Holiday

A mere 8 days after returning from my own trip abroad, I had the good fortune of reliving a shadow of my trip to Milan while watching the Guthrie’s production of Roman Holiday. While I can’t say that my trip included a lot of spontaneous musical numbers, I definitely appreciated the hustle and bustle of Italian street life, the penchant for good gelato, and the afternoon sips of wine (champagne in Holiday’s case) mirrored in the Cole Porter show.

The voices of all the actors were perfect and while the Joe Bradley character was a bit more selfish than I recall of Gregory Peck, the transformation from self-serving newsman to heartstring-tugged gentleman was touching and believable, a not-easy task (in my mind) when faced with the pace of the dialogue and the more saccharine of Porter’s songs.

Porter, of course, was a genius. He summated seemingly complicated emotions into the black and white (the Night and Day, as it were) of “I want to be with you, only you, forever” and gave it a lilt with a turn of phrase that kept the romance of that complication. All the tumbling, fussy emotions of new attachment were always tied up into lyrics that captured exactly the intensity of that messy, exhilarating feeling (without tripping over themselves the way we bloggers tend to do when trying to describe in words what Porter did in melody).  Night and Day has always been one of my favorites of Porter’s, for just that reason.  Because, at its simplest, love is about wanting to experience every inch of the day and night in the company of another, specific soul; finding someone to share the adventures and the disasters in equal part.

The story ends, of course, with a bittersweet tone.  No forever-type commitment.  No “I love you”s exchanged.  A final glance, a “thank you” for an adventure well-spent, and the continuation of separate lives.  As relationship endings go, however, that has to be one of the best. And despite the inability of these two lovers to fit snugly into one another’s lives, the audience does get the sense that each has been effectively shaken and inspired enough to demand some flavor of that adventure in future loves. And I think most people can relate to that moment of realization that love doesn’t work without being buddies. And gelato and trips to Rome help, too.

The Attempt

A few days following my return from Geneva, I ran Grandma's Marathon in Duluth, Minnesota.  Ever since I ran the Twin Cities Marathon for the first time in 2009, I've wanted to try my hand at Grandma's as I'd heard it was a tougher course, but stunningly beautiful.

The course curves around Lake Superior between Two Harbors and Duluth, which makes for a pretty breathtaking first 15 miles.  After that, honestly, it's kind of a blur, but by then I was running through residential areas and eventually downtown Duluth, so the "breathtaking" element was probably substantially reduced.

This was not my greatest race, by a long shot.  Throughout my training I'd been pacing to beat my previous times (5:17 and 5:19 for 2009 and 2011, respectively).  I was shooting for anything below 5:15, hoping for something sub-5:10 (my goal is to eventually run a sub-5:00 marathon) and barely eeked out a sub-5:40 race. 5:36 hurts a bit, to be honest. I'm almost embarrassed.  Almost.

I was working with a couple of variables I hadn't dealt with before, sleeping in a dorm the night before, and, most glaringly, a 2 week trip to Geneva that landed me back in the States 4 days prior to the race.  That meant my training was not only thrown off but, more importantly at that point, my nutrition/hydration.  By the last two weeks before a race I've done all of the important training runs.  I'm not building mileage anymore, I'm tapering away from it to give my body time to rest after weeks of abuse.  But for me, those two weeks are crucial simply for getting my head/body in a state of (what feels like) tip top shape.  I sleep a lot more. I don't drink alcohol. I nurse a bottle of water all day. I load up on fruits and veggies and protein. And I keep my carbs at a low-ish level until a week before the race and then I start to ramp them up each day.  I'm deliberate about my diet, obsessive maybe.

That obsession, however, did not stand a chance when faced with evening business dinners and white martinis, rich sauces, chocolate croissants, and restaurants that charged more for water than for a glass of wine. It was definitely a gustatory playground that I thoroughly enjoyed, but I also knew I'd pay for that revelry.  And I did pay, from miles 17-26.2.

Geneva, however, was worth one bad race.  Grandma's was my third marathon and even before I started it I knew she wouldn't be my last.  I knew there were other races I had my eye on (New York, Marine Corps, Big Sur, Chicago, that-one-in-France-with-wine-at-every-mile). So a dismal showing this past weekend doesn't feel like failure, just a learning experience along the way. I enjoyed the first 15 miles, enjoyed spending time with my favorite cheerleader (my Marmee), and enjoyed the freedom of celebrating 26.2 miles with several beers, a burger, AND a corndog, at a concert later that day.

The more I run, the more I appreciate how it makes me feel.  I appreciate the effort, despite the frequent disappointments and frustrations with my slow little legs.  I appreciate the ache after a task attempted, even if that task didn't quite succeed as I had hoped.

There will be other races.

Wandering

I ventured to Milan for all of 30 hours over a weekend while in Geneva for work.  It's the type of thing, the venturing, that I always imagined I would do if given the opportunity, but aside from solo trips to Marrakech while in the Peace Corps, I have never traveled alone abroad.

I was nervous at first, but not excruciatingly so.  I bought my train ticket from Geneva to Milan days before the trip and picked up the ticket at the train station the evening before. There were a couple hiccups (you need your passport to pick up a train ticket? If I bat my eyelashes can I squeak by with a driver's license?) before leaving the station (I read French fairly well and I still can't figure out what the hell the ticket says about my train car and how that corresponds to the actual platform).  But I was snug in my seat with a sandwich and an old, oft-forgotten journal with ten minutes to spare.

The journey from Geneva to Milan is stunning.  You wrap around Lake Geneva, curving through Lausanne, rumbling past smaller towns and green fields with snow-capped mountains in the distance. I jotted nothing in my journal, there was too much to see to waste time trying to document it.  That feeling doesn't often strike me, that writing of something beautiful is meaningless with the beauty right there, but sitting next to a window with an almost-too-bright sun glancing off the waters, I had no desire to put my eyes to paper.

In Italy they speak Italian, which is, were you aware?, a completely different language.  It's funny how the brain works.  While in Geneva, I could function pretty well with my clumsy, dusty French.  In Italy, where I spoke nothing, my brain seemed to revert back to the last time I felt wholly overwhelmed by a foreign tongue: Morocco.  On more than one occasion, when needing to ask for directions or asking for help, the first words in my brain were Arabic, not French.  It's as if my brain recognized that feeling of linguistic helplessness and just reached for the words that last accompanied that anxiety.  French, not Arabic, came in handy a few times, but for the most part I spent the weekend pointing at things when I wanted them, smiling stupidly when people asked me questions, and simply not speaking to pretty much anyone.

I wandered around Milan for hours.  I got lost multiple times.  I'm not an excellent map-reader (as any friend who has watched me get lost after examining a map at the mall can attest). I can usually figure things out but not in a hurry.  This worked out alright as I was all alone, nobody to guide or frustrate as I fumbled with which direction might be North. I could stare at that map for half an hour and there was nobody around to care.  While that did take the pressure off, I'm not the most patient of people so if I couldn't figure it out quickly I tended to just start walking with the assumption that maybe I'd figure it out better if I was in a different spot (don't ask me how that logic works).

