Today's title brought to you by the marriage of The Books, José Gonzalez (who I saw in concert two weeks ago and learned-thanks C-that the guy was studying for his PhD in, oh, don't worry, Biochemistry, when his musical career took off) and apparently Nick Drake too (thank you Youtube, I did not know this was a cover) in the form of The Cello Song.
This is not the actual wording: 'live' is not the verb used. But I took some poetic license and improved the lyrics. You see, The Shins have this song that I love, Girl on the Wing. I didn't understand the lyrics exactly the first few dozen times I heard it but I felt like they said exactly what I felt. Then I looked up the actual lyrics and didn't like the song as much. I want to say that I was one word off and back then I cared more about correct form and so I obliviated (yes, a harry potter verb though no, I don't own a wand) my version for the correct one. And now I can't remember my version. It's a sort of loss. In the same way that understanding a foreign language comes at the expense of hearing the sounds for what the are, out of the context of meaning. Thus I'm doing away with doing away with my incorrect versions of songs that I like. At best, I'll keep in remembrance both versions.
So yes, "live". Because it seems the less passive verb; more demanding. Something like reaching. Which is what spring is all about, after all.
In my preschool class at school we planted beans, maybe two weeks ago now. I am obsessed with them. There are over 23 clear plastic cups lining the window sills of our classroom and every morning I come in, even on Tuesday and Thursday when I work in Kindergarten, to check on their progress. No joke, I pick every one of them up, one by one, turning the cups and examining the difference in a few hours, a little daylight, and some water. Sometimes I water them too but even then they get more than a once-over. I'll start watering at one end of the row and as I go the anxiety builds so that by the time they are watered and I can take the time to lift them, tilt, and admire them, I am like one of my 5 yr olds who comes through the door everyday bouncing on her toes she's so excited to be there.
It's weird because my sister is having a baby and that hardly phases me. Maybe because babies aren't incubated in clear plastic cups or maybe because the wonder of it is too big for me to grasp. All I know is, every morning I come in and find myself looking at these plants and saying to myself "But you came from NOTHING!" Something like a phenomenon.
I'm thinking of starting my own bean growing operation at my apartment but I'm worried about there being enough sunlight. I've fairly convinced myself that if I can successfully grow my own personal bean stalk to love and stroke and admire, that I will awake or perhaps merit that hereditary green thumb that must hiding out somewhere in my genetic makeup. Surely nature misread 'green' for 'little' and I'll end up with both.
It's no wonder though, this fascination for coming-from-nothingness. It's kinda where I'm at right now.
Example Number One: A few weeks ago I had a talk on the phone with some friends about my running. The sad truth is, I am still out of commission as far as running is concerned. One friend expressed concern about my running and all too frequent injuries. ( It was at this moment that I realized that I don't like it, and really don't like it, when people show concern for me. I figured out that the reason is because it raises the suspicion that, after all my meticulous analyzing and decision making, I don't know best. If people are concerned, clearly I must be doing something wrong. And, as we all know, I hate being wrong. This would be some much more accurately expressed in French: on deteste. I'm going for universality here.) I was expressing my frustration with another friend who is also a runner and also, like me, perhaps not a natural. My frustration was due to the lack of conviction I inspired in others regarding my ability to run and not be weary. Or injured. It was this fiery conversation about me conquering the world and proving everyone else wrong: I was going to defy, though I'm not sure whom. The problem is, the experts don't agree, you see. My podiatrist tells me I need a hard orthotic. My chiropractor tells me that doesn't solve the problem, but only masks the symptoms. My chiro also tells me I need a shoe with more stability and cushion than my barefoot shoes offer and the barefoot community tells me that we were made for minimalization. My knees tell me that I don't like shoes that aren't minimal and my feet tell me that they don't like running anymore, possibly because I ran in minimal footwear.
But I had this conversation and pumped myself up and talked to more people and became all the more convinced that I could learn to run and not get injured. I even started to think, hey, maybe one day I'll tackle a marathon.
Except that right now, just walking is still hurting. And, well, I might cave and go to a Dr so one can derive that things are pretty bad. So right now, I've got nothing. I've got sunny days and blue skies and hour upon hour during which my feet ache to hit the pavement, figuratively speaking, while my feet literally, well, just ache. But I'm holding out for something. Out of nothing.
Example Number Two:
I have this conviction that this summer is going to be one of the best summers of my life. The truth of it is, it's unfounded: I have no plan. I keep having these visions of a perfect summer. Earlier this year that vision involved taking the 'long' out of 'distance'. Disintegration. Then the vision evolved into a mountainous escape working at National Parks: fresh air, trail running, high altitude sunrises, my camera, and bearded and braided granolas. Nonmaterialization. Now I'm torn between starting my new life in the bubble which is P-Town and spending the plentiful hours I'm not working poolside whilst reading my required French MA literature and running off to France to visit with old people for 6-8 gluttonous, delicious and terribly quaint albeit lonely weeks. Or I could waitress, nanny, take some jobs that my mom doesn't have time for, volunteer, sell my soul to a call center, write, spend my days reading and listening to French and well, you get the point. Indecision meets and possibly breeds nonmaterialization. This is a really big problem because I figure that when I want something bad enough, I'm pretty good at making it happen. I just don't want anything that bad this summer. I've already checked off all the big things from my list. When you have a job that allows for variety, creativity, structure, laughs and of course hugs and when you're waiting for the impending beginning of the end which is grad school, what you do in the interim just doesn't seem to compare or matter.
It is the middle of May, 2011. In 3 weeks I will have no job, no apartment, no roommate and certainly nothing monumental in sight.
But I gotta say: I gotta feeling.
Example Number Three:
I'm reading Tom Sawyer right now. Somehow, in the deprived childhood that I led and am still leading, I never read Mark Twain. I don't know how this happened? I have no explanations. All I know is, my children will read it. Most especially my boys. Because a little mischief does a'body good. And I've thought a lot lately about the crazy things I've done in my time. Maybe the correct verb is mourn: I feel like I've lost my edge or something. Gone is that version of myself that would think up ridiculous questions for the sake of striking up conversations with complete strangers. Gone is the sort of punk and gone is the sort of hippie. Gone is the honorary "Gentlemen's" and other such and less official club memberships that gave me "one of the boys" status. Gone is the rootless. Gone is the concert hall junkie. Gone is the planner of game nights and summer barbeques.
I hear Phoenix whenever I see my younger sister: Do you remember when 21 years was old? It's not maturity that prevents me from doing all the envious things she does, allowing the proper amount of drama and cruciality. It's something else. It's that I know better. Or that I've come to need a purpose and I can't remove that need.
Maybe life and the people in it is going too many different directions, maybe I'm just too tired to reconcile all these different facades of myself or maybe each require too much energy in their own right anyway. For whatever reason, I feel like I've lost an edge. I don't dream like I used to because I'm content where I am. Which should be great. And is.
And yet, sometimes, I think I miss having something to look forward to. I miss being completely unrealistic.
So I've started making unrealistic lists to compensate for the ailment, whatever it may be. I'm going to try to remember this summer what it is to be uncomfortable where one is. I've bought my third copy of Peter Pan, the boy who won't grow up. I once wrote a paper on it in college. My premise was that Peter is not in fact the protagonist but the antagonist of the story: the embodied truth that refusing to grow up is unnatural and harmful. I'm going to try to remember that.
Today, Charles Langridge Morgan, whose quote has been on my board for years though where I heard it and who he is is long forgotten, will help me:
"The art of living does not consist in preserving and clinging to a particular mood of happiness, but in allowing happiness to change its form without being disappointed by the change; for happiness, like a child, must be allowed to grow up."
For the dreams that came to you when you were young / told of a life where spring has sprung.
Something out of nothing. Or somethinglikethat.
Showing posts with label Running chronicles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Running chronicles. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
13.1. Ish.
My dad asked me yesterday if I remembered "Sunny the runner!" He was met with a raising of eyebrows, not only from myself, but from my mother as well.
So let me tell you about Sunny the runner. Apparently when we moved into this (being my parent's) house there was something about the long stretch of uninterrupted sidewalk that fascinated me. And of course as everyone knows, the beauty of sidewalks is the breaks in them: the cracks that, if stepped on, won't actually break your mother's back but rather break up what would otherwise be a monotonous stretch of concrete. I can't imagine what my childhood would have been like had sidewalks not had cracks in them.
(It just so happens that the cracks are not designed with my childhood happiness in mind. It turns out that breaking up the concrete in the form of a sidewalk allows for contraction in hot or frigid temperatures. I imagine some engineer figured the ideal length for each particular section. Calculations. Trial and error. Either way, I think it's perfect. Not too short, yet not too long.)
Now to tell you the truth, I can't remember that fascination. But I can imagine it. Which is almost as good as remembering. Really the only details I have is what my father recounts: that I used to run back and forth along the sidewalk in front of my house and my dad would cheer me on from the sidelines (likely the grass or the porch), saying 'Sunny, the Ruuuuuunnnnnnneeeeerrrrrr".
"Did I run barefoot?" I asked him.
"Probably" he told me.
"Of course I did."
I don't even know why I asked the question. I may not have any substantial memories of Sunny the Runner but I do know that I never enjoyed wearing shoes as a child. And I do know that I cannot possibly recreate a memory of my younger, freer self running along the sidewalk, dodging the cracks with all the agility a child under 5 can possess while wearing shoes. Shoes just don't hold any place in that memory. They don't hold place in most of my childhood memories.
Thus today was the fulfillment of a long forgotten prophesy: Sunny the Runner!
Because this day has been long in coming, this story is going to be long in the telling. You've been duly warned.
I woke up Friday morning. I was well rested. I had slept soundly, peacefully. It was 5:45. I was awake. I was alive. And I was not nervous. I took a deep breath. Whoooooooh. This is it, I told myself.
Except that it wasn't. Because my race was on Saturday.
Three weeks prior I had done a 10 miler in my vibrams. The last 1/2 mile was tiresome but I felt good. I was due to run 12 the following week and then scale down the last two weeks before the race. My foot had felt a little off before the run and even more so after. It was like the front end of it needed to pop but couldn't. It was more uncomfortable than painful. I ran 3 miles the following Tuesday and hypothesized that maybe I wouldn't get my 12 miler in after all. I stayed off my foot the rest of the week and instead of feeling better, the discomfort turned into pain that never stayed quite in the same place and actually got worse.
The result was an obsessive harassment in the form of 20+ questions to anyone who had ever had a running related injury, knew about feet, muscles, tendons, bones, and running shoes. I bought 4 pair of running shoes in one week, deciding to keep the new vibrams and the Nike Frees, which are about as minimal as you can get. They are supposed to promote a midfoot strike, like the vibrams and felt more natural than anything else out there. Not wanting to subject my tender feet to 13 miles of concrete, I opted to do my last two 3 miler training runs the week before my race in these shoes. It wasn't what I would call natural but then again, it had been over a year since I'd run in actual shoes. and I was sore afterward in muscles I don't usually feel sore in after running, but the verdict was that I was not injured and would run the race anyway.
Friday night I go to bed, my foot a little sore from running around in boots picking up my race bub. It was later than planned and I meticulously set two alarms on my phone. One for 5:26 and the other for 5:32. Because I am more-than-slightly paranoid, I set, on a whim that turned out to be inspired, a third alarm for 5:45. That was later than I needed to be up, but it was my backup, in case I somehow managed to be so tired that I turned off my other two alarms instead of snoozing them when I woke up. My phone told me that I had just set the alarm for two days 7 hours and 36 minutes from now. I had set the alarm for Monday, you see. Luckily I changed the day, went to bed and slept a not-entirely-peaceful 7 hours and 36 minutes.
If you did the math you would realize that I woke up, not at 5:26 nor 5:32. Because both those alarms had been set for M,T,W,TH,F. Not Saturday. My backup alarm turned out to be the only one that sounded. I sprung out of bed. Thank-you-for-an-excessive-awareness-of-my-own-shortcomings-or-obsession-compulsion-disorder-or-whatever-it-was-that-made-me-set-that-third-alarm, was the entirety of my breathless morning prayer. P.S. Please let me not fall and break my face, finish, and not break anything in the process.
I let with plenty of time to make it to the starting line. I had planned to park at the stadium and take trax. Get to the stadium and the parking lot is closed. Park at the institute. Run to the trax and then realize that I left my bib, which is simultaneously my entrance ticket and my chip, in my apartment.
So by the time I get my stuff, park and speed walk to the start line since Trax is no longer an option, I am just in time for the announcement and for the national anthem. The moral of this part of the story is that I am basically incapable of being on time. And that my brain doesn't work that early in the morning.
The race starts off so slow people can barely walk for the first quarter of a mile, let alone run. There were around 8,000 participants. Part of me just wanted to be able to see the road laid out in front of me and the other part of me got this huge thrill akin to butterflies in seeing the crowds filled the blocked off streets. It felt like we were taking over the world.
Once we got running it was chaotic. There was the guy in the speedo. The guy in the spandex cheetah suit that covered everything but his eyes. There was the old man that was pushing 90, no joke. The kids that had to be younger than 8 and doing, I'm guessing, the 1k. About a half mile in I passed two women running in vibrams. I pulled out my headphones and asked them if they were doing the 1/2. They were. And I wanted to tell them my whole sob story/obsession about the vibrams. Mostly I wanted to run with them. And hug them. They were, after all, my people. But instead I told them they were awesome and just kept running.
Three miles in found me doing a 9:12 pace. It was almost effortless, all that running downhill. I kept getting distracted looking at people's shoes, analyzing their feet striking and marveling at how skinny some people's legs were and how defined others were. Running styles are a funny thing. It's amazing the things that some people make work for them. I'm sure people look at me and think the same thing. What I have always wanted was to run like one of those people who make it look like breathing; who make it look so natural you can't help but want to get up and run, no, sprint. Watching people sprinting doing this is one thing. People who can run like that at a marathon pace though, now that's something to aspire to.
I found myself running past my street and was half tempted to go off course a 1/3 of a mile to say hi to the fam. Just then one of my fellow runners started moving his hands to the beat in his eardrums. I imagined that he was listening to something on broadway, or maybe Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's "The Details of the War" the way he was getting into it. He reminded me of my summer in Colorado and of my many runs that ended in my victory dance lap around the soccer field at the bottom of the mountain in which I ran/skipped/dance to one last song. If I hadn't been running I might have hugged him and thrown an impromptu dance party right there.
A mile and a half later I decided to break out my shot blocks and get some carbs and electrolytes into my system. Try as I might, my little fingers were slightly swollen and numb and I could not for the life of me tear the wrapper. Naturally, I attacked with my teeth. This went of for about 3 minutes. I'm sure I look ridiculous and I have suspicions that I ran sideways, back and forth. Like a drunkard, but not.
Finally I gave up on that end of the wrapper and turned the darned thing around. Same thing. But I managed to make a tiny hole and attacked again, with all my little teeth had in me. I tore away some of the plastic. And. You guessed it. I inhaled it.
So there I am running along sugarhouse park and gagging like a maniac. The good news is I'm pretty no one really paid any attention to me. The other good news is I spat it out, didn't stop running and well, didn't die.
A few minutes later at mile 6 I met up with my parents who were waiting diligently with my vibrams and my dad's camera phone. I was feeling good about my Nike Frees and so I told them to keep the shoes but take my jacket. A quick hug later and I was jumping the curb and turning onto 27th.
I saw two kids from my school along 27th and felt like a superhero seeing their eyes light up as the recognized me running by. Of course, they weren't watching for me but I was the benefactor of their presence nonetheless.
Somewhere between mile 7.5 and 8 my hips started to hurt. I tried to concentrate on maintaining my form. But the pain moved to my knees and my IT band-on both knees. Now it should be known that after 3 months or so of trying to get into running way back in 2009 I hit a wall. That wall was IT band pain. I couldn't get past 3 miles without it and it would put me out of commission for about two weeks every run. That wall is what led to barefoot running and the fact that I never had to deal with that pain once I started barefoot is what kept me doing it. That and the feeling like I was a gazelle when I sprinted at the end of my run. Don't overestimate that gazelle feeling. It totally compensated for torn up, blistered feet.
So here I was at mile 8 and I was in pain that wasn't getting better but worse. it was at this point that I started to wish I had taken the vibrams. Actually, I wished I had just done the whole thing in vibrams and kept asking myself why I thought shoes would be the answer when I hadn't learned to keep my form while running in them....
I ran through the pain til almost mile 10 when I got desperate and called my Dad. I had to start walking. Dad, I said. I think I need my vibrams. My knees are killing me. Do you think you can find me? Not that I didn't know where I was. I just didn't know where I was going to be by the time he could drive to meet me. Basically I was asking him to navigate and tell the future. Sure, he said. Naturally. I held onto my phone waiting his call. Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.
Like a champ, he navigated the side streets of downtown salt lake and met me at liberty park, out of breath because he practically ran to get to me. I plopped on the grass and wrestled to get my feet into the vibrams. I almost left my phone on the grass and decided, on a last minute whim, to keep my shoes after all.
I'd like to say that once in the vibrams everything was as it should be. I'd like to say that I ran the rest of the race.
The truth was, the damage was already done. I got another mile and a half out of the vibrams and while it was wonderful to be in them again, the transition was awkward. I trudged along and luckily I was still running like a champ when I passed another kid from my school. This one I yelled at. Pretty sure I only got his attention because I was waving to him with hands holding bright, clean, white shoes. I like to think that the kids get the same kick out of seeing me as I do from seeing them but I'm pretty sure I get way more out of it. That kept me going another quarter of a mile or so and then I was convinced that whatever muscle or tendons that attached themselves to my knees were going to snap and I stopped to do some stretches. Thus began the stretch, walk, run series that lasted another mile. I can't decide if those stops, those lulls in momentum make things worse or better. All I know is that I was mad at my body. It had never given me that much grief at 8 miles, not even ten. And I had taken those miles easy, slowed down, changed shoes and still no respite from the pain.
I finally decided that the vibrams didn't lend themselves well to speed walking and I changed back into the shoes. The pattern then became run-until-I-start-to-almost-cry and then speed-walk-until-I-am-angry-enough-at-myself-and-the-irony-of-not-hurting-when-I-walk to start running again. I told myself that once I got to the top of the incline leading to main I wasn't allowed to walk anymore. Again, that lasted only 1/5 of a mile when my body started to rebel and threaten what I was sure was snappage. Why do I willingly inflict this much pain on myself, I kept asking myself. I know I'm masochistic but really, self, this time you've taken things too far. It's not like I'm getting a baby out of it. Yes, I was convinced that the only other self-inflicted pain worse than running at that point was childbirth. So I just told myself to take deep breaths.
It didn't matter that I had the best playlist in my history of running playlists. Kings of Leon, Regina, Phoenix, they just weren't taking me outside myself and beyond my pain. Not even Kesha, who I sold out on and actually purchased just for that run. Go ahead and judge me. Your love's not my drug anyway. And you probably don't have a beard.
I was torn with both inspiration for the people who kept running by me and deep resentment for their ability to do so without pain. I wished I was telepathic so that I could know if they were in just as much pain as I was and not being pansies like me just so that I could reverse-pschyologize myself into running without any walking breaks. I tried sprinting, hoping that the obligatory change in form that sprinting necessitated would assuage my grinding joints. No such luck. My muscles, my lungs, everything felt fresh. It was just my joints that cried out in protest.
But that last 1/2 mile, that was golden. I did not stop to walk. I was passed by the man who finished the marathon first. Yes, he had run and finished a full marathon before I could finish a half. It inspired me. The narrowing route and the thickening crowds offered a kind of consolation. As did the notion, which was as good as truth as I thought it, that, like the Grinch's heart, my calves had grown three times their size that day. I would be a liar if I didn't confess to the fact that I love what running (barefoot!) does for my calves. So yes, my own calves inspired me.
Like everyone else at the finish line, I sprinted. There was a moment that I got emotional and I thought I was going to cry but as I was still in pain I thought it best to not start because the emotional tears could get physical. I was probably the only person in all those 8,000 to cross carrying shoes. When I stepped over the finish pad and clocked in my 2:21 I was just so glad to be done with it on the one hand. On the other was the dissatisfied "That's it?! Now what?"
So there you have it, the evolution of Sunny the Runner, from sidewalks to shopping plazas. Am I glad I did it? Yes. Did I become addicted to the race mentality as I feared? No. Will I do it again? Of course.
You see, I live off of dreams, not accomplishments. Having a goal makes feel more alive sometimes than achieving it. If I have a goal, I know where I stand. If I accomplish something, I feel lost in the possibilities of trying to figure out what to do next.
I'm always wanting things to change me. To leave such an imprint on me that I am never the same. I thought that finishing a race would do that to me. I read in a book last night the description of a character: "Manna was one of those people," the author says "who would experience ecstasy but not happiness". I think that I am one of those people who would experience more happiness were I not too preoccupied with waiting for ecstasy. You'd think that I'd have learned by now that the things that change a person happen in the quiet of the journey.
The best thing about this race is that it left something to be desired. Namely, a race RAN in its entirety and in one pair of shoes. My new goal: train on whatever terrain I want and in whatever shoes I want for 16 miles. Do not fall and hit my face. Do not break anything in the process. Then run another half. And run it. Not because that one race will change me. But because of all the sidewalks the cracks the cheers from grass the running skipping dancing laps the feel of the ground beneath my feet the wind in my hair the rain sometimes the pain in my side and of course the pain in my feet the beat in my head the muteness of sprinting in almost bare feet the taste of the sunset at dusk that make me remember give me something to look forward to and make me free.
So let me tell you about Sunny the runner. Apparently when we moved into this (being my parent's) house there was something about the long stretch of uninterrupted sidewalk that fascinated me. And of course as everyone knows, the beauty of sidewalks is the breaks in them: the cracks that, if stepped on, won't actually break your mother's back but rather break up what would otherwise be a monotonous stretch of concrete. I can't imagine what my childhood would have been like had sidewalks not had cracks in them.
(It just so happens that the cracks are not designed with my childhood happiness in mind. It turns out that breaking up the concrete in the form of a sidewalk allows for contraction in hot or frigid temperatures. I imagine some engineer figured the ideal length for each particular section. Calculations. Trial and error. Either way, I think it's perfect. Not too short, yet not too long.)
Now to tell you the truth, I can't remember that fascination. But I can imagine it. Which is almost as good as remembering. Really the only details I have is what my father recounts: that I used to run back and forth along the sidewalk in front of my house and my dad would cheer me on from the sidelines (likely the grass or the porch), saying 'Sunny, the Ruuuuuunnnnnnneeeeerrrrrr".
"Did I run barefoot?" I asked him.
"Probably" he told me.
"Of course I did."
I don't even know why I asked the question. I may not have any substantial memories of Sunny the Runner but I do know that I never enjoyed wearing shoes as a child. And I do know that I cannot possibly recreate a memory of my younger, freer self running along the sidewalk, dodging the cracks with all the agility a child under 5 can possess while wearing shoes. Shoes just don't hold any place in that memory. They don't hold place in most of my childhood memories.
Thus today was the fulfillment of a long forgotten prophesy: Sunny the Runner!
Because this day has been long in coming, this story is going to be long in the telling. You've been duly warned.
I woke up Friday morning. I was well rested. I had slept soundly, peacefully. It was 5:45. I was awake. I was alive. And I was not nervous. I took a deep breath. Whoooooooh. This is it, I told myself.
Except that it wasn't. Because my race was on Saturday.
Three weeks prior I had done a 10 miler in my vibrams. The last 1/2 mile was tiresome but I felt good. I was due to run 12 the following week and then scale down the last two weeks before the race. My foot had felt a little off before the run and even more so after. It was like the front end of it needed to pop but couldn't. It was more uncomfortable than painful. I ran 3 miles the following Tuesday and hypothesized that maybe I wouldn't get my 12 miler in after all. I stayed off my foot the rest of the week and instead of feeling better, the discomfort turned into pain that never stayed quite in the same place and actually got worse.
The result was an obsessive harassment in the form of 20+ questions to anyone who had ever had a running related injury, knew about feet, muscles, tendons, bones, and running shoes. I bought 4 pair of running shoes in one week, deciding to keep the new vibrams and the Nike Frees, which are about as minimal as you can get. They are supposed to promote a midfoot strike, like the vibrams and felt more natural than anything else out there. Not wanting to subject my tender feet to 13 miles of concrete, I opted to do my last two 3 miler training runs the week before my race in these shoes. It wasn't what I would call natural but then again, it had been over a year since I'd run in actual shoes. and I was sore afterward in muscles I don't usually feel sore in after running, but the verdict was that I was not injured and would run the race anyway.
Friday night I go to bed, my foot a little sore from running around in boots picking up my race bub. It was later than planned and I meticulously set two alarms on my phone. One for 5:26 and the other for 5:32. Because I am more-than-slightly paranoid, I set, on a whim that turned out to be inspired, a third alarm for 5:45. That was later than I needed to be up, but it was my backup, in case I somehow managed to be so tired that I turned off my other two alarms instead of snoozing them when I woke up. My phone told me that I had just set the alarm for two days 7 hours and 36 minutes from now. I had set the alarm for Monday, you see. Luckily I changed the day, went to bed and slept a not-entirely-peaceful 7 hours and 36 minutes.
If you did the math you would realize that I woke up, not at 5:26 nor 5:32. Because both those alarms had been set for M,T,W,TH,F. Not Saturday. My backup alarm turned out to be the only one that sounded. I sprung out of bed. Thank-you-for-an-excessive-awareness-of-my-own-shortcomings-or-obsession-compulsion-disorder-or-whatever-it-was-that-made-me-set-that-third-alarm, was the entirety of my breathless morning prayer. P.S. Please let me not fall and break my face, finish, and not break anything in the process.
I let with plenty of time to make it to the starting line. I had planned to park at the stadium and take trax. Get to the stadium and the parking lot is closed. Park at the institute. Run to the trax and then realize that I left my bib, which is simultaneously my entrance ticket and my chip, in my apartment.
So by the time I get my stuff, park and speed walk to the start line since Trax is no longer an option, I am just in time for the announcement and for the national anthem. The moral of this part of the story is that I am basically incapable of being on time. And that my brain doesn't work that early in the morning.
The race starts off so slow people can barely walk for the first quarter of a mile, let alone run. There were around 8,000 participants. Part of me just wanted to be able to see the road laid out in front of me and the other part of me got this huge thrill akin to butterflies in seeing the crowds filled the blocked off streets. It felt like we were taking over the world.
Once we got running it was chaotic. There was the guy in the speedo. The guy in the spandex cheetah suit that covered everything but his eyes. There was the old man that was pushing 90, no joke. The kids that had to be younger than 8 and doing, I'm guessing, the 1k. About a half mile in I passed two women running in vibrams. I pulled out my headphones and asked them if they were doing the 1/2. They were. And I wanted to tell them my whole sob story/obsession about the vibrams. Mostly I wanted to run with them. And hug them. They were, after all, my people. But instead I told them they were awesome and just kept running.
Three miles in found me doing a 9:12 pace. It was almost effortless, all that running downhill. I kept getting distracted looking at people's shoes, analyzing their feet striking and marveling at how skinny some people's legs were and how defined others were. Running styles are a funny thing. It's amazing the things that some people make work for them. I'm sure people look at me and think the same thing. What I have always wanted was to run like one of those people who make it look like breathing; who make it look so natural you can't help but want to get up and run, no, sprint. Watching people sprinting doing this is one thing. People who can run like that at a marathon pace though, now that's something to aspire to.
I found myself running past my street and was half tempted to go off course a 1/3 of a mile to say hi to the fam. Just then one of my fellow runners started moving his hands to the beat in his eardrums. I imagined that he was listening to something on broadway, or maybe Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's "The Details of the War" the way he was getting into it. He reminded me of my summer in Colorado and of my many runs that ended in my victory dance lap around the soccer field at the bottom of the mountain in which I ran/skipped/dance to one last song. If I hadn't been running I might have hugged him and thrown an impromptu dance party right there.
A mile and a half later I decided to break out my shot blocks and get some carbs and electrolytes into my system. Try as I might, my little fingers were slightly swollen and numb and I could not for the life of me tear the wrapper. Naturally, I attacked with my teeth. This went of for about 3 minutes. I'm sure I look ridiculous and I have suspicions that I ran sideways, back and forth. Like a drunkard, but not.
Finally I gave up on that end of the wrapper and turned the darned thing around. Same thing. But I managed to make a tiny hole and attacked again, with all my little teeth had in me. I tore away some of the plastic. And. You guessed it. I inhaled it.
So there I am running along sugarhouse park and gagging like a maniac. The good news is I'm pretty no one really paid any attention to me. The other good news is I spat it out, didn't stop running and well, didn't die.
A few minutes later at mile 6 I met up with my parents who were waiting diligently with my vibrams and my dad's camera phone. I was feeling good about my Nike Frees and so I told them to keep the shoes but take my jacket. A quick hug later and I was jumping the curb and turning onto 27th.
I saw two kids from my school along 27th and felt like a superhero seeing their eyes light up as the recognized me running by. Of course, they weren't watching for me but I was the benefactor of their presence nonetheless.
Somewhere between mile 7.5 and 8 my hips started to hurt. I tried to concentrate on maintaining my form. But the pain moved to my knees and my IT band-on both knees. Now it should be known that after 3 months or so of trying to get into running way back in 2009 I hit a wall. That wall was IT band pain. I couldn't get past 3 miles without it and it would put me out of commission for about two weeks every run. That wall is what led to barefoot running and the fact that I never had to deal with that pain once I started barefoot is what kept me doing it. That and the feeling like I was a gazelle when I sprinted at the end of my run. Don't overestimate that gazelle feeling. It totally compensated for torn up, blistered feet.
So here I was at mile 8 and I was in pain that wasn't getting better but worse. it was at this point that I started to wish I had taken the vibrams. Actually, I wished I had just done the whole thing in vibrams and kept asking myself why I thought shoes would be the answer when I hadn't learned to keep my form while running in them....
I ran through the pain til almost mile 10 when I got desperate and called my Dad. I had to start walking. Dad, I said. I think I need my vibrams. My knees are killing me. Do you think you can find me? Not that I didn't know where I was. I just didn't know where I was going to be by the time he could drive to meet me. Basically I was asking him to navigate and tell the future. Sure, he said. Naturally. I held onto my phone waiting his call. Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.
Like a champ, he navigated the side streets of downtown salt lake and met me at liberty park, out of breath because he practically ran to get to me. I plopped on the grass and wrestled to get my feet into the vibrams. I almost left my phone on the grass and decided, on a last minute whim, to keep my shoes after all.
I'd like to say that once in the vibrams everything was as it should be. I'd like to say that I ran the rest of the race.
The truth was, the damage was already done. I got another mile and a half out of the vibrams and while it was wonderful to be in them again, the transition was awkward. I trudged along and luckily I was still running like a champ when I passed another kid from my school. This one I yelled at. Pretty sure I only got his attention because I was waving to him with hands holding bright, clean, white shoes. I like to think that the kids get the same kick out of seeing me as I do from seeing them but I'm pretty sure I get way more out of it. That kept me going another quarter of a mile or so and then I was convinced that whatever muscle or tendons that attached themselves to my knees were going to snap and I stopped to do some stretches. Thus began the stretch, walk, run series that lasted another mile. I can't decide if those stops, those lulls in momentum make things worse or better. All I know is that I was mad at my body. It had never given me that much grief at 8 miles, not even ten. And I had taken those miles easy, slowed down, changed shoes and still no respite from the pain.
I finally decided that the vibrams didn't lend themselves well to speed walking and I changed back into the shoes. The pattern then became run-until-I-start-to-almost-cry and then speed-walk-until-I-am-angry-enough-at-myself-and-the-irony-of-not-hurting-when-I-walk to start running again. I told myself that once I got to the top of the incline leading to main I wasn't allowed to walk anymore. Again, that lasted only 1/5 of a mile when my body started to rebel and threaten what I was sure was snappage. Why do I willingly inflict this much pain on myself, I kept asking myself. I know I'm masochistic but really, self, this time you've taken things too far. It's not like I'm getting a baby out of it. Yes, I was convinced that the only other self-inflicted pain worse than running at that point was childbirth. So I just told myself to take deep breaths.
It didn't matter that I had the best playlist in my history of running playlists. Kings of Leon, Regina, Phoenix, they just weren't taking me outside myself and beyond my pain. Not even Kesha, who I sold out on and actually purchased just for that run. Go ahead and judge me. Your love's not my drug anyway. And you probably don't have a beard.
I was torn with both inspiration for the people who kept running by me and deep resentment for their ability to do so without pain. I wished I was telepathic so that I could know if they were in just as much pain as I was and not being pansies like me just so that I could reverse-pschyologize myself into running without any walking breaks. I tried sprinting, hoping that the obligatory change in form that sprinting necessitated would assuage my grinding joints. No such luck. My muscles, my lungs, everything felt fresh. It was just my joints that cried out in protest.
But that last 1/2 mile, that was golden. I did not stop to walk. I was passed by the man who finished the marathon first. Yes, he had run and finished a full marathon before I could finish a half. It inspired me. The narrowing route and the thickening crowds offered a kind of consolation. As did the notion, which was as good as truth as I thought it, that, like the Grinch's heart, my calves had grown three times their size that day. I would be a liar if I didn't confess to the fact that I love what running (barefoot!) does for my calves. So yes, my own calves inspired me.
Like everyone else at the finish line, I sprinted. There was a moment that I got emotional and I thought I was going to cry but as I was still in pain I thought it best to not start because the emotional tears could get physical. I was probably the only person in all those 8,000 to cross carrying shoes. When I stepped over the finish pad and clocked in my 2:21 I was just so glad to be done with it on the one hand. On the other was the dissatisfied "That's it?! Now what?"
So there you have it, the evolution of Sunny the Runner, from sidewalks to shopping plazas. Am I glad I did it? Yes. Did I become addicted to the race mentality as I feared? No. Will I do it again? Of course.
You see, I live off of dreams, not accomplishments. Having a goal makes feel more alive sometimes than achieving it. If I have a goal, I know where I stand. If I accomplish something, I feel lost in the possibilities of trying to figure out what to do next.
I'm always wanting things to change me. To leave such an imprint on me that I am never the same. I thought that finishing a race would do that to me. I read in a book last night the description of a character: "Manna was one of those people," the author says "who would experience ecstasy but not happiness". I think that I am one of those people who would experience more happiness were I not too preoccupied with waiting for ecstasy. You'd think that I'd have learned by now that the things that change a person happen in the quiet of the journey.
The best thing about this race is that it left something to be desired. Namely, a race RAN in its entirety and in one pair of shoes. My new goal: train on whatever terrain I want and in whatever shoes I want for 16 miles. Do not fall and hit my face. Do not break anything in the process. Then run another half. And run it. Not because that one race will change me. But because of all the sidewalks the cracks the cheers from grass the running skipping dancing laps the feel of the ground beneath my feet the wind in my hair the rain sometimes the pain in my side and of course the pain in my feet the beat in my head the muteness of sprinting in almost bare feet the taste of the sunset at dusk that make me remember give me something to look forward to and make me free.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Play that funky music
10/29/2010
So I've been in a sort of funk that I was going to chalk up to the fact that I haven't run for a week. Just a week. But it feels like an e-tern-i-t-y!
The truth of it is, the funk was pre-run injury. As for the injury, don't ask me what I did. I have done my research. I have formulated theories. It's not that I don't have an answer so much as I don't really care about the what or the how. My question has more to do with the tick tock on the clock (Yes, I did just publicly make a Keisha reference on my blog. I really hate that I love her. But the truth of it is that she just makes me want to dance. Pretty much without fail. And sometimes it's good to remember that buried deep (or sometimes not so deep) inside this composed exterior of mine is still that shameless 19 year old past self). It's not severe enough that I would see a doctor so it's not keeping me up and night. Not in an of itself, that is.
All my researched is driven by the search for the answer to one question: will I be able to run the Halloween half on the 30th? I had my answer last Thursday, when I ran 4 miles against my whole body's will: "Tu rêve?! And so, now another, still undetermined: What about the Vegas Rock n' Roll Half?
I think that the answer is probably a 'heck yes', if not a 'well sure, if you wanna die trying." And this brings me back to the funk. Because the week, maybe the week and a half before I injured myself, I had to force, coerce, compel, even bribe myself to hit the sidewalk. I don't know if it's the shortened days or the evening chill. But I was not enjoying running like I had before. It had started to feel like........work. A few weeks back, I was going to write a post-more like an ode-to barefoot running. I was going to laud the sunsets, my running track, my vibrams in all their smelly glory. I felt like a fraud doing it in the midst of a funk though.
So, maybe an obligatory break was in order.
11/7/2010
Visiting us today is my friendly facebook status:
What!?!? The Vegas half marathon is on a Sunday!? WHY????? Wow, I fail at using calendars. GAH. I feel like a kid who got their favorite toy taken away. Anyone have a rockin workout/running songs/mix they wanna recommend to help pull me back from the brink of depression?
As you might guess, this revelation did nothing to help my funk. It's like, I no longer care to brave the cold weather, dark nights, or the gym. Incidentally, no one had any musical remedies to offer me so I took upon myself to rewrite the soundtrack to my life and I'll eventually get to a workout mix. I reaquainted myself with Pandora and downloaded the new Band of Horses and the new Weepies and am happy as a clam.
The conclusion: I am not depressed. I've been lulled back into contentment with the help of a overwhelmingly busy schedule and a few choice chords. But I think something in me died and I hope when all this yucky weather is gone I can nourish it back to life again.
So I know that's dramatic like wow. But I really did want to write that ode.
Here's to running being a good thing. And a good thing never dies.
So I've been in a sort of funk that I was going to chalk up to the fact that I haven't run for a week. Just a week. But it feels like an e-tern-i-t-y!
The truth of it is, the funk was pre-run injury. As for the injury, don't ask me what I did. I have done my research. I have formulated theories. It's not that I don't have an answer so much as I don't really care about the what or the how. My question has more to do with the tick tock on the clock (Yes, I did just publicly make a Keisha reference on my blog. I really hate that I love her. But the truth of it is that she just makes me want to dance. Pretty much without fail. And sometimes it's good to remember that buried deep (or sometimes not so deep) inside this composed exterior of mine is still that shameless 19 year old past self). It's not severe enough that I would see a doctor so it's not keeping me up and night. Not in an of itself, that is.
All my researched is driven by the search for the answer to one question: will I be able to run the Halloween half on the 30th? I had my answer last Thursday, when I ran 4 miles against my whole body's will: "Tu rêve?! And so, now another, still undetermined: What about the Vegas Rock n' Roll Half?
I think that the answer is probably a 'heck yes', if not a 'well sure, if you wanna die trying." And this brings me back to the funk. Because the week, maybe the week and a half before I injured myself, I had to force, coerce, compel, even bribe myself to hit the sidewalk. I don't know if it's the shortened days or the evening chill. But I was not enjoying running like I had before. It had started to feel like........work. A few weeks back, I was going to write a post-more like an ode-to barefoot running. I was going to laud the sunsets, my running track, my vibrams in all their smelly glory. I felt like a fraud doing it in the midst of a funk though.
So, maybe an obligatory break was in order.
11/7/2010
Visiting us today is my friendly facebook status:
What!?!? The Vegas half marathon is on a Sunday!? WHY????? Wow, I fail at using calendars. GAH. I feel like a kid who got their favorite toy taken away. Anyone have a rockin workout/running songs/mix they wanna recommend to help pull me back from the brink of depression?
As you might guess, this revelation did nothing to help my funk. It's like, I no longer care to brave the cold weather, dark nights, or the gym. Incidentally, no one had any musical remedies to offer me so I took upon myself to rewrite the soundtrack to my life and I'll eventually get to a workout mix. I reaquainted myself with Pandora and downloaded the new Band of Horses and the new Weepies and am happy as a clam.
The conclusion: I am not depressed. I've been lulled back into contentment with the help of a overwhelmingly busy schedule and a few choice chords. But I think something in me died and I hope when all this yucky weather is gone I can nourish it back to life again.
So I know that's dramatic like wow. But I really did want to write that ode.
Here's to running being a good thing. And a good thing never dies.
Friday, July 30, 2010
And those the rainy days they ain't so bad when you're the King (or queen)
Today was stellar. I learned a lot from Carine about patience. And about selflessness. I think most mothers could teach me this but I'm glad I get to learn it here first-hand. Plus she's a real trooper and lets me talk to her in French and then doesn't scold me when I get lazy and revert to English.
So today's highlight was my run. I thought for sure today was going to be MY day. It was drizzling as I was getting my shoes (Vibram's) on and when I took out Polski the dog beforehand. I was so stoked to get soaking wet and run with raindrops dripping down my nose.
As luck would have it, the rain let up the duration of my run and then picked back up once I was home. But the good news is that I put in another 3 miles even though my legs/muscles were not happy with me the last mile or so. I'm pretty sure I didn't do any irreparable damage and I still had tons of energy at the end of the run that had I wanted to risk it, I definitely could have kept going. I should add that it's been a LONG time (pre IT band problems/barefoot adventures) since I've felt that way at the end of 3 miles.
The neighbor was over here yesterday talking to Carine about training for a half in October. Apparently the key is to do two 3 mile runs in the week and then use the weekend for a long run, adding a half mile every week. Honestly, I haven't done the math and until I can break a six mile long run in my vibrams I won't look at races or dates, but that's my new plan. I think it's more effective than trying to run longer every day. Plus on my off days I can take it to the bike and have a hard core yoga session. Next week the plan is 3 miles Monday, Wednesday and a 4 miler Saturday. It's really not an intense schedule from an outsider's perspective but it will push me and it's a schedule. Yay for planning!
So I'm running to an especially awesome mix today. I just downloaded Dog Days are Over by Florence and the Machine who I should have known about earlier but am only now discovering. It's probably all I need to be happy right now. It's like the new and improved story of my life. Somehow. Anyway, I used that song to create a genius mix on my itouch. Let it be known Apple did NOT fail me today.
Well at the end of my run to give me that extra push as I sprint my little heart out I go back to Dog Days. And then the next song comes on, and it's this one. And if I thought life couldn't get any better I was wrong. It was my cool down song and it was nearly dark. So I pulled a Marseille and started busting out skipping/dancing/walking moves on the sidewalk. I got to the park and wanted to ran around/play in the grass but decided Mom would never forgive me if I got struck by lightning there in the middle of a huge open field. Even if I am only 5 foot 4 and would hardly consider myself a target. I can't be out in the rain without hearing her voice telling me to come in. And I got to thinking, that of all the ways to go, lightning would be okay by me; so long as it was quick. And it would be ironic to boot. I mean, my name is a weather pattern; my first word was rain. (I had mentioned this to Alex in passing and yesterday when the neighbor was over he introduced me and elaborated with "Her first word was rain". Kids, they never cease to amaze and amuse). It would only be appropriate you know. Not like I'm gonna tempt fate or anything. Don't worry, Mom, I sometimes still listen to your voice in my head. Though maybe not as often as I should. You can blame Kings of Leon.
So, I'm starting my book summaries. I don't necessarily expect anyone to be interested. But when I was in Highschool I would type up all the favorite quotes/passages of the books I read. I probably have over a hundred pages word document. I think if you're going to write, it's important to identify good writers, what makes them good, and what you like about them. However, I think that the main motivation I have for taking back that old habit is that if I am going to spend the time reading something I should spend the time letting it go through me. And that's not an entirely passive process. I have a lot of books I want to read; I won't always have time to go back and reread books if I want to read new ones. So I have to make them count.
Here goes with that effort. In the meantime, some words of inspiration from Nicole Krauss. Who may or may not be some kind of soul mate. Anyway, I love this. And I hate it; because I wish I had written it. But you can't hate truth; it's what sets you free. So I love. Mostly.
"Why does one begin to write? Because she feels misunderstood, I guess. Because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak. Because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost. Because it's something to do to pass the time until she is old enough to experience the things she writes about."
Amen, girl. A-freaking-men.
So today's highlight was my run. I thought for sure today was going to be MY day. It was drizzling as I was getting my shoes (Vibram's) on and when I took out Polski the dog beforehand. I was so stoked to get soaking wet and run with raindrops dripping down my nose.
As luck would have it, the rain let up the duration of my run and then picked back up once I was home. But the good news is that I put in another 3 miles even though my legs/muscles were not happy with me the last mile or so. I'm pretty sure I didn't do any irreparable damage and I still had tons of energy at the end of the run that had I wanted to risk it, I definitely could have kept going. I should add that it's been a LONG time (pre IT band problems/barefoot adventures) since I've felt that way at the end of 3 miles.
The neighbor was over here yesterday talking to Carine about training for a half in October. Apparently the key is to do two 3 mile runs in the week and then use the weekend