has been looming over my head every time I opt for the gym (and its I-hate-the-treadmill cop outs after 3 miles) over sub 20 degree (much less negative) temps.

The race is a month away and I'm nowhere near ready.  Since November the most I've run in one bite is 4 miles.  Add to that the pesky (and ridiculous) neck injury that sidelined me for a couple weeks and you've got the makings for a pretty craptastic race a few weeks from now.  I got an email yesterday that the Get Lucky Half was relocating to St. Paul from Minneapolis due to some permitting issues and due to the change of venue they're allowing people to downgrade from the Half to the 7K (4 miler).  I am sorely tempted.  4 miles is completely doable, not to mention infinitely less miserable than 13 miles after weeks of injury recovery and FREEZING, Hell-No-I-am-Not-Running-Outside-When-It's-Negative-12-Humans-Should-Not-Live-North-Of-Missouri-Is-My-Eyelash-Frozen-To-My-Hat-Again? temperatures (forgive the dramatics, I am not from here and still find "here" to be kinda ludicrous). 

But I know I'd feel somewhat disappointed if I "wimped out" and did the shorter race.  Yes, St. Paul is not where I want to run.  And yes, I'm ill prepared.  But I've been slim on training before and managed alright, minus some vicious next day aches.  I know I would survive the Half, it would just hurt.  And maybe I could use some Ouch in my life.  But is it really worth it?  What am I trying to prove?  And to whom? I can sign up for another spring Half, one that would allow me a bit more time to train outside in slightly warmer, sunnier weather, and perhaps have a pleasant race experience instead of a miserable one.  And the TC Marathon is still months away, if I don't kick off racing season in March, that certainly isn't the end of the world.  When I ran the marathon the first time, my "kick off" for the process was the Stillwater Half, which happened in late May.  So why am I pushing myself to do this nutty March thing?

Just talking to myself, really.  I have a few days to decide if I want to switch races.  Until then, I will either continue to berate myself for being a "wimp," or I will find a way to couch the switch in a more pleasing light. Did I mention I bought a bunch of green St. Pat's Day doo-dahs to run with? The likelihood of neon green false eyelashes staying in place is much higher with a 4 mile run...

Tylenol Moments

There are multiple levels of friendship.  Upgrades and downgrades dependent on your comfort, length of acquaintance, how much you've had to drink.  These things ebb and flow, to be sure, but I've always been pretty careful to create and maintain a solid group of top level friendships and a copious number of mid level relationships to keep things interesting.  I'm an extrovert, and like all extroverts, I thrive on the creation of new relationships, new inside jokes, new dependencies, new shared experience. I seek out such things and have no trouble, in general, in forming a tight knit family of friends.

It has been harder for me in Minnesota, however, than anywhere I have ever lived.  I made friends faster with locals in Morocco, where my language skills were embarassing and my country of origin occasionally offensive, than I have in my new home.  I credit that in part to cultural differences and the habits of life in this  Upper Midwest city.  Many people I met here were from here.  Maybe they moved away for a chunk of time, but they always came back.  That is high praise, of course, for the city itself.  But that kind of experience means you have everything in common with 85% of other young Minnesotans who also grew up in Apple Valley, Golden Valley, Pick A Valley, etc., and nothing in common with a girl who thinks 40 degrees is cold and inserts "y'all" and "mercy" and "heavens" in more scenarios than most Minnesotans would think possible.

I don't know how a non-Upper Midwestern introvert would survive here.  I at least have the benefit of brazen presumption of awesomehood.  I am an excellent friend.  I make excellent cookies.  I tell good stories.  I'm funny.  I can assure you that you will want to be my friend.  And that confidence worked in my favor up here.  I don't want to admit to how many times I invited myself along to various events in conversations I wasn't wholly a part of.  But that "Hi, I'm Rachel. I'm not from here. Does the snow ever melt? Want to be my friend?" attitude eventually did win me friendships, or opportunities for friendships. 

But it has still taken time, lots of time, to build friendships that feel important. It always takes time to connect to someone, but without the daily warzone of law school or Peace Corps or college, the progress is much slower.  I have a handful of friends who I care for deeply and I think the feeling is mutual.  It has been a long time coming but a tiny moment of friendship flashed upon me tonight that I wanted to record for posterity.  It's a really silly, simple thing. 

Nice, somewhat cursory friendships are comfy and quick to invite you to a movie.  There's no risk there.  Sometimes they might even ask you out to dinner, or maybe over for a party.  It's only with time that cursory, maybe accidental friendships build a foundation of habit and comfort that stand up to the more mundane favors of life.  I met my current Bible Study coleader maybe 18 months ago.  We were tossed together for co-leading purposes strictly due to our living in the same part of town and being available at similar times.  We didn't know each other exceptionally well at the time and I imagine we both were hopeful and trusting that God had the nuts and bolts figured out on how our personalities would jive.  In coleading with Dan over the last two years I've found him to be a kind, solid soul with a remarkable thirst for knowledge and laughter.  He's a dear friend.  Important.

Tonight he called me around 8 p.m., sounding like a lukewarm cup of death.  And in the exhausted voice of someone desperate for a coma, he asked if I by any chance had some Tylenol PM on hand. Poor kid.  I drove it over, felt his forehead, told him he had a temp and needed to go to bed. He agreed and I hope he's completely knocked out as I write this.  He thanked me and I wished him happy, health-improving dreams.

 As I was driving away, I was happy to have been there. Happy to have felt his forehead, happy he was tucking in with a bit of comfort (though drug-induced). But mostly I was simply happy he'd asked me for help. His friend.  It's the simple exchanges that communicate the most.  The movies and dinners and parties are so forgettable. The grand gestures so rarely happen.  But an extra pillow for an unexpected guest. The swapping of books because you both love Austen. The I'm-in-the-neighborhood-drop-in-for-tea. The pained request for Tylenol.  They're what real friends do. Not mid level friends.  Not the superficial ones. 

Real Friends bring Tylenol.  And Real Friends ask for it.

An Unexpected Pause

For the past week I have fought (quite valiantly, I think) a sinus infection plague with every intention of avoiding the doctor.  Last night, as part of that avoidance, I took some NyQuil in hopes that it would knock me out and, by proxy, suckerpunch this bug.  Instead, it suckerpunched me.

I passed out around 1 am, grew faint on a walk back from the restroom, blacked out and woke up when my face smashed the carpet, jerking my neck backwards in a ridiculously painful arc.  I stayed on the floor for at least 5 minutes, willing the room to stop spinning.  I crawled back to bed, debated the likelihood of dying from a snapped neck this way, fell asleep before I cared enough to google those odds.

So it was the neck injury, which vibrates with pain every time I glance up or down, that made me finally schedule an appointment, by which time I had a doozy of a fever. So I'm now fevered, drugged, and largely immobile, in enough pain to actually watch Nancy Grace for ten whole minutes before digging deep and mustering the strength to grab the remote.

The doc said this sort of injury can take up to six weeks to heal.  SIX.  WEEKS.  I cannot fathom that, or what it means for my training for my first half-marathon of the season this coming March. For now, I'm just doing everything I can to get healthy again (hello, antibiotics), drinking a lot of water, and hoping that six weeks is a scare tactic to make me take the injury seriously.  This is an unexpected pause, and I pray a brief one.

Technology is Neat

I received a set of crochet hooks and a how-to book for Christmas.  I've always liked knitting scarves (never cared to learn how to knit anything else) and I'd been eyeing a fellow bus commuter's awesome crochet projects for a few months and figured maybe a change of yarn method was in order. I want to learn how to make a hat, dangit.  A cute hat.  With a flower on the side.

I will not admit to how many hours I have spent staring at the first page of the crochet book.  I just do not think my brain processes pictoral instructions well.  Maybe it's the same part of the brain that processes maps because those who know me recognize my complete idiocy with maps, too.  I get lost in the mall. Blurg.  Anyway, I have tried over and over and over again to make a stupid slip knot and a stupid initial link of crochet chains.  I have cursed at an innocent ball of yarn, I admit it.

I'm tucked in at home sick today and all the sudden the wonders of sudafed inspired me to give the crochet book another whirl.  The book is a disaster and will never be touched again. But the answer to my frustration? YouTube.  There are a ridiculous number of videos on beginner crocheting on the web.  I can start the video, pause it, rewatch it, cuss, unravel, rewatch, and...victory!  This one below is the one that finally gave me my Eureka moment:

Genius. No more staring cross-eyed at that flippin' book.  No more questioning my worth as a woman because I can't master a basic handicraft.

And the proof? My first line of single crochet stitches:

Doesn't look like much now (and please ignore the glaring hole), I know, but I figure by July I should be able to make a hat without bursting into tears or threatening a defensiveless skein of yarn with a trip to the dumpster. Thank you, YouTube!

When Your Tongue is Screwed in Backwards

One of the first warnings I have that I'm about to be smacked with a doozy of a headcold is that everything I eat tastes like onions.  Everything. Pineapple=onions. Yogurt=onions. Onions=onions. It's a fascinatingly bizarre occurence. And it has been happening for about as long as I remember. Today I discovered a new tastebud warning in that Coke tastes like turkey. Have you sipped turkey before? Have you sipped a Coke expecting to taste turkey?  These aren't experiences I would want to share with anyone.

I only mention it on my blog because the turkey drinking made me realize how easily I take for granted one of my five senses.  And it also made me question the art/humor of God in designing a body that reacts to pathogens by warping expectations. What area of the brain is responsible for communicating and labeling taste expectations? That knowledge is housed somewhere.  Before I bite an apple I can imagine what an apple should taste like.  Before I drink a Coke, I know that it should not taste like turkey.  But somehow, when my brain and body are busy fighting an infection, that knowledge gets pistol-whipped.

I always tell myself to treasure my senses.  My sight, my hearing, touch, and smell. Taste gets left out sometimes because it seems almost unimportant.  You can live and act within society without any manner of disability lacking a sense of taste.  But on the occasions that my sinuses implode, I'm reminded of how grateful I am that 99% of the time, turkey tastes like turkey, and Coke tastes like Coke.

The Books I Go Back To

My Uncle Rodney gave me the first book I remember being daunted by. I was too young for Jane Eyre when I received it, and I remember attempting to read it twice in that first year before settling in with enough vocabulary (and gumption) to tackle Bronte.  I was 10. It was in the window of age underlined by the move from Arkansas to St. Louis.  Bronte went with me, and Jane was my first friend in my new city.

Since then my Uncle Rodney has given me books.  Many books. He mailed a monstrosity of a box of them to Morocco when I complained of having nothing to read.  I don't remember how many books he mailed to Africa, but it was in the double digits, and I read every single one within three weeks.  Those books are still in Africa, left behind due to my speedy evacuation, and I have no doubt they've found their way into many happy Peace Corps hands since their arrival on the continent.

Within that box was Geek Love and Feast of Love, two books I return to often. As I do Jane. I devour books pretty rapidly and I find it hard to part with them.  And among the Books I've Read, there is a small, treasured bunch I'll refer to as The Books I Go Back To. I'll eliminate The Bible at this point.  It doesn't belong amongst mere novels and poetry volumes, as it's The Book of Truth that has been beside and within me since I could read. I grew up in a Bible-loving home, and so that Book is a constant, the heartbeat beneath the bookshelf.

The Books I Go Back To are listed below.  Some (The Flounder, Atlas Shrugged) were read and reread but now are revisited largely for certain passages or chapter.  A line of The Flounder is tattooed on my back so I suppose that one, in particular, is with me for life.  Some other books, like Jane, are old, dear friends that I reread often but are more like quiet companions that do not need a revisiting, the story is so well cemented in my memory.  Others, like Suite Francaise, are recent additions to my revisiting pile, and may or may not become lifetime members. But, for what it's worth, here are the Books I Go Back To, beginning with the first one that truly engrossed me. 

Jane Eyre, C. Bronte
Wuthering Heights, E. Bronte
Anne of Green Gables, L.M. Montgomery
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis
Suite Francaise, I. Nemirovsky
Geek Love, K. Dunn
The Flounder, G. Grass
Atlas Shrugged, A. Rand
Walden, H. Thoreau
The Tower and The Winding Stair and Other Poems, W.B. Yeats
Idylls of the King, A.L. Tennyson
Of Human Bondage, W.S. Maugham
Eliza Stanhope, J. Trollope
The Trial, F. Kafka
To Kill a Mockingbird, H. Lee
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, J. Joyce
Man Walks into a Room, N. Krauss
The Feast of Love, C. Baxter
Sonnet 71, Shakespeare
Voyage Au Maroc, E. Wharton

Molly's Walkin'

My lovely friend, Molly, is raising funds for the Komen 3-day walk in memory of her mother.  Molly's one of my dearest friends up here and I'm very proud of her excitement and courage in attempting an exhausting ordeal for the sake of all those who have been and will be diagnosed with breast cancer.  Sadly, Molly's story and her loss are not unique, but I believe her desire to spread awareness and optimism is a testament to her mother's grit and the grace of God.

Please take a moment to check out Molly's new blog page, which will detail her training and fundraising efforts.  Share the link with any and all who might be inspired to donate and I'll keep you posted on her progress (I'm expecting to share in some long training walks this summer). Go get 'em, girly!

Molly's Blog

Sunshine Makes the Snow Almost Worthwhile

There are good days to be had, regardless of single digit temps, thanks to the sunshine that January and February generally promise.  The incessant grey of early winter gets to me, so despite the often colder months of mid to late winter, I much prefer January and February's sunshine to December's cloudcover.

We traipsed around Elm Creek Reserve in Champlin on Saturday and snowshoeing tends to keep the heart rate peppy enough to avoid chills, but it doesn't safeguard the face from the biting wind. My cheeks were chapped enough to cause tears (below 10 degrees and my eyes can't hack it, they water like mad) to sting the skin. I didn't need blush for church this morning.

But negative wind chills notwithstanding, I will always be grateful for the promise of Spring inherent in a bright, blinding Sun.

Confidante

I have a dear friend, Sandy, who has become enormously important to my running/eating habits in the last 4-5 months.  Sandy and I have only known each other for a few years.  She was one of the first true friends I made up North, and I believe I latched onto her in part because she was from Virginia.  Hallelujah, a fellow Southerner!

While she moved back to Virginia, thanks to the glories of internet communication and a couple excellent visits, we've remained close.

Sandy and I share a common struggle in that weight/food have always played a large role in our self-perception and self-acceptance.  We've both lost large amounts of weight in the last few years and we both found running to be both a supportive element of that weight loss and an important boost to our occasionally flagging sense of self-worth. We're both goal-oriented gals and we thrive with a hurdle before us, conquering problems and pursuing specific accomplishments just lights a fire that keeps us going when the going gets a bit annoying. Sandy rooted for me from afar as I trained for and ran my first marathon and I committed to one day returning the favor.

A few months ago Sandy and I decided we'd correspond several times a week (pretty much all work week) and detail how we're doing food and exercise-wise.  Being accountable to someone is a powerful tool and just the threat of having to type out, "I ate 473 Cheez-Its," is enough of a bummer to make me second guess purchasing those little spawns of Satan. Neither of us was too married to a specific food plan, although we kept to Weight Watchers points for awhile. Our pursuit was always a pursuit of balanced eating, runner-supportive eating, and understanding why it is that we occasionally break down and lose control over what we eat. We were striving for the ability to recognize why we crumbled and what mental black line separated the good days from the bad. 

It isn't an exercise I imagine everyone understands.  While Sandy hasn't struggled with an eating disorder the way I have, she has struggled with her body, and so she recognizes the pain that sometimes accompanies Food, and how, for some people (I'm speaking of myself now) it can feel less like comfort and fuel and more like kryptonite. It's like a war, really, with battle scars and flashbacks and crippling anxiety.  And Sandy is one of the handful of people on this planet who I can say, "I really wanted to eat the hamburger but I was afraid I'd have a panic attack" to and know she 1) doesn't think I'm crazy and 2) knows that, in the end, I will always be okay.

I fight less with Food (it deserves a capital letter today) when I'm happy with how my body works.  And I'm happy about my body when I'm pursuing physical goals.  I no longer need to be a size 4.  A size 8 is a perfectly healthy, legit size for a woman. But I do need to feel that I'm getting stronger, that the Food I eat is purposeful and destined for action.  I enjoy Food when I can articulate why I'm eating it and I'm happy with that reasoning. Eating for fuel, because I'm running 10 miles tomorrow, because I lifted weights today, because I'm happy and want to celebrate a special occasion, because the mango is on sale and it's my favorite, because the new recipe for sausage and kale soup is so perfect, because my boyfriend's taking me out to dinner and strawberry shortcake is his favorite...these are all reasons my heart supports and embraces.  Food can be a lovely component in such instances. But if I'm eating only because I'm bored or tired or lonely, that's when Food stops being a component of my day and instead begins to consume it.  That's when the good days turn bad. 

I say all this because Sandy has been a large part of helping me understand that about myself.  It's a struggle I have been exhausted by for over half my life and it's a struggle I expect to continue for as long as I live. It will never be easy, and the panic attacks will still happen, and the crushing anxiety over the simplest of menu decisions, but I'm better equipped now than I have ever been.  And Sandy is a large part of that new-found comfort and courage.

While I've been growing and understanding myself in that way, tripping over emotional/mental hurdles from time to time, waiting for Sandy to dust me off and send me a cyber hug, Sandy has been struggling with a wholly physical hurdle.  In her pursuit of her first marathon, Sandy was injured.  She'd broken the 18 mile mark in her training and her IT band, and subsequently her knee, gave out on her.  It's a heartache and frustration I have never suffered from and I have struggled to know how best to support her as she watched her marathon training dream get sidelined in the interest of simply walking without shooting pain.

After surgery a couple weeks ago, Sandy is now on the mend and thinking of running and racing again.  She has started a blog and as she's a groovy little writer, I highly recommend you track her journey of recovery and, ultimately, victory at a finish line sometime this year. Sandy's blog is a lot like Sandy, realistic as to the likelihood of struggles and pain and also gloriously optimistic about her ability to conquer the hills before her.

Sandy has been more than a confidante to me, she has been a rock on the days Food feels like it owns me, and I have tried to be the same support to her as she has struggled to maintain her optimism throughout her current struggle.  She is a blessing to me; I thank God for her. And this is merely a blogpost thank you to Sandy, my marathon buddy and my sender of emails, and an internet ether-based "you can do it!" as she begins her recovery.

Rock on!

Back in the Saddle

After a good two months of shunning running (just listen to that full-bodied rhyme), I've recommitted to the pavement.  I've decided to run my second marathon in 2011 and for some bizarre reason I decided to announce on Sunday that my goal is to run it in less than five hours.

This is rather ludicrous.

My last (and first) marathon (Twin Cities 2009) was completed in five hours, 30 minutes. I was just thrilled to survive! I ran the whole way and was coherent enough to drink a beer and eat a Jucy Lucy after the finish, loved ones and dedicated cheerleaders beside me. It was one of the happiest and most exhausting days of my life.  But the further I got away from that day, the more exhausted I became at its memory.  The adrenaline of training, the weeks and weeks of 18 mile training runs, the thrill of its newness and my fear of failure kept me going.  But once it was over, I shuddered at the thought of putting myself through that again.

In 2010 I decided early on that it was not a marathon year.  The half-marathons had always been a more enjoyable distance and so I decided to tackle six half-marathons in six months instead of training for a full.  I ended up doing seven half-marathons, the last of which was a personal best made more perfect by my companion, kid sister, Caroline. By the end of the racing season at the end of October, I was exhausted again.  Seven half-marathons is a different type of exhaustion than training for the full.  The full was a slow and steady build to one crazycrazycrazy physical adventure.  The seven half-marathons involved seven months of maintaining a very specific level of fitness and that maintenance really did run me down after awhile.

It was at that point of fatigue that I realized something about myself.  I kinda like exhausting myself. I like pushing myself to the point where my body tells me, "nope. that's it. you're done."  And then I like answering, "not quite yet."  In the months after 2009's marathon and 2010's half-marathon bonanza, I rested and enjoyed my rest in ways I never did as a non-runner.  I think when you've made your body do extraordinary things you tend to love it a little more, treat it a little kinder, take care of it the way you'd take care of a priceless machine.  As a fat (lets not mince words) non-runner, I would freak out over the 4-5 lbs I'd gain over the holidays.  It just seemed like such a desperate endeavor to get rid of the weight.   Now, as a runner on hiatus, I weighed in after New Year's, looked at that extra 4 lbs and just thought, "well, that needs to come off before the half-marathon in March."  It was functional. The way I think of my car, "need to get the oil changed before vacation." It's not a terrifying thing.  I took some time off.  I enjoyed my time off.  And now, it's time to restart the engine.

In the two months since my last race I've opted for long walks until the cold forced me into the gym and onto the Stairmaster. I gained a few lbs, as noted above, but nothing disastrous, and nothing a few weeks of focus won't fix.  The pounds don't worry me near as much as the goal of a sub-five hour marathon. Because now that I've said it outloud, now that it's communal knowledge, I feel like I've shaken hands with God.  This is what I promise to do. This is what I will accomplish. Er, wish me luck...

In my first marathon I worried about finishing.  I have no such fears this time. I know I can run 26.2 miles and my legs won't actually fall off. But I'm not so sure of a five hour marathon.  My fastest half-marathon was 2 hours, 18 minutes, just shy of a 10:30/mile pace.  Prior to the 2009 marathon, my only half-marathon was at 2 hours, 30 minutes. But I would say my average showing is right smack dab in the middle of my fastest and slowest times.  I've run several half-marathons right at 2 hours, 25 minutes.  That doesn't leave much wiggle room at all for coming in under five hours, especially given the second half of the marathon is just a wee bit rougher than the first.

But I'm reminding myself that prior to my first half-marathon, the thought of running one was a joke.  The same can be said prior to my first full marathon.  So while my eyebrow naturally raises at a goal of sub-five hours, I'm also game for the challenge.  Today was my first day of training, my first recognition that the miles from here on out are cumulative and each one is important.

I have had a lovely rest. 

Now it's time to run.

The Merits of Cold

This blog is full of references to my general disdain for all things winter-related.  I've complained a bit here or there of my complete confusion as to why perfectly logical human beings choose to settle in a place where subzero temps are too commonly the norm. I'm perpetually cold in my apartment, I sleep with six (6!) blankets, and the 5:40 a.m. trudge to the busstop with double digit negative windchills has inspired a number of quasi-homesick postings.  I try not to whine (so unladylike).  But I believe it's fairly plain that I miss my South-of-the-Mason-Dixon upbringing, and New Orleans in particular, quite vehemently.

That being said, there is merit to the chill. I spent this New Year's Eve dashing about a friend's backyard broomball rink (that's me in red behind the rink's owner, Adam, who's clearly more skilled than I):

It wasn't the first time I'd played broomball, and I know it won't be the last as I've signed up for a church team starting up in the next few weeks.  It's a nutty, spirited, occasionally vicious game that always leaves me with a random bruise here or there and the sneaking suspicion there are muscles in my butt that God created strictly for the sake of broomball.

After the final round of play, a couple of us ladies plopped onto the rink and made snow angels, rolling around like 8 year-olds, with hair falling out of ponytails, skin kissing ice, giggling as we skidded and reveled in the last evening of 2010. The night was cloudy and starless, but as I rested on the ice and stared skyward, the wind gusted and blew snow off the trees, sending tiny pinpricks of white to swirl and shimmy to the ground. 

It was a happy moment, made happier by its brevity and the promise of hot mulled wine and good friends inside. I can appreciate that simple, visceral experience of coming in out of the cold, entering a warm home with the soft glow of expectant hugs, the ripping off of cold socks, the wrapping 'round of a well-worn blanket.  I love that slow, subsiding ache as the cold, inch by inch, leaves my fingers.  And I love to hear the hoot and howl of wind as it begs to enter every nook and cranny and every nook and cranny politely says, "no."

The cold is an evil, hateful thing if you're alone.  And I imagine the extra hours of darkness and the bite of ice are made more miserable without the company of dear souls.  So while I ache for Home (and the aching is that much deeper when you have no immediate plan to return), I am grateful for warm spiced wine, specifically perfect hugs, rosy-cheeked laughter, fellow snow angel makers, and the myriad opportunities to make the most of the frozen part of God's creation.

Dear 2010,

There are years that seem rather amazing in how much change they wreak on a body. The change is continual, with a million whiplash-inducing surprises (pleasant and otherwise) keeping me on my toes.  Years that become watersheds.  2002 and 2003 were like that for me, the pre- and post- Peace Corps bookends of my life.  2005 was like that, the pre- and post- Hurricane Katrina year.  And 2007 was like that, the year I graduated from law school, left my favorite city in the world, moved somewhere that allows one to walk on water in wintertime, started running, started to lose those 80 pounds. 

The years since the move have been momentous in quieter ways, more of a building-up and breaking-down in intimate increments.  All that falling-in and falling-out of love business in 2009-2010 was enough to exhaust me, but good in its way.  And the marathons, the half-marathons, and travels, and new friends were enough to make the crappier bits of this year passable.

2010 wasn't stellar, but it was a solid showing, full of highlights (Barcelona, running a half-marathon with my kid sister, celebrating my 30th birthday with my best best best friend by my side, other smaller, slower moments involving walks to my car in the rain, fireworks, first kisses, groovy bands that left me sweating and disgusting from hours of dancing, perfecting the art of the gingerbread cookie, singing at my Grandmother's piano).  It wasn't a watershed year in and of itself, not a year that I will look back on as particularly remarkable, but it's a year that feels like a beginning of very good, very blessed things.  And those are years worth loving, too.

Thank you, 2010, for being a happy, instructive chunk of experience. Thank you for new friends and new lessons, and the healing of wounds. Thank you for the optimism you've inspired and the miraculous community of family and friends that you've blessed me with to see me on to next year's adventures.  Thank you for providing me, even on the cloudiest days, with endless justification for happiness and hope.

Love,
R

My Taste Buds' Interpretation of Heaven

I truly believe the best elements of cooking, the tried-and-true, home-tastes-like-THIS, type recipes are the ones fashioned by a combination of love and meager means.  Home-cooking is not five-star restaurant cooking.  It's a culmination of accidents, family folklore, and not-great-but-not-awful dishes that simply bookend years of childhood.  For instance, my Mom went through a phase when we lived in Arkansas of really loving, and pushing, the Taco Salad with Catalina Dressing.  There were kidney beans involved. Cheap shredded cheddar. Iceberg lettuce. Tortilla chips.  When I think of elementary school, Catalina dressing is never far from my thoughts.

My family never made bread pudding.  But it's the sort of dish born of some quiet moment by a fire years ago that I think must be not unlike the catalina-dressing-taco-salad creation of my younger years. Mind you, bread pudding has evolved into one of the more treasured of Southern gustatory endeavors.  The Catalina-Taco-Salad has not quite caught on with that level of enthusiasm. But I bet the first women to dream up bread pudding were not unlike my Mom.  Good, busy, thoughtful Moms who found something pretty yummy that worked, something simple that incorporated what was in the cupboard and didn't require a trip to the grocery store, or the market, or the fields. And it was dirt cheap.

Stale bread, milk, eggs, sugar.  There are only four ingredients to the simplest of bread puddings.  And like other brilliant food combinations (tomato+cheese, banana+peanut butter,  chocolate+anything), its simplicity is what makes it great.  Other genius Southern fare arose out of similar circumstances, gumbo, for instance, is nothing but leftover pig mixed with perfect spices, rice, beans, okra, and the most powerful of Gulf resources, the Shrimp.  It's a dish born of what was handy and what could be caught or grown oneself. Bread pudding, likewise, was a child of necessity, born of a mother's desire to serve something special and sweet without the pocketbook to afford the extra flour a cake would require.

Despite all the ills associated with carbohydrates and fats and calories (and I have suffered my own share of battles in that minefield), I have never believed that food, truly good food, was an evil.  It's a gift and a blessing, a provision of manna in the wilderness. The best of foods don't come out of factory concoctions and field testing.  The best comes from love and making-do and the passing on of secrets and the greasing of Grandmother's best cookie sheet, Mama's rolling pin. The best of foods never mean harm, only love and sustenance, only a small slice of shelter on the days the world seems bent on cruelty.  I do not believe it is wrong for food to be a comfort. In fact, in all of the worst days in history, I am positive joy was shared, peace delivered, love communicated, at a million tables around the world.  There was, and always will be, bread, and sugar, and eggs, and milk. So even on the worst days, the meager days (literal or metaphorical), Heaven waves hello from the tongue.

The NOEL was in the Cupboard

I do not remember a Christmas without the ceramic NOEL. Four greenish, redish ceramic letter candleholders that would grace my Grandmother's piano in Mullins, South Carolina and now hold court on top of the wood cabinet beside her refrigerator in Columbia. 

They aren't an exciting piece of Christmas decoration.  My Grandmother and my parents each own much more impressive nuggets of frivolity to ring in the season.  But these letters are a small sliver of family experience that remains important.  They've been in the family for over 50 years, having been a gift from a family friend who used to babysit my dad when he was a toddler. They're simple and unremarkable, but it's hard to picture Christmas without the NOEL.  Or the LEON.  Or the ELON. Or the NOLE. Or, my personal favorite, the LONE.

Rearranging the letters was just something everybody did.  You did it preferably when Grandmother's back was turned.  Maybe she was digging in the pantry for the cookie tin of fudge.  Maybe she was adding pepper to the chicken bog.  Maybe she was sitting in the living room, crossword puzzle in hand.  But if you walked by the letters and they happen to be spelling their intended word, well, somebody needed to rectify that.

My dad poked around online and found out that these dear letters are not, in fact, a novelty.  They are everywhere.  So we are clearly not the only family with this tradition and I like to wonder how many other kids grew up rearranging the ceramics to Grandma's chagrin.  My dad bought a set for each of us kids and he gave me mine last year.  A small gift, but a very important one.

For the life of me, however, I could not remember where I tucked them.  My apartment is very small, so there really are few places where anything of a decent size could be lost.  Under the bed? Nope. In the closet? Nope. Forgotten rung of a bookshelf? Nope. The infamous drawer-that-shall-not-be-opened? Nope.

I was rather heartbroken by the loss and had even begun to search online for a replacement. (Note: For those of you who want one of these, I recommend waiting til after the holidays.  Somebody out there is jacking up prices on these bad boys and I just don't condone black market ceramic peddling)  But, in the midst of a baking escapade yesterday and the pursuit of a long lost wire whisk (never found it), I opened a cupboard that never gets opened as it requires a chair for me to reach.  And there they were, spelling L-O-N-E all on their own.

They're sitting on my window sill now.  And while the broken window blind, cigar box,  and #1 Lawyer mug may surround them with a bit of non-holy non-Christmas reality, I believe they look right at home.

The Garden Level

When I was looking for a new apartment over a year ago, I heard anti-garden level apartment shpiels from everyone.  The level most likely to be robbed.  The level with the least sunlight.  The level most likely to be burdened by backed up sinks, noisy upstairs neighbors, and crappy heating. 

I've never been robbed (and honestly, I think the bars on my windows are kinda pretty).  I get plenty of light.  My sinks have been fine (notsomuch the occassional toilet issue).  My next door neighbors are the noisy ones, courtesy of a boisterous toddler.  And my heating issues were copious until I called my landlord and said, "well, I'm cold. And the heater sounds like a cat stuck in a washing machine." 

I really love my little home. It's ridiculously small, yes.  But I'm only one person and have no need for large amounts of space.  I'm walking distance from my favorite brunch place, my favorite bluegrass place, my favorite coffee place, my favorite lake, my favorite spring roll place, my favorite ice cream place, my favorite place to buy milk and peanut butter, and my favorite place to buy and sell clothes.  In short, I could survive quite happily without ever getting in my car, which is ideal.

And now I've discovered a new benefit to garden level urban living in Minneapolis.  When we get a doozy of a snowstorm, I'm as cozy as can be thanks to the igloo-erific view of snow drifting up my window. 

A ribboned and tinseled silver-stemmed tree Perches on the edge of my 2nd hand desk
And the smell of butter and sugar and sugar and sugar
Warms the kitchen in its Christmas-themed mess

The warmth of my oven can't reach the window
Can't free the ice 'round some neighbor's squealing tire
But it toasts my insides, roasts them from within,
Replaces the snow drifts with a cushion of fire

My first near-blizzard, in my favorite nearly-Home
Builds bricks of winter against iron-graced glass
And as the wind whips it higher, encasing me in white
This sleigh-bells-ring-are-you-listening? oatmeal cookie heat must last.

Lipstick

On my thirtieth birthday I wore red:

red reminiscent of skinned knees

and four-eyed eyelids puckered by November allergies.

A red sweatshirt I wore in the third grade,

A yellow star in the center and rhinestoned clouds weeping rhinestone tears.

Thirty years and a sweatshirt still lingers.  And the smell of dirt beside a Southern jungle gym, red sweatshirt ripped at the shoulder by some ill-timed leap.

Red hair is less red against Red Diva lipliner.

The red I never wear crept into a plastic bag, clutched by my mother as she searched for her own mother's perfect shade.

Only grownups wear red lipstick.

Only daughters search for perfect reds for perfect mothers as they valiantly embrace age from hospital beds.

Not too orangey.

Not the pink-tinted one.

The Revlon with a touch of blood in it, of earth, of grownups and children and warm, Sunday mornings spent in churches without fans.

Reds with a touch of Texas in them, Arkansas, or Minnesota, or Tennessee, a splash of a few months toasting sisters in Times Square or South Korea or all-the-sisters-sound-the-same-on-the-phone

  Reds bought and lost and kept in a million handbags in a million places beside a million men, many of whom never matter at all.

Reds of childhood sweatshirts hanging from monkey bars too far apart, and of Mamaw's lips, soft and loveworn, pretty for the World,

Sticks to the wine glass

And the cup of sweet tea

Both sipped in loved company,

Both moments made perfect by their color.

Finishing Strong

I started off this racing season with a goal of running six half-marathons. I ran seven, and the seventh was, by far, by fastest and most fun. I figured I'd recap this quasi-crazy summer adventure before detailing why this last race was my best.

Minnetonka Half: Gorgeous course, beautiful day, lots of happy spectators, but it was way too early in my training. The race was early May and I'd initially leaned towards Fargo (late May) being my first of the season. I signed up for Minnetonka for a purely emotional reason. Recent breakup, heartbroken, I needed some sort of I-am-woman-hear-me-roar type endeavor to remind myself I was a tough, tough cookie. It served its purpose but man it hurt. Definitely on my list for next year as it's a lovely race, but this time I'll train better.

Fargo Half: My first trip to North Dakota! I ran it with a dear friend, Katrina, and it was an excellent course. We arrived at the start mere seconds before gun time due to traffic and it began to rain as soon as we arrived. Happily, the rain ended by mile 4, and the flat, sunshiney course with tons of awesome spectators made for my fastest half other than the one today.

Minneapolis Half: Miserable. Absolutely miserable. Too hot, too humid, and I walked a sizeable chunk because of some out-of-nowhere hip pain. I think I was partly dehydrated, too. This was the only race that I seriously considered just walking away from midway. The course was fine but it was just not a good running day for me.

Red, White, and Boom Half: This was enjoyable to an extent but largely because it was so retched. It was ludicrous how much rain poured down, by mile 3 my shoes were completely soaked and my festive red, white, and blue blinking light headband had fritzed out and was impossibly tangled in my hair. My ipod also bit the big one that day and just decided it didn't want to work in the rain. But by mile 7 or so I was so wet and everyone around me was so wet that we were just all kinda enjoying it. I started splashing in the puddles on purpose and just gave up any hopes of getting a decent time. My friend, Molly, was there to high five me at the end and it takes a TRUE friend to stand in the rain for that long.

Urban Wildlands Half: Another rainy one but not near as rainy as the July 4th race. It was humid so the rain actually helped cut the air a bit and cool me down. It was a decently paced race for me, which was great, and my parents came to cheer me on at the finish. My friend, Kristen, ran it as her first half so it's always nice to know a fellow crazy soul is slogging through the miles with you.

Salomon Trail Half: My only trail half-marathon and my slowest time. Second only to the Monster Dash for most fun. This race helped me discover that I loooooooove trail running. I ran into a tree at one point and also managed to acquire about 50 stickleburrs at one time (those are fun to pluck off while running). I also pretty severely injured a toe that bled like the dickens, I could feel the blood squishing in my sock, so this was also my most painful race. But I loved running up and down the hills, hiking the tall ones, checking out the gorgeous fall colors. I honestly think I hurt as much after this one as after the full marathon last year. I limped for a few days. My body had never done that amount of hill work and it's just a different leg muscle experience running trail versus road. I will definitely do this one again.

Monster Dash Half: My final race of the year, which I ran with my kid sister, Caroline to fundraise for the Epilepsy Foundation. It was Caroline's first half and despite having knee problems the last several weeks, she was a total trooper! She's younger and smaller than me so her pace is naturally faster but we stayed together the whole time and I think my slowing us down a bit probably saved her a bit of pain. We finished just shy of a 10:30 pace, which is definitely my fastest, and we had excellent cheering from Mom, Dad, and Caroline's boyfriend throughout the race. We celebrated with omelets the size of our heads and cinnamon rolls at Pannekoeken Huis.

My mom asked Caroline after the race if she would be "hooked" on races now. Caroline smiled and shrugged and said, "probably, just like Rachel." It is a feeling you can't describe to non-racers. There really is nothing like the feeling just beyond a finish line. Even if you're not fast, even if the race hurts, crossing that line makes for a good day. Because life throws us all sorts of impossible situations that never seem to really end. There are struggles that ebb and flow and weave and sleep and reawaken. But a race is a finite, powerful thing. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. And getting through each mile is a minor victory, leading up to that moment of completion. It's a strong reminder of how deft the human body is at recognizing a challenge and rising to meet it. And on the days the world feels hard, it's a nice memory to return to, cling to maybe, as proof that what feels unlikely, even impossible, sometimes only requires one more mile.

Other Sets of Feet

I have never been one to run with other people. Running for me is primarily a solo event. I race against myself, disappoint myself, encourage myself, and high five myself for a job well done. I could say that this is indicative of my independent nature and I'm sure there is some truth to that assessment. But my solitary adventures can also be credited to that quiet voice I still hear occassionally that whispers, "you are not a runner." Other people are runners. Other people are athletic. Other people are fast. Other people are thin. Other people are graceful. Other people look better in lycra.

I went running tonight with my friend, Kristen. Kristen is lovely. She's taller than me, thinner than me, with cascades of curly brunette hair, and painfully pretty skin. She's just the sort of woman who manages to exude grace while wearing a tshirt, which I find rather amazing. I feel like a freckled, clumsy mess next to this sweet ladyfriend.

Not to mention she is, indisputably, faster than me.

But I thoroughly enjoyed my first run with a fellow human. We talked about work, about stresses, about church, about running, about the weather. And we stopped midway for ice cream at Sebastien Joe's. We sweated a bit, but not much given my slowness and the beauty of a fallish day.

I like being proven wrong (within reason). While I do still hear that voice, teasing my assumption that I am now A Runner (one marathon and six half-marathons should be fair proof), I am getting better at ignoring its implications. I am not fast. And I'm not particularly graceful. I can't imagine that lycra will ever be my fabric of choice. But I am one of those other people. And running with those other runners, the ones that are faster and thinner and stronger than me, only reminds me of how far away from being beside them I was a couple years ago. And regardless of my speed or ability (or lack thereof), there is a communion of pavement pounding that everyone who does it understands. It doesn't take a 7 minute mile to recognize and appreciate the feel of legs and street and arms and hips and ankles and sidewalk cracks.

I'm a runner, are you?

Yes, I'm a runner, too.

For God's Sake

I spent last week in Barcelona with my family. On the flight home I thought about what I should write about, what was worth posting, worth trying to describe. It was a precious, happy time with my family, especially given how rarely the five of us are together. But the subject of this post is not my family, but rather a crazy, commanding structure that I explored with my family not long after we arrived.

The Sagrada Familia resembles a cathedral that has been microwaved (desciptor borrowed from a friend). Its rust-colored spires seem almost collapsed, like long balloons slowly deflating. A somewhat depressing description, but it's impossible to articulate it properly. Having seen Notre Dame de Paris and St. Paul's in London and various other cathedrals scattered around Europe, a glance at Sagrada Familia is rather violent. It is so different as to be somewhat otherworldly. And I suppose that is the point.


Gaudi (Sagrada's architect) was heavily influenced by nature and that's evident in the structure. Comparatively, Notre Dame de Paris feels un-natural, not-of-the-earth, elements that aid the feeling of transcendence anyone would experience walking through its nave. The light shines through Notre Dame and it feels like God himself is wrapping his fingers around the buttresses, lifting them heavenward.


Sagrada is different. There is transcendence to be sure. But it is rooted in Creation and crowned with Christ's story, told in the facades wrapping the exterior of the building. The interior columns' design was inspired by trees and Gaudi desired a vision of treetops, a celestial forest, within the walls of the church. The light shines in very specifically, as Gaudi felt that too much or too little light disturbed the spiritual experience. You need enough light to feel God's touch, not so much that you are blinded to what He shows you. Even being inside now, so stark and unfinished, the light pouring in seemed perfect and unobtrusive. It was that ideal level of shine and shimmer, with just enough shadow to calm.


Throughout the structure there are elements of Earth. Birds, lizards, turtles, water, leaves, flowers, vines, fruit. The other cathedrals I've visited (and loved) seemed distinctly unworldy, on purpose perhaps given the directive that we be in the world but not of the world. It's a powerful separation with such sacred places, sliding you safely into a place fit for worship, protected from the world's temptations and terrors. But I found the Sagrada's earth-inspired body to be significantly more powerful. To glorify God inspired by the Creation he gave seems so much more tangible and translatable. I can touch a tree, smell a flower, dig my fingers into dirt. I cannot build the Sagrada but I can sit at the foot of some trunk and look heavenward and sigh. The Sagrada, miraculously, creates a space of holiness and reverence while maintaining a connection to the dirt it covers.


Perhaps it moved me more because I love the Earth, too. Value it physically as well as spiritually. I do not take lightly God's order that we are the stewards of this planet, that it is a gift we are meant to treasure and cherish and use. Its resources are our own, but we are not meant to rape those resources with no eye toward the future. Our stewardship is meant to be intelligent. Prosperous but not ignorant of the ramifications of our actions. So a church reaching heavenward with tree-inspired columns, spires resting on carvings of turtles, it simply makes sense to me. We take so much of this planet for granted, assuming its resources are unremarkable or undiminishing. If we treasured those resources, that dirt, that water, that oil, that coal, that salt, those diamonds, those trees, those mountains, that river, those fisheries, with the same love and specificity gifted by the Creator, I imagine our relationship with the earth would be quite different today.


If we walked through the world the way we walk through the corridor of a cathedral, light pouring in and wrapping 'round tree trunks, we would, at the very least, hesitate before lifting the axe.

The Wheels on the Bus

I've recently started taking the bus to work again after spending a good year among the intrepid (crazy?) population who treks from Minneapolis to St. Paul and back every workday. The drive would be passable but for 1) bad weather and 2) construction. As winter and spring take up the first problem and summer and fall take up the second, that really leaves very few days to make the 25 mile roundtrip drive worthwhile. And, to quote a friend who will remain nameless, I'm a "hippie," and reducing my carbon footprint is really just part of my job.

I have two main bus drivers on the route I take, gentlemen of exceedingly different personalities who see me near 6 am on the trek into St. Paul, and 4 pm on the trek home. I don't know their names. The gentleman in the morning always says hello, he smiles and thanks me when I wish him a happy day upon his dropping me off downtown, and he welcomes me back when I miss a morning or two due to travel or oversleeping. He often gives a lift to a fellow driver who's headed home after his shift and they laugh and smile at one another as good friends do. He waves at other drivers on the road. I even saw him blow a kiss to another bus driver, a bubbly-looking woman with her hair in a ribboned ponytail, who we drove past at a light on Nicollet. He smiles the way some people do, the way you know that smiles are their most common facial movement.

The gentleman in the afternoon clearly hates his job. He stares straight ahead, never says hello. He's much younger than my morning driver, and wears sunglasses even on the cloudiest day. Everyday when he drops me off I wish him a good day. I thank him. He has never acknowledged me. But I may have found my "in" for getting an occasional hello from the man...

Evidently if you fall down the steps of his bus and land, hard, on the sidewalk with your farmer's market potatoes rolling out of your "Virginia is for Lovers" bag, he will not just drive away in his sunglassed, mopey world. He will jump down the stairs and exclaim, "Holy shit, lady, are you alright?" I really was fine and potatoes are totally edible when bruised, so it could have been worse. He actually gave me a smile and a "you have a nice day" when I stood up. Public embarrassment inspires kindness, I suppose. I do not plan on making a habit of falling off his bus so hopefully cordiality from here on out will not require injury. I'm all for reducing my carbon footprint but I hadn't factored in bruising as a possible result of that pursuit.

Baseball

There are few things more holy to a summer than a baseball game. I attended my first Twins game recently at the widely heralded (deservedly) brand spanking new Target Field. While I remain firm in my belief, rooted in a childhood dedicated to the Cardinals and their Arkansas farm team, that the National League is far superior to the "fake baseball" attempted by the AL, I can give credit where credit is due for a good game. I attended with a fellow baseball-lover (I should say "fake baseball"-lover since he's a Twins fan but since he provided the tickets, I'll overlook that flaw) and I don't think there's anything better on a sunny afternoon than a mild tshirt-shaped sunburn, good company, and a homerun to cheer for.

I bought a scorecard as soon as we entered and enjoyed relearning all the chickenscratches my Dad taught me as a girl. There's a certain satisfaction from that backwards K (called strikeout) and the filled in black diamond of a homerun. I also like the 6-4-3 of the double play. My favorite position in softball was shortstop, and I liked owning that "6."

On Saturday I'm headed to a Saints game, the minor league team in St. Paul that boasts $5 tickets, burn-your-ass metal bleachers, and a pig mascot that runs around the field at will. It's very different from the major league experience, but honestly, save a Cardinals game in my former hometown, I much prefer the minor league feel. It reminds me more of the first baseball games of growing up, the ones spent at Ray Winderfield Field (only a handful of people will notice that childish mistake), hot dogs and mosquitos, crowd cheering for Geronimoooooooo Pennnnnna. Those are the games that spell B-A-S-E-B-A-L-L in my heart. The Saints games remind me of those hot, Arkansas evenings, even if the Minnesota sun is significantly kinder than those Southern scorchers.

I think, too, that a baseball fan is simply more my sort of human than other sports fans. Football can be fun to watch, and I admit to getting jazzed for New Orleans this past February. But my affection for football is fleeting, and only emotionally tied to the handful of my kid brother's games I caught while he was in high school. I've never cared about basketball (an apathy born of one miserable season spent "playing" basketball in middle school when I would sob for an hour before practice because I loathed it so much).

Baseball. Now that is a sport worth loving. A slow one at times, to be sure, steeped in decades and decades of history, generations of rivalries, old wounds, underdogs, and the smell of dirt and chalk and soft, sweaty leather. Baseball fans are fervent but they're also patient. Football is over in a blink, barely a dozen games to sink your teeth into. Baseball requires weeks, months of dedication. An exhaustion of sweeps and death spirals, records to break, pulled tendons, perfect games, rainouts, games ahead, games behind. I respect that slowness. And I respect the fan that settles in for the long haul in April, the promise of sun and a homerun peeking through springtime's clouds.

Mid-July is prime baseball season. Squinting against the glare, the near-scream of joy for the nearly-fair nearly-homerun, the smell of bug spray and beer and mustard. It's a specific slice of the year, before the smell of autumn creeps across the grass and forces the acknowledgment of other seasons. I love that slow creep of darkness, when the outfield lights buzz on, love the sugary promise of cotton candy, and the way my ponytail dissolves in a cascade of sweaty strings after I jump up too many times to cheer. I just love it.

Swing away!

Bummer

I suppose everyone has a crappy race now and again. I don't think I've ever finished a race where my time didn't improve, even just a tiny bit. Today my time wasn't even in the ballpark of prior best times, I was nearly one minute off my pace average per mile. But, a list of the things that might have contributed to the blehhhhhhhh-ness:

1. Hills in the second half, several
2. Didn't sleep well the night before
3. Tripped at mile 5, didn't fall, but did something wonky to my right hip
4. Should have worn a tank top instead of a tee
5. Off and on headache for the last few days...allergies? Dunno.

So I suppose I can chalk this morning's lackluster performance up to a series of minor errors and misfortunes that together simply made the race a bit of an annoyance. As always, it was a happy moment to cross the finish, grab my metal, rejoice in the end of another race started and officially completed. But I've recently gotten used to the feeling of that-was-the-best-I've-ever-done after each line crossing. Today was simply not that kind of race. But I checked off another race in my goal of running six half-marathons this summer. And given that the first 3 were in a mere 5 weeks, I should probably add "minor exhaustion" to the list of errors above. Spreading the races out a bit better would have been a good idea. But the rest of the races are better spread, just one a month in July, August, and September. I might toss in a 10K if something cool comes up.

Bummer of a race or not...

3 half-marathons down. 3 to go.

Two Hundred

This is my two hundredth blog posting on The Orange and The Fish. I began this blog as a lark, a way to decompress when the stress of Civil Procedure and Contracts II made me want to walk away from law school and pay off the debt by waiting tables in the Quarter. I would post sporadically the spring of 2005, encouraged by my intrepid little band of friends who read the posts while they were, themselves, ignoring class for sanity's sake. I mused on my new city, which I fell in love with immediately and blindly.

The blog soon found me in Little Rock, posting only to retain some sense of normalcy post-Katrina. I didn't post much that semester, and what I did post were sad little missives detailing how much I missed certain stretches of sidewalk, certain friends, certain taken-for-granted activities that seemed impossible to replicate in a city so battered by water, wind, gunfire.

My writing once I returned to New Orleans was equal parts evaluation of a city trying to rebuild and redeem itself and also a constant tearing apart of my own desire to both stay in New Orleans forever and to leave it behind. New Orleans is still the only city that has felt fully mine, built exclusively for my personality and my happy habit of romanticizing chronic disappointment. On a plane recently, flying back from a visit to my dear, now oily City, I overheard someone say New Orleans would be a hard city to love. Perhaps it's a distinction of personality. I have always loved old, broken things. Ideas in need of repair. Dreams deferred. New Orleans is a city where that propensity for damage exists side by side with breathtaking hope, a fire to continue, always.

Once I made the move North, half my writing was about this odd, cold place and my preference for the heat I ran away from, and the other half was wide-eyed training for my first half-marathon, first marathon. The running made Minneapolis an easier place to love. You make a city yours when you know the cracks in the pavement, the dips in the path around Lake Harriet, the roots around Lake Calhoun that call out for broken ankles. If New Orleans was the city that built a house for my heart, Minneapolis is the city that built my body and taught it to run. Equally important tasks, I believe.

The blogging comes in spurts. I blogged pretty routinely while training for the marathon, in part because it helped me articulate my frustrations and joys, and in part because I hoped my then-boyfriend would read the posts and recognize that my head was preoccupied by a worthy exercise. I haven't written as much this running season as it feels more familiar and there's less to articulate in the way of new experiences. I've had blood blisters before. Achey quads. Angry, rainy runs. But, more importantly, last summer I was in a relationship and shared much of those frustrations with him. I whined and had someone to whine to, someone to buy me a burger after a long run. This summer is different and the running feels more mine, more solidly part of my whole life, not just some season of experience that will disappear with a new face or new commitment or new stress. I talk about it less, maybe, because I am no longer surprised or daunted by the goals I set for myself. I am less in need of someone to tell me "you can do it!" because I now know I can. I needed that encouragement for awhile, but it's good to no longer be dependent on the whims of another's support.

And so, two hundred. Five years.

On my most recent trip to New Orleans I got a new tattoo (sorry, Dad), one I've been daydreaming about for months. It says, "ISAIAH 40:31" on my left foot. Its promise of renewed strength carried me through the latter half of the marathon, and after the miles I dedicated to these feet, I wanted a record of that promise. Two hundred. Five years. A Hurricane. A law degree. Two cities. And I have no doubt that the best parts of my life are in front me. "But those who Hope in the Lord..."

Kickin' Butt

I ran the Get in Gear 10K on Saturday in some pretty miserable weather. Mid 50s, unending rain, breezy, no hint of sunshine. To make the experience even worse, I discovered 9to my horror) while lining up at the start that I had failed to charge my iPod. I am not a runner in silence, I need my music. So the prospect of a miserably rainy, musicless 10K was daunting and annoying. But evidently, that's when I run my best...

Most runs over 5K (and less than 10 miles) my pace is roughly 10:30-10:45 min/mile. But on Saturday I ran a 10K (6.2 miles) at a 10:11 min/mile pace, a vast improvement over earlier runs. I think the rain kept me cool and the annoyance factor made me fairly desperate to get the race over. I rarely pick up speed near the end but my last mile was a less than 10 min average. I just remember wanting to finish, get back to my car, strip off the soggy shirts and throw on the warm fleece I'd stashed in my backseat. In my mind this fleece was newly out of the dryer and steaming hot, which was not what awaited me in the car. But daydreams get you fairly far in races.

I remember being 14 and running the requisite one-miler for phys ed. I was miserable and struggled to make a 14 minute mile. To have run 6.2 miles at a far faster pace makes one fact very clear to me: My 29 year-old self kicks my 14 year-old self's butt.

So, despite the rain, that's an excellent day.

This is My Station

I spent yesterday afternoon and this morning driving to and from Grand Rapids, Minnesota thanks to a public hearing requiring my attendance. I've only been to a few public hearings but each one has led me somewhere new, which I appreciate.

The drive to Grand Rapids, birthplace of Judy Garland, is easy from the Cities, at least once you make it out of the endless stoplights and fits and starts of general suburban sprawl. Past Rogers you can actually get a bit of speed, leave traffic lights behind, coast with open fields on either side. The weather was perfect, cloudless and bright blue, with enough sun to make the whole world cheerful but not enough to make me miss the sunglasses I forgot at home.

Some people are adverse to lengthy bouts in the car, especially when driving alone. But I have always favored a good, long solo road trip. Part of it is genetic (or some hybrid nature/nurture thing) as my Dad is of the particular genre of human that enjoys waking the family for a 4a.m. departure for every trip to Disneyworld, South Carolina, Tennessee, Arkansas, D.C., myriad fishing trips, etc. He's a drive-straight-through kind of guy, never balking at the prospect of 14 hour days in the car. I can't say my affinity for road trips is as strong as his, but there is a bit of him in my love of a long stretch of road. I think of him whenever I'm looking for a gas station, and his constant refrain of "never exit unless you can actually SEE the gas station from the highway, you don't want to pull off and then see the sign that points you 3 miles to the left." Good advice.

Usually I have music playing the whole time I drive but yesterday I was sick of my CDs and in radio no man's land so for awhile I road in almost silence, just the sound of a bumpy highway and the (I hope) normal squeaks and occassional hums and rattles of an aging car. That kind of quiet can be oppressive, especially when your brain has been on autopilot for several weeks. But the quiet was good for me, solemn and solid and sunshiney.

April 2010 will not go down in history as the best month of my life. Even March left a lot to be desired. It's common, of course, to have hiccups along the way, frustrations or disappointments or little heartaches. But it's uncommonly exhausting to fight a thousand minor battles at one time. Those periods of defensiveness make every day feel like a maze, some puzzle to be worked out and completed with a reward at the end of hot tea, pillow, and a book. Nothing is simple, and all the completely right (with no regrets) decisions I make still hurt.

But a drive is such a simple, perfect thing. There is a starting point and a destination. There is refueling, some stops along the way to look at interesting things (pretty lakes), but in the end there is only a straight line from A to B. An arrival feels like some sort of success, even if it's later than originally hoped, and a car is a solid companion that carries you forward without asking where the road will end.

On the drive back this morning I saw a gas station, closed by the looks of it, with the name, "This is My Station." I don't know how I missed it on the drive North. It was large and red with white pumps and there may have been some boards against a few windows. I loved that loud, brave, obnoxious sign. This is my station. This is simply where I am and what I do right now. This where I belong or where I'm stuck. This is it, for now. This is where you'll find me. This is how far I've come and how far I have yet to go. This is all of it, rolled up into this small, hardy place.

I know the shop was closed and I guess I could write something about that metaphor, too, but I like to think the owner moved on for some greater station, some better location, some sweeter place beyond that one he fashioned along Highway 169. Perhaps it was a product of recession bruises, or perhaps it was a result of new dreams and opportunities, or maybe it was a combination of the two. Regardless, I liked that at some point he/she stated, for what it was worth, exactly where they were and what they were.

In the middle of the puzzle that is my Spring 2010, it's a visual I needed on my trip home. Despite the many minor and not-so-minor heartaches and worries and prayers and hopes of this season, I do know where I am. I know whose road I am on. This is my station, and that is no small thing.

Training

I ran ten miles this morning, the first time since October I've hit a double digit. Usually I run the Greenway to the Lakes and then do laps til I've hit the mileage. But today I just decided to keep running along the Greenway to see how far five miles (and then return) would take me. I'm happy I did.

I have loved trains all my life. And if I'm being honest, I'm sure part of my somewhat misguided affection for Atlas Shrugged (sacrilege for a liberal?) is wrapped up in Dagney Taggart's profession. Trains have factored into my days in intermittent ways. In New Orleans I was often late for various social excursions thanks to being stuck counting railcars. New Orleans' favorite methods for making me late were slow-moving trains and slower-moving parades. The number of times I asked a friend on the phone, while stuck in traffic to allow the passage of a parade, "is today a holiday? Another parade...", cannot be counted on my fingers and toes. I miss those parades. But I miss the trains more, and the terrifying Huey Long Bridge, with its tressle defying gravity. Humans are amazing. The things they build...

The Greenway near me pounds out in spurts beside train tracks. And about 4 miles down the way I pass under a small bridge of tracks, my favorite thing. A string of spray-painted cars were lined up on one set of tracks and I spent a good mile daydreaming about tucking away between a couple cars, riding South.

The ten miles hurt, the way I would expect it to after months away from serious mileage. But running beside train tracks makes for a happier pounding, a reminder that the slow-moving conduit still gets from point A to point B. Slow and steady, mile after mile after mile.

I am a train. I am training.

Spring

As we're comfortably established in April, without a speck of snow throughout March, I think most Minnesotans feel secure in welcoming Spring. Colors other than brown, more brown, and a little more brown, are finally starting to emerge (though we could use a bit more rain to speed that along), and sunshiney days aren't as few and far between.

Spring, for me, means it's time to relace the running shoes and get going. This time last year I was gearing up for my very first half-marathon. It's hard for me to believe I accomplished even that one goal, much less the big beast of a hurdle in the full Marathon last October. It's hard to believe largely because they feel like eons ago, and my legs have gotten a bit lazy with their elliptical gym time and leisurely treadmilling.

As is usually the case with me when revving up for a goal or a challenge, I blast out of the gate too early. I pick up too much speed in new-found joy or freedom or ability or affection and then mid-run I start to wonder if my legs are going to fall off before or after my heart explodes. In true form, I signed up for a May 2 Half-Marathon. That is three weekends from now. And I'm thinking that is bordering on impossible. I haven't run further than 6 miles since October. I could, maybe (helpful if I was being chased), run 8 or 9 miles without actually dying. But 13.1 seems very large to me.

I've decided that the money is spent ($60) and nonrefundable. The date is set and unchangeable. All I can really do is try my best to get nearly there, and when I wake up on the 2nd I will just decide whether or not it's a racing day. Nobody but me will be disappointed if I don't race on that particular day. And I'm already signed up for four other half-marathons so far, with two more in the wings. (And a possible marathon??)

After beating myself up a bit over my a-bit-too-optimistic goal-setting habit, I just got rather tired of beating myself up about it. I'm not sure if that's complacency or maturity talking, perhaps a hybrid of the two. I know that shooting too fast or too far leads often to disappointment but I've gotten good at scaring my way into success by forcing a too-big or too-soon goal upon myself. Fear is a lovely motivator. And with a race looming, my feet just fall a little more deliberately.