Mild frustrations while being lost in the park near Castello Sforenzco notwithstanding, the wandering was the best part.  Better than the gelato, better than the spires of the Duomo, better than the beep and whiz of motor scooters. I am not an introvert by any standard.  I thrive on people and being near them, talking to them, making them laugh, telling stories, hearing stories, exploring the insides of other's ideas, offering my own.  But that extroversion leaves room, and need, for time spent wholly wrapped within my own head, digesting my own environment and not deciphering how it fits into this or that relationship.  I make time for that often but it's rare that I have two straight days of wandering where I please, not only physically, but mentally, too. To be alone in a place full of inspirations, and to have the luxury of absorbing it in whatever way I saw fit, was a blessing beyond the immediate photo opportunity.

On the way back to Geneva I had an hour or so to kill at the Milan train station.  I tucked myself away on a bench and sipped an orange juice while watching the trains roll in and out.  I love orange juice, the fresh, pulpy kind, and that was the variety I held in my hand.  Trains, one of my favorite things on the planet, surrounded me, their engines muffling the sound of dashing high heels, crying babies, the roll of luggage wheels. It struck me that I was nestled in a moment full of many favorites, simple favorites, trains, orange juice, wandering, sitting still, watching.

It wasn't a moment I could take a picture of, not really, nor properly document with a poem or pretty paragraph.  It was just a simple, noisy blessing that felt built for me, crafted by God for my singular attention. I realized that God was the only one who fully (completely, utterly, everything-y) grasped how that moment felt for me, how the exterior (the trains, the juice, the map reading, the blisters of feet that don't want to stop walking, the mild humidity) and the interior (the peace, the calm, the pleasant ache of being alone and not lonely) wrapped around each other and formed a perfect nest of Happy. So I thanked Him for that, knowing He would be the only one who'd every recognize where the gratitude came from and the only one to whom such gratitude was owed.

Grammatical Nightmare

Hyperbole and a Half is one of my favorite blogs.  And this post in particular made my day.

I have a BA in English and a JD.  I understand that this combination of degrees requires a level of grammatical obsession that others would deem unnecessary (perhaps anal). But, degrees aside, I believe there is merit in communicating well and everyone should be concerned by the half-hearted attention to grammar bred by text messaging, emails, and facebook status messages.

Honestly, I can stomach the use of "u" instead of "you," in the context of informal messaging.  I can even stomach a their/they're/there error as I can give the writer the benefit of the doubt that they were 1) sleep-deprived 2) suffering from low blood sugar and 3) in the middle of a fistfight (yes, all three are required).

But I cannot handle the "alot" error.  I just can't do it.  There is no way to justify its usage. It isn't an accident. It's a linguistic bloodbath. I consider myself a kind person, generous in many ways.  But the "alot" mistake removes every ounce of said generosity and replaces it with a mixture of The White Witch and Voldemort.

So I appreciate Hyberbole and a Half's take on  how to address this issue in a way that may allow me to nix the patronizing, steam-out-of-the-ears reaction to "alot" and instead live complacently in a world full of grammatical nightmares.

My Music Friend

I've never really had a music friend before.  I've had friends who shared a mutual affection (read: obsession in the case of U2 and my bestie, Megan) for a band or singer.  And I've gone to concerts with boyfriends or boys-who-are-friends and had a few too many beers lounging on grassy lawns listening to who-knows-who do a sound check. I've managed to drag a host of people to Dulono's for bluegrass and a few actually agree to be dragged again.

But I've never had a buddy who loved pretty much everything I love about music.  Kim is the first. Now, we diverge in some ways.  Kim has not yet been schooled on the awesomeness that exists in much of country music, her experience having been tainted by some too-poppy quasi-country hacks. But she respects Tammy Wynette so she can't be a total lost cause.

And my tastes can run a bit more mellow than Kim's on occasion.  I can spend a good month of my life dedicated to the National and emerge without feeling too suicidal, and I think maybe that would drive Kim to madness.

But my best music memories in the Twin Cities have been with Kim, slightly divergent tastes notwithstanding.  The important aspect of our balance is that we both, quite simply, want to be THERE. The radio is nice, CDs are nice, iPods are nice.  But whenever possible, whenever tickets aren't exorbitantly expensive (and sometimes when they are), whenever we can justify a week night outing that will result in a painful weekday morning, we want to be there.

We joked last night that we're rather doomed by the weather.  Every show we've seen has been cursed by some facet of awfulness in that regard.  The first show we saw together, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, was one of the more disgusting concert experiences of my life.  It had to have been 95, 80% humidity, and the venue was packed.  We squeezed as close as we could to the front (Kim is a squeezer, moreso than I, but her habit has rubbed off on me and now I want to shimmy as close as I can to the stage).  The smell of pot and patchouli was enough to make the beers we were drinking somewhat superfluous, but drinking water would have been lame. I was wearing a short skirt and a thin tshirt and within 20 minutes both were soaked with sweat. All we did was dance, laugh, and comment on how amazingly unattractive we'd both become.  At the end of the set, when everyone was drunk and soaked in sweat, the lead singer, Alexander, had the brilliant idea that we should all sit down. This was not a soft, grassy field.  This was a beat-up, needed-to-be-repaved-30-years-ago lot full of bodies too bunched together for what would become a sit down.  But slowly everyone maneuvered.  I was standing next to some kid in his early 20s who was clearly enjoying some sort of herbal experience and he patted his knee and said, "don't worry, just sit on my lap."  So I half-sat on an infant's lap and half-sat on pavement that left tiny pieces of concrete on my thigh when I stood up.  By the time Kim and I wandered back to her car, we were exhausted, danced out, and in desperate need of a showers.  And I have never enjoyed a show so much.

We've seen other bands, too, many in equally hot and steamy environments (considering how rarely it gets like that up here it does seem odd that Kim and I manage to pick the concerts that boil), and some in the rain (Rock the Garden 2011), and some in both (Bastille Day block party). Sometimes the bands have been amazing, sometimes they've been okay, sometimes there have been surprises (I had no idea HarMar Superstar resembled Homer Simpson).  But what I love about Kim is that she's up for all of it, all of the imperfection of live performance, coupled with the excitement of hearing voices you love sing songs you love.

And I think mutual musical affection is a key connecting point for me, perhaps moreso as I get older.  There are seasons of your life that feel impossible to describe.  But if I tell Kim I have been listening to Bon Iver nonstop for a month, I know, in some small but not insignificant way, that she knows what the month feels like for me, what comfort I require, what music makes the days a bit more palatable.  And vice versa.  There's a communication possible in music choice and attachment that transcends "how was your day?" and gives a fuller picture of the answer than "it was okay."

I know, on her bad days, Kim needs to hear something with a beat worth dancing to, even if she isn't up to it.  And she needs music you can eat soup to, with her pup in her lap, that makes the stress feel less insurmountable and the question marks of everyday life a little less daunting.  And Kim knows that on my bad days, I just need some The National playing in the background, and I need a text message reminding me that David Bowie exists.

Dead Last

Yesterday I ran the Trail Mix 25K (15.5 miles), a race I ran the year before and loved (somewhat).  The weather last year was abysmal, incredibly muddy with a heavy snow the entire length of the race (3+ hours for me).  By the time I got back to my car last year, I had to blow on my hands for several minutes just to be able to safely grip the steering wheel.  I wondered, briefly, what frostbite might feel like.

This year the weather was infinitely better.  It was overcast and somewhat chilly to start but after an hour I'd removed my long sleeve tshirt and was comfortably running in a tank top and windbreaker.  No mud to speak of this time, so the towel I'd thrown in my car just in case I was a mud-caked mess went to no use.

This race felt a little different for another reason, too.  The day before the race I went to the race website to get directions, race start time, etc., and just happened to click on the link providing last year's finish times.  It was the first time I'd ever seen my name printed last. DEAD. LAST. It didn't bother me too much, honestly. I remembered how much fun I'd had and how intense a workout it had been, and it seemed silly to be frustrated at myself a year late.  Plus, I vaguely remembered that I'd signed up for the race a bit on a whim, without having trained up to 15 miles for any recent runs.  But still, I have enough pride to be mildly irked at the thought of coming in last, even if I knew there were those who 1) never showed due to the poor weather and 2) quit after the first lap. Last still doesn't feel awesome, no matter how many ways I manipulate the placement with niceties.

This year I knew a couple of other people running the race and having people to talk to for portions of the trek certainly helped.  But shortly after I began the second lap, my headphones completely died and I started to edge a little ahead of my running companions.

I don't run often without music, but every time I do so (usually due to technical malfunction) I'm amazed at how much better I run.  In ways, the movement is more relaxed as I'm not switching up my tempo due to a new upbeat song. But it can also prove more boring depending on how active an imagination I have at the time.  Luckily, yesterday I had enough mental fodder to keep myself occupied through 7+ more miles of hills and that belated wounded pride faded with each person I passed.

I know that it doesn't matter how fast I am or how many people I beat. I run because it makes me feel healthy and strong; it gives me mental and emotional balance on the days that lack both.  I've never been concerned about my times other than how they compare to my own average or goal speed.  Shaving 17 minutes off last year's time does feel good.  Beating 14 people (after beating nobody last year) feels pretty good, too.  But more than anything, I enjoy beating last year's Me.

Steve

I learned last night that I lost a friend last week.  His name was Steve and he'd been in my bible study for nearly two years.  We'd bonded over both having lived in Louisiana for a spell and swapped hurricane evacuation stories.  He was quiet, reticent even, and did not share much of his life.  But he showed up at 7pm most Tuesdays to share a bit of the Bible and our group prayed for him weekly.

I wish that I could say his death was a complete shock.  I'd feel better about that.  But he'd appeared ill for a long time, a subject I broached once or twice but didn't press as he always claimed to be fine, only tired.  I do not know how Steve died, but I know he'd intended to keep whatever battle he was fighting private and I suppose, even in death, he was successful.

The memorial today was very small.  His family drove from out-of-state, just the four of them, and expected to remember Steve alone.  Steve's mom called a friend from Steve's phone, however, and that friend called me.  So the four of Steve's family were joined by four of Steve's friends, still a quiet group but Steve would have appreciated the symmetry.  We prayed together, said the Lord's prayer, shook hands and gave hugs, told small stories. All what people do at such things.

But what struck me, and what always strikes me at funerals/memorials, is how impossible it is for me to fathom standing in a room like that, with those tears and that heartache, without God.  Steve hadn't told his parents about his bible study.  When his father met me he wondered, tearfully, if that was because Steve worried his parents would disapprove of his being involved in a non-Catholic group.  But his father just said how happy he was to know Steve had been reading the Bible, what a comfort it was to find a Bible in Steve's condo, how any father would just want to know their son was seeking God.

I cannot begin to imagine the loss of a child.  The only thing I can vaguely imagine would be if I lost my brother or my sister, the two people who, even moreso than my parents, understand every intricacy of my past and present.  And I would mirror Steve's dad's words on that point.  It would matter so little to me what roads and missteps and explorations led them to God, as long as I could trust that they got there, that they believed, that they recognized Truth.  The priest at the service today echoed that sentiment, knowing that Steve had begun attending a protestant church, focusing on the steps of Steve's journey (parents who baptized and raised him in the church, a personal exploration of God that led him to study other Christian beliefs) and stating that the joy of that journey is that it sought God. Not Catholicism.  Not Protestantism.  The God of the Bible. The God whose death and resurrection we just celebrated.

And it was not lost on me (nor on anyone in that room, I imagine) that at the time of that Easter celebration, when I was singing of a Wondrous Cross in a wooden pew 3 blocks from where I sit now, Steve was singing, too, next to his heavenly father.

On a Whim

Earlier this week I signed up for Grandma's Marathon.  The race is a famous sort, winding along Lake Superior in Duluth in mid-June (the 16th, to be exact), late enough for a warmish race but North enough (I hope) to avoid sweltering. There have been hot, hot races in the past but my fingers are crossed that this year will be a sunny, mild, humidity-free, high-of-65 kind of day. 

I've always been somewhat wary of June marathons because they require the bulk of training to occur in the fickle spring months, where you could luck out with a bunch of sunshine or be doomed to snow drifts and icy patches through the end of April.  Our weather this winter has been unseasonably warm and snow free, so I'm putting a lot of eggs in the continuingly-warm basket. 

But moreso than the weather, I haven't signed up for Grandma's in the past because when registration occurs, I tend to be in my winter exercise laziness.  Most winters I do make it to the gym often but my intensity wanes a great deal until I'm able to get my butt to a race starting line.  Thus, December-March tend to be fairly lazy months for me running-wise and that's simply not a good foundation for a June 26.2 miles.

This year, however, in part due to the snowlessness and in part due to my own quasi-obsession with gaining zero weight over the holidays (success!) and focusing on getting stronger with weights (scary...mildly successful), I've stayed very healthy and race-ready throughout the winter.  I felt strong enough even to sign up for two half-marathons, the Securian Frozen Half and the Eden Prairie Hypothermic Half, and those two races ended up being my fastest ever.  And signing up for them was purely on a whim! No real training beforehand.  My longest run before the Securian had been a 10K on New Year's Day.  I was simply strong enough to randomly run 13.1 miles, even if it was ill-planned.

More than any other hallmark of my health, I think the "on a whim" nature of those races is what makes me feel good and strong and proud and thankful.  Having been unhealthy for so long (years ago now, I realize), it still amazes me that I am capable of running 13.1 miles.  It amazes me that I signed up for my third full marathon. It amazes me that I poke around websites looking for other races in other places the way I used to poke around websites looking for diet fixes.  It amazes me how powerful and welcome a comfort the road has become.

I feel very lucky to inhabit this little body, with its strong (if slowish) legs, bounce-absorbing knees, and will-never-look-normal-again toenails. 

Today was Day #1 in my Grandma's training.  And I think Day #1 will always be my favorite.

It Upsets Me When It's a Liberal Bias, Too

I don't mind anyone knowing that I vote left of center.  In an ideal world, there'd be some middle ground, some moderate window of political affliation.  Until that happens, I'm a somewhat sheepish Democrat, throwing in the occassional comment that my liberalness is relative to the population I inhabit.  I've been The Commie Hippie to my conservative friends and I'm practically Newt Gingrich to some of my uber-liberal brethren.  The fact that I can float fairly comfortably in both camps speaks to how moderate I actually I am.  I understand both extremes, but see the danger in extreme anything.

I mention my moderate liberalism only because I want to make it clear that I recognize my own bias.  I know which perspective tends to speak clearest and truest to me.  And I do feel that my political leanings (or, rather, my political hopes and ideals) are supported by my faith.  But I do not marry my faith and my politics.  I do not equate them or even heavily commingle them.  I think there's danger there and that is the subject of this post.

I wrote this summer on attending a church whose political commentary offended me.  In that instance, the commentary swung right of center, swung in the direction I tend to vote against.  So I noted that some element of my offense could have been political sensitivity as much as my own general belief that politics should be left outside the sanctuary.  But today a brief comment by the preacher at my neighborhood church swung in the opposite direction and it offended me just as greatly.

We're studying the life of David.  And at some point the pastor mentioned the "least of these" and our Christian duty to provide for them, to love them as Christ loved them.  All good.  Agreed. But then he began to list the antithesis of this perspective, quoting from Ezekial the admonition against "shepherds" (kings) who fatten themselves on the sheep they're meant to guard and protect.  In paraphrasing this passage, the pastor commented, "I don't care about the poor."  There was a soft murmur in the pews.  Not everyone noted it.  It was a fairly quick quote, followed by other Ezekial-based admonitions.  For many, I'm sure it meant nothing.

He was quoting Romney.  It was deliberate and clear.  It was obvious to several of us, I know.  And it infuriated me.  I don't like Romney.  I won't vote for him.  But that quote was ripped so violently out of context and squashed into scripture so easily, I wanted to stand up and leave.  I have no doubt that this preacher's heart is in a good, Godly place.  I have no doubt that his political leanings, in his mind, are supported by Scripture in the best ways he can manage (political parties being inherently flawed, etc.).  But as a pastor, I think it's irresponsible to continue the political habit of taking sound bites and crafting them into individual and/or party ideology.  Not only that, but the greater risk in my mind is that there could have been someone in that audience who was searching for Truth (and I mean GOD Truth, the important kind) who heard that statement and assumed that those who vote for someone like Romney have no place in that congregation, have no place in church, have no place amongst God's children.

It's the exact same line of reasoning some Christians on the other side of the spectrum use against those of us who vote left.  How can we be Christian and vote for a politican/party that allows for abortion? Equating Christianity with Political Agenda, making the latter a prerequisite for the former, is offensive to me. It is 100% wrong. It's not Biblical.  It's not merciful.  It's not gracious.  And it's not Christ-like. Both parties fall short of anything resembling heaven.  Both parties fail.  Miserably.  To assert otherwise is to be blind.

Churches are flawed because they are inhabited by men.  I really love this small, warm, welcoming neighborhood church and I will continue to attend.  I think they are right to point out injustice, to ask "why?" in the face of inequality, and to invest time and effort into the immediate needs of an urban, often marginalized population.  But I refuse to equate my faith with any political expectation of my vote.  And I refuse to support any statement that my vote is indicative of either "good" or "failed" faith.  My vote is an exercise in doing my best to elect those who embody what I count as the most important tenets of God's directive to 1) love Him and 2) love my neighbor. It will always, always be an exercise in disappointment.  But it is a far greater disappointment to me to hear political commentary intermingled with the Word of God.

For Onis

I've had the honor of being loved by three grandfathers in my life, a rare and special gift for which I am very grateful.  My Papaw died when I was 11, my Grandfather when I was 18, and now Onis, technically my step-grandfather, when I am 31. Three very different men, but similar in their capacity to love their families deeply and the Lord moreso.  I want to whine that I did not have enough time with any of them, but I will give thanks instead for the years of my life they did fill and be comforted in the knowledge that I will see them, happily, again.


My Mamaw married Onis when I was 18 and away at college.  I wasn't able to come to the wedding but I saw pictures of the grinning couple, saw Mamaw in her beautiful red dress, and looked forward to knowing this new member of the family.  But the speed of life in college and beyond, not to mention my habit of moving far, far away, kept me from spending much time with Onis.  I knew and loved him peripherally, the way one intrinsically loves a person that brings a loved one joy.  He made Mamaw happy, thus, I loved him.

It wasn't until August of 2005 that he became a grandfather, in the sense I'd come to associate with that word.  In August of that year I was living in New Orleans, attending law school, and I evacuated back home to Arkansas for what felt like the umpteenth time to once again kill a few days while the hurricane threat loomed.  Hurricane Katrina, in my mind, would be no different from every other evacuation.  I'd get a nice, long weekend with my Mamaw, and then I'd lug my little duffle bag back to New Orleans. 

Hurricane Katrina did not turn out the way I'd expected.  The long weekend became five months.  I cannot say they were a happy five months as I was consumed by anxiety over my degree, my friends, and what would be left of my life in New Orleans. Midway through my stay, I drove to New Orleans, best friend and law school roommate, Stephanie, in tow from her own evacuation story.  That trip is both a blur and a hodgepodge of images vividly burned into my skull.  But one of the most powerful memories I have from that trip was returning to my adopted home after hours on the road.  I remember Mamaw being in the kitchen and Onis coming to the door to help me with my bag.  And I remember his smile, that big, loving, nothing-can-ever-go-wrong smile as he said, "there's our girl!" and hugged me, patting my newly permed mess of hair, his hand getting tangled briefly.  Mamaw came in and said he'd been sitting in his chair by the window ever since I'd called from Memphis, intermittently napping and pacing, worrying about the rain, the traffic.

Looking back, I thank God for those five months.  To live with Mamaw and Onis as an adult, to play games with them, to watch TV, to talk early in the morning with Onis as he logged his two mile indoor laps around the living room, to sit at the dining table with a plate of crackers and peanut butter, to listen to him play the harmonica, to hear their prayers before we ate, to unpack their groceries, to kiss them both on the cheek when I went to bed, to love them the way you only learn to do when they sleep in the same house...those were gifts.

The ache of losing him is made easier, or will be made easier, by the memory of those moments, those smiles at the door, and the one thing he said to me over and over again in the five months I lived under his roof.

Almost every morning when I left for class, or sometimes when we were just sitting in the living room, silent, Onis would say to me, "you make yourself at home, honey.  This is your home.  You're home now." 

And now, I can say the same to him.

Snippets of the Thing

Twice this week I sat in a theater and watched a performance that made my mind wander.  It didn't wander  in the eye-rolling, bored way, but in the way I've grown accustomed to in the last several years, catching on snippets of things and fashioning them into never-to-be-written stories. And sometimes, in my less humble moments, I've wondered if that's how writers eventually write.  Is it always snippets of things, snowballing into flesh and action? Or should it be more organized ("more organized" being high on the wish list for every facet of my life and thus, quasi-impossible)?

I saw Cat on a Hot Tin Roof on Wednesday and Julius Caesar tonight, each with a dear friend in tow.  The Williams play set my mind on a leather briefcase, thanks to Gooper's obnoxious legal wrangling, and molasses got wrapped into the story in my head, too.  It's Williams so it's, unsurprisingly, Southern in its accent, but maybe it would have been Southern without Williams's influence, thanks to the region of my own birth.  I got home after the play and jotted a few things down, thought of a certain twist to a certain plot, got annoyed, tossed the scribbles away as I normally do, went to bed.

Tonight's Caesar was, I think, my favorite of the week. To restage Shakespeare with a modern voice, keeping the Shakespearean tongue, is not new.  It's so "not new" that it practically is new again, maybe? The Obama-esque Caesar and the modern warfare were played right, they felt easy, the way Shakespeare should feel, and it was Casca that set my mind adrift.  It was always the side players in Caesar that I wanted to know more about.  I never bought Brutus as a tragic figure, nor bought Antony's final declaration that he was the only noble voice amongst the conspirators.  I don't think any of them were noble, but I'm curious how the Cascas and Cinnas of the world got wrapped up in conspiracies so vile.  How do the normal (not heroic, not noble, not particularly intelligent) folk succumb to the whispers of envy and the shouts of mobs? It happens everyday, of course, but Casca was always the one I wanted to sit down and have a chat with.  "What exactly were you thinking? Did you really think this would work? Did you even really care?"

I'd write that dialogue, maybe, if I were to write anything. 

But I won't, because it seems like a lot of work and the idea itself is so lazy.  I just wonder sometimes, with all these half-stolen, half-inspired ideas snowballing from one side of my brain to the other, will I find something someday worth writing, really writing.  Or will I just write a lot of half-lovely paragraphs for the rest of my life?

Running Home

My New Year started quietly.  I was asleep when the clock struck midnight as I, somewhat idiotically, had signed up for a New Year's Day race.  Nobody should be running outside in January in Minnesota.  I put in my 6.2 miles, less than half of what I'd actually signed up for, and vowed to never again run in anything approaching 45 mph wind gusts again. Ice isn't cool, either.

That day was also Day #1 in my kinda nutty plan to run 1,000 miles in 2012.  I'm honestly not sure I can hack it.  I'm two weeks in and feeling fine, but keeping up an average of 3 miles a day when I don't really want to run everyday will be tricky.  It's a nice, round, solid goal though and likely a suitable companion to whatever marathon I decide to train for this year.

The weekend after the New Year, I flew to St. Louis, a former home where I've spent very little time in the last 7-8 years.  It's rather amazing to me that a place can be so important for so long and then all your ties can seemingly evaporate, parents move away, friends move away, and that city simply becomes a place on a map you used to call home. Used to. But now my brother and sister-in-law have settled there and it's cheaper to fly there than Kansas City, where my best friend lives, so all of the sudden St. Louis has resurfaced in my life.  Not just the home of my baseball team, but the home of people I love, worth a visit. Worth a plane ticket, worth the calories in a Ted Drewes frozen custard, worth the vacation days, worth all the standard units of measure by which I justify most decisions.

As I am committed to this kinda nutty 1,000 mile goal, I needed to run a couple times while in town.  I was staying at the home of my best friend's parents, the McDermotts, a home I graced as often as my own in high school.  I spent years in that back bedroom talking about boys, years in that basement watching movies and crushing on my best friend's older brother, years of summers during college spending every hour I wasn't waiting tables shopping and gossiping and daydreaming with my best friend.  Her home was always more of a home base for our friendship than mine. She is the baby of the family and we didn't have to worry about those bothersome younger siblings of mine when we were at her place.  Plus, she had a pool.

The first morning I ran in St. Louis, I took as familiar a trek as is possible.  I ran from her home to what used to be mine.  Round trip, it's a hilly four miles. I ran past our old high school, past the curve in the road where I got my one and only speeding ticket (mere weeks after getting my license), past the elementary school where I met the best friend who has remained my best friend.  I didn't spend any time in front of my old house.  What's there to do, really?  I ran to the end of the driveway, gave the house a good glance, then turned around and ran back. 

I thought for a moment what it would be like to be a child and capable of seeing snippets of the future.  If my 15 year old self, all chubbiness and zits and ugly glasses (but such a good student), could have looked out the window one January morning and seen a 31 year old version of herself (less chubby, less zits, contacts), would it have made her happy? Hopeful? I wonder now if I'd like to see some small inkling of my future self, in passing.  I think it would have been nice, at 15, to see a smiling, healthy, rosy-cheeked and running future Me.  Even if I knew nothing else, it would have been nice to see the happiness.  No sense telling Younger Me about the stress of student loans, the myriad heartaches coming her way, the anxiety of jobs and life in general. I think my younger self would have seen the simple, basic truth of that morning.  My best friend is still my best friend, the most important people in my life at 15 remain the most important people at 31, my life is good, my body is strong, and I'm happy.  It would have been inspiring knowledge for a girl at 15.

And it's good to know now, at 31.

A Poem To End 2011

*I started working on this poem in 2010, and as is my habit, I doubt it's actually finished. It is one of the only poems I've ever written whose backbone (in my mind) was a song.  I don't write lyrics, I'm not enough of a musician for that.  But this poem always felt like a country song.  No refrain really.  And while the music of it isn't obvious, there was a distinctive tune in my head when I wrote it.  Even if it doesn't feel complete, it's finished enough for today, the last day of this year, the day that always reminds you of the things you failed to finish.  Here's to new days and new trees and finishing more poems in 2012.


I need a tree



Great-Granddaddy bought that house just shy of the Depression
In a small town in East Tennessee.

Raised their children tucked into the mountains,

Tucked into the roots of oak trees.

Initials were carved into cement,

Promising sidewalks don’t die.

New trees were planted as kids moved away,

Slow and steady grew straight for the sky.



I rode a bike at my grandparents’ place,

Tree-covered South Carolina.

Sunday sermons and Sunday suppers,

Beneath trees that knew how to find ya.

Secret neighborhood kisses sitting in leaves,

Listening for Grandmother’s holler.

The cover of treetops hides all childhood sin,

As you pray to be older, a bit taller.



My folks bought a house at the top of a hill

On a street by the name of Old Pine.

They planted a willow in the front yard

And I thought that the shade was all mine.

The oak in the backyard was thick as a boxcar,

And my dog dug a hole near her base.

Hours were spent casting spells and pretending

That that tree was a castle, a spaceship, a library on cloudier days.



The homes of my childhood were littered with trees,

With the leaves and long branches of growth.

And I was a child looking up, touching heaven,

Tucked into daydreams below.

And now I wander, questions pinned to my brow,

Wondering who else I should be.

And in my tiny, poorly-shaded apartment,

I realize, I first need a tree.

A tree with a long, old, steady, hard trunk,

And leaves worth a raking, leaves to crunch under snow

I need a tree to point me to heaven,

So I know which direction to grow.

Filling the Fish Bowl

Several years ago, before I moved to New Orleans to begin law school, a dear girlfriend, Justin, gave me a beautiful greenish glass fish bowl.  The purpose of said bowl was to house my growing collection of corks, which I'd begun to gather while in Peace Corps.  When possible, I required those with me at the drinking of a bottle of wine to sign and date the cork.  That fish bowl traveled with me to law school and traveled again to Minneapolis and has enjoyed eight years of slow accumulation of corks.  It was getting a bit crowded in that bowl.

Last night I celebrated my 31st birthday in the company of my six dearest ladyfriends and my Marmee (who is, of course, more than a ladyfriend): Molly, Julie, Kim, Megan, Fiona, and Kristen. Molly, knowing my snug fishbowl situation, gifted me with a beautiful new (and huge) repository to continue my cork habit.

As I was transfering eight years of corks into their new home, it became apparent how appropriate it is that a dear girl gave me my first fish bowl and a dear girl gave me my second.  The contents of the bowl are, by and large, the work of girlfriends.  There are a few corks with the initials of ex-boyfriends, but those were likely acquired by begging on my part given my tendency to date staunch beer drinkers.  There's a signed Coke cap from a boy I kissed in Kansas City, and cork signed from a boy I cared about while in Peace Corps.  But those are the exceptions to the rule.  This is a decidedly female treasure.

There are a few non-corks in the bowl.  There's a shell from a bullet found in the neck of my shirt following my first (and only) trip to a shooting range (which I was appalled to learn that I loved). There's a garter that rested on the rim of a margarita I drank with the dear lady who gave me my first bowl.  There are a few matchbooks from the Columns, the Delachaise, and Muriel's, three of my favorite New Orleans haunts. There are a handful of doubloons, leftover from who knows how many parades in my old home. 

But it's the corks that tell the stories.  Dates I had to rack my brain about, wee messages scribbled on the side in faint pen, which I cannot recall the import of. And beautifully familiar initials.  SV, KP, MCM, Juice, KC, MW, JK, KS, SS, FF, CL, CE, MP, JR, MBL and on and on...the ladies who have loved me best in my life. 

The bowl sits on the edge of my window sill, framed by a triplicate of photos from Morocco, dried flowers from a boy and my best girl, and a bright orange fish painting by my kid sister. As I filled the bowl last night (so much room to fill!), I was struck by the testament of that ledge to the blessed fullness of my life.  When I've blown out candles in the past I've wished for large and small things.  I've wished to be skinnier, I've wished to find a husband, I've wished to be and find things that I hoped would make me happier.  But last night at dinner I wished that I would appreciate the overabundance of love I have tucked into my life, that joy would be my first instinct, instead of continually noting what I feel my life lacks. 

And joy found me quickly, struggling to read those initials, those dates, remembering in vague snapshots how each of those moments felt, the depth of happiness that comes from laughing and crying over bottles of red in the company of women who treasure you.

It's the fastest reciprocation of a birthday wish I've ever experienced, which tends to happen, I suppose, when the wish is a prayer of a thanksgiving.

Game 6

From as far back as I can remember being asked such a question, I've always known which team was mine. Growing up we rooted for the Cardinals, we rooted for them from afar and by proxy with the Arkansas Travelers, and when we moved to St.Louis, what was already an affection became a full-blown emotional investment in the successes and failures of that team.

I remember Ozzie Smith and Lee Smith, the players that most dominated my perception in the games I saw in person.  My brother likely remembers Mark McGuire.  There were others, of course, but there are always particular gloves that a fan watches avidly, bats that weigh heavier in our psyche.

The last time the Cardinals won the world series, I was in my last year of law school.  I watched the series-winner on a hand-me-down TV from my Uncle Frank that required the channels to be changed with a pair of pliers.  At that last out I got phone calls from my Dad and my brother, all of us cheering, all of us watching from various TV sets in our lives and linked at that moment only by the distant smell of a ballpark and a cellphone.

This series was infintely sweeter, due wholly to the Cardinals' hungry fight for a title nobody saw coming.  And it was Game 6 that inked its way into history, and into my warehouse of baseball-themed memories. 

Game 6 for the underdog is always about more than winning the series.  Game 6 is about proving, at the very least, that you will make your opponent bleed for that win. For a team that had been counted out so often and so fervently over the last season, Game 6 was, at first, an exercise in disaster.  It felt like proof that the Rangers should be the victor, that the team that nobody expected had gotten there on a fluke, a series of happy circumstances and minor miracles, and barely deserved a pennant, much less a ring.  The magic of Carpenter's arm against the Phillies, the 3-homer history-maker by Pujols, Molina's incessantly perfect from-the-knees missile to second, all were forgotten in those first seven innings, with the Cardinals looking sad, tired, and desperate.

But it's the power of that late-in-the-game desperation that made this Game 6 pure magic.  Pure baseball.  Two outs-two strikes saving graces from Freese seemed straight out of The Natural, perfect heat attached to a bat that would surely crack under the pressure of I-want-to-play-this-game-tomorrow.  Game 6 became exactly what it is supposed to be, an angry, defiant roar from a team that knows how to look presumed defeat in the face and say, "not yet."

And it's that two outs-two strikes, bottom of the ninth (or eleventh) inning feeling that weasels its way under the skin of my family, of any baseball family, of any fan who holds their breath on that last pitch.  Because whether we've played  the game or only watched it, we can all feel that hollow ache in the dugout.  We can feel the wire fence we gripped, watching our last batter swing that last bat, from a bench littered by Big League Chew, our helmet gripped sadly in one hand as we accept defeat.  Or we've been poised at shortstop, willing our pitcher to throw one more sneaky strike, one more hit-worthy ball, and we've watched that grounder peel to third, to first, and a 1-2-3 inning sends us home with a win. We've sat on bleachers and smelled hot dogs mingled with fear and sweat and potential, hoping that this is a good day, that this is a moment we'll want to remember forever.

It's the sound of leather and wood making contact on a chilly October evening, the wave of sound crying disbelief and I-knew-they-could-do-it bouncing off stadium metal, that remind any baseball-lover why this game is the game that raised you, the game that taught you to run through first base, to wait for the pitch, to always strike out swinging.

It was a game that any true lover of the sport could recognize as historic and inspiring.  And it's the game that every Cardinals fan will remember in every future moment when our boys are behind, when they're bruised and near-defeated and we're tempted to walk away, to turn off the game, to leave them alone in their shame.  It's the game that will remind us that they will bleed for the win, that they will fight the spectre of failure with every swing and dive and pitch left in their bodies.  It's the game that will always remind us why we love them so much.

Heaney and Definition

Earlier this week I had a double dose of Seamus Heaney, the Nobel Prize-winning poet, thanks to an In Conversation program at the Guthrie on Monday and a showing of his Antigone adaptation, The Burial at Thebes, on Tuesday. (Caveat: I'm vaguely aware of an FTC law that requires bloggers to note when they've received goods or been paid by an entity that they review, but I believe that only matters if the entity requires a review, which the Guthrie has not.  That being said, I submitted my blog address to the Guthrie when they invited bloggers to do so, I got a couple free tickets to Thebes, that was that. I bought the tickets to see Heaney myself. Feel free to read the following comments with all that unnecessary exposition in mind, or, kindly dispose of it given its superfluousness)

Heaney was introduced to me by a dear friend whose first role in my life was that of favorite professor, Dabney Stuart, who's a poet and letter-writer and sender of books.  I'm sure Dabney has become some romanticized image of Brilliance in my head, but he always counted me as a romantic so I won't apologize for that on his account.  We exchange letters sporadically, and occasionally when I'm stumbling over my own attempts at verses or when I just want to talk to someone about a book, I'll wonder if he thinks of me sometimes, aside from in those letters.

Dabney taught a poetry class at my alma mater and while I remember several of the poets and poems we went through, Heaney's "Digging" lodged in me soundly and never loosened.  Heaney's "Digging" and "Oysters", Yeats's "No Second Troy" and "An Irish Airmen Foresees His Death" together, sing to me better than any musician.  So to hear Heaney himself (who I'd always imagined as sort of an aloof, painful jerk) speaking of his boyhood, Belfast, death, and growing old, I felt like a mesh of all my poets, my favorites, were speaking to me from no less than 15 yards away.  When he was asked what poetry "meant," what good poetry's purpose must be, he just sighed and laughed and thought a minute.  He didn't have a polished answer, and in between other questions and thoughts, he'd come back to that one and try to tackle it again.  He settled on the subject with a comment that poetry should, simply, be more than what it is.  He worded it differently a dozen times.  It should be bigger.  Deeper.  More palpable.  Wiser.  Than what each single word alone could possibly mean if each were added together like an equation.  All of it, together, should be more.  And in the end, he was unsatisfied by that definition.

Antigone is one of those classic plays that I must imagine would be hell to be invited to adapt.  What can be done to make Antigone fresh?  Its import lies in how heavily universal its concepts of self-sacrifice and morality and government oppression are, its merit is pertinence despite age.  It has been told and retold and Antigone has been dragged out of her cave a million times as a feminist ideal and champion, so anyway, I wouldn't envy a poet/playwright for retelling such a myth.  How do you retell a story that is effectively its own metaphor?

But Heaney's struggle with defining the import and power of poetry echoed with me as I watched Thebes.  Because that struggle was perfect on stage, the way "Oysters" is perfect on paper.  Thebes works because it balances the heavy history of a play regurgitated for every power struggle, every argument of might vs. right, with the requirement of telling Antigone's sad, sad story in a way that feels important for the 90 minutes it lasts.  You can't watch 90 minutes of metaphor.  I don't care how cool an English major you are or were, 90 minutes of symbolism will suck the joy out of any soul.  So the story itself still has to feel like the characters are alive, aching, and their end is something the audience should care about.

The scene between Creon and Haemon has always haunted me but I think this production was the first time I had any heartache for Creon (and I almost feel guilty admitting it).  Haemon is beautifully done in this work, emphatic in his love for Antigone, and smooth in his attempt to cajole his father into freeing her, making Dad see reason.  There was a hint of "you will regret this moment" streaming from his lips in his final words to his father, and memories of that shouting match invariably resurface as Creon later crumbles over the body of his beloved son.  Heaney's adaptation allows a deeper vulnerability in the ironclad Creon of other productions.  While Antigone's demise lives the loudest in current vernacular, called up as a symbol for lost, valiant causes, in this production it is Creon's sorrow that is the scariest.  Antigone, after all, dies knowing she did what she must.  Creon lives on, knowing his blind governance and disregard for inherent morality (the morality of the gods), slaughtered innocents, including his son and his wife.  That continued life seems the most tragic.  Creon's burden wrecks me.  What "rules" do I insist on that are contrary to my faith or the tenets of my God? How often do I let blind ambition cloud my judgement, block my ears from reason? How dangerous is my pride? 

I think most people hope they would be Antigone.  But I think the power of Heaney's play rests in how often we tremble with worry that in a moment of truth we will be Creon.  And, like poetry, the last words, the individual moments, grow to mean more than the sum of their parts.  It isn't just an old Greek play with some new vocabulary.  It's the train wreck of pride we watch in ourselves, and the palatable fear that we will realize, too late, that pride will surely strip us of those we love most. 

Powerful stuff, poetry.

Marathon Deux: Sharing Post-Its

Yesterday I ran my second marathon.  22 miles of feeling-pretty-good, followed by 4.2 miles of I-would-like-to-die-please.  I suppose that's typical.  As this was not my first marathon, I didn't have the worries of whether or not I could finish, but I did worry that I wouldn't make my time goal (which I didn't), and after realizing that desired finish was impossible (around mile 23), I worried that I'd love this race less than the first one.

But I suppose marathons, like every other race, tend to take on the qualities of joy/sorrow that the time period of training and completion has inspired.  I have the first-half-marathon memory, the fastest-half-marathon (coupled with the half-marathon-with-the-kid-sister) memory, the half-marathon-the-day-after-the-breakup memory, the half-marathon-in-a-downpour memory, the first-full-marathon memory.  And now, I have the marathon-with-Kristen memory.

Kristen is one of my dearest friends.  It's a friendship that has only developed in the last couple of years, but it has been a huge, happy blessing in my life.  One of those friendships that after it's made, you can't quite remember how you lived without it.  She's a better, faster runner than I am, but she'd never done a marathon, so I was happy to weasel her into signing up for this one.  We didn't run together often, but we talked about it all the time.  We supported each other through injuries (this was not a good year for ankles) and various mental and physical hurdles, and we celebrated the milestones that build a training program (survival of the 20-miler is a big one).

But, more importantly, she is someone I could share my post-its with.  In 2009, for my first marathon, I wrote two verses on post-its.  One post-it had Isaiah 40:31, one had Hebrews 12:1.  They were always the verses that meant the most to me while running, and carrying them along lifted me at the moments I needed lifting. After the race, I stuck the smeared, ugly surviving scraps on my fridge, where they rested until yesterday.  I gave Kristen my Isaiah 40:31, and I kept Hebrews for myself, promising myself that if a poor, flimsy post-it could survive a marathon, I could surely survive another one, too.

I have been blessed by many wonderful female friendships, each of them dear to me, and a handful more lasting and powerful than others.  I cannot say that my friendships with practicing Christians are the more important ones, because that is completely untrue.  My best friends, Christian and non-Christian alike, have loved and carried me in ways that are counted as blessings in my life, regardless of whether I thank God for that and they don't. But it is a special, intimate joy to be able to share God with someone who means so much to you, for it to be an uncomplicated, easy thing, to pass a piece of paper with a bible verse written on it to a friend and know that she values the words and what they are capable of as much as I do.  I don't have to say, "this is why this is important to me." I could articulate it if I wanted to, but to have the explanation be unnecessary is a remarkable thing. 

So the marathon-with-Kristen memory is deeper than that.  This is the marathon-I-shared-my-post-its memory, which is infinitely more special.

The Things You Do The Day Before a Marathon

(Hopefully, if you're lucky, you have a dear friend to enjoy the day with, preferably one who will join you on the 26.2 mile journey)

1. You walk to the grocery store to buy andouille sausage (for the post-race meal), bananas (for the pre-race peanut butter and banana sandwich), and an InTouch magazine because it's a mild addiction you don't have the patience to shake.

2. You arrange the gels in your fuel belt so that the weight is evenly distributed on both hips.

3. You walk to Common Roots with above-referenced friend and buy everything bagel sandwiches with egg, tomato, and cheese.  You eat these bagels by the lake, in the sunshine.

4. You walk to the running store to buy a couple more gels that you probably don't need because you've become somewhat worried about the lower sodium content in the variety you currently own.  It's supposed to be warmer tomorrow, do I need more salt?

5. You walk to the wine and cheese store for cheese samples (for today) and beer (for tomorrow).

6. You head to the packet pick-up/expo and purchase a cheesey t-shirt, a 26.2 bumper sticker, and a bottle of gatorade.  You eat the free yogurt sample.  You take the free potato chip sample, knowing you'll never eat it.

7. You sit on the floor of your apartment with above-referenced friend and decorate tank tops with nicknames, Bible verses, and recommended shouts ("Run, Rachel, Run"...no commas on the shirt, sorry).

8. You go to Pizza Luce. For a moment you think about ordering something new, but are quickly supported in your general superstition that "new" is bad the day before a race.  Ruby Rae it is.  Ruby Rae it will always be.

9. You try on your race day gear, complete with new arm warmers, and think, "well, at least I LOOK like I can do this."

10. You decide to wear earrings to the race. Earrings you stole from your sister's jewelry box which you have now decided are good luck because they belong to her. 

11. You lace your shoes with the race chip.  Hello, Marathon Race Chip! Welcome to my shoe!

12. You tuck a post-it note from your 2009 race, smeared with what used to read all of Hebrews 12:1, into the pocket of the tank you'll wear.  There's 2009 sweat on that piece of paper, if it can survive, so can you.

13. You make a cup of tea.

14. You blog.

15. You sleep.

Apologies

I'm days away (5) from running my second marathon.  I've trained all summer, logged an impressive number of miles, killed my poor left toenail, muscled through an ankle injury, and emerged ready and willing to slog through 26.2 miles on Sunday, October 2.  And yet, despite the training, and despite the fact that this is my SECOND marathon (lunacy), I still find myself apologizing for what I still feel must be grudging acceptance of myself as a Runner.

This coversation snippet has occured, verbatim, at least 20 times in the past month:

Person: You're running a marathon?
Me: Yup.
Person: Wow! That's amazing!
Me: Oh...I'm really slow... (bats away the "amazing" with a flick of the wrist and a quick change of subject)

Not once have I ever conceded that it is, in fact, kind of amazing.  Not once have I accepted that someone might be impressed by that endurance.  Instead, I apologize for my speed, I imply by tone and subtle shoulder shrugs that I am not actually a runner but the race people let me pretend. 

I'm not sure what it will take for me to think of myself as A Runner.  One marathon and too-many-half-marathons-to-remember-the-actual-number haven't done it. Long runs of 10-20 miles every Saturday for three months haven't done it.  The retiring of multiple pairs of running shoes and socks haven't done it.  But I have to believe that it's time, more than distance, more than races, that etch the Runner into your psyche. I was such a flagrant non-Runner (read: fat and unhealthy) for so long, I think it takes a while for the noun to stick.  I can run (verb) and acknowledge that I am running.  But to be a Runner, some finite, specific thing, may take a few more years.  Few more marathons, maybe.

What I aspire to:

Person: You're running a marathon?
Me: Yup
Person: Wow! That's amazing!
Me: I think so, too! (catches the "amazing" with a high five)

Ninja Turtle Cobbler

As a kid,when my mom was out of the house and my dad was left to fend for himself in feeding the munchkins, we ate a lot of pizza.  But occassionally, and I remember this mostly as an Arkansas occurrence and not in our later St. Louisan existence, my dad would cook.

Cooking usually meant substantial "help" from my brother and I, although I don't personally have any strong memories of cooking with my dad.  I do remember, however, one occasion when he and my brother created something in the kitchen that my brother named (highlighting his allegiance at that time), "Ninja Turtle Pie."  I believe it was some concoction of hamburger meat, corn, maybe some ketchup and various other unassuming vegetables.  Despite looking a bit gnarly, it tasted good.  And Ninja Turtle Pie remains a highlight in my memory of what can be accomplished in a kitchen.

This past weekend on The Mountain, I built a Ninja Tutle concotion of my own, a peach cobbler scraped together with what remained in our cabin on our last night.  Upon taking the attached picture, I assumed I'd place the cobbler on my food blog, but as I can't remember the measurements of what went into the creation, and as there were a few missteps I wouldn't repeat (note to self: instant grits do not cook as quickly as cornmeal), I thought the picture would simply fade into oblivion.

The cobbler ended up as a success, surprisingly.  The vast majority of the dessert was gobbled up quickly and the remaining edge piece was requested quietly by my Uncle NT, so it made its way into the fridge for what I assume was a midnight snack. I can claim no accolades on this creation, however, because the deliciousness was largely a product of excellent Carolina peaches, which made up for the somewhat overly crunchy top crust and the bottom layer made of crushed wheat thins and brown sugar.

As we were saying our goodbyes the next day, my Aunt Joyce commented on how amazing it was, our yearly gathering of 30+ family members.  We have our share of dysfunction, no doubt, as any family of our breadth and depth would.  But even those familial hiccups seem inconsequential in light of what happens each Labor Day weekend.  The descendants of one couple, wed in the first years of the 1900s, who lived a quiet, unassuming life tucked into East Tennessee, have gathered, and continue to gather, in those same mountains to eat, laugh, argue, pray, hold new babies, miss the missing, and look each other in the eye for long enough to recognize the blood that binds us.  The not-quite-right ingredients, the I-wish-I-hadn't-done-that element of every single day of every single life, matter a lot less when the fruit that binds the ingredients is strong and sweet and powerful.  I think that speaks volumes to the vehement, somewhat ornery love that flowed from my great-grandparents and into our cluster of cabins each year in the mountains they called home.

It was a pretty good cobbler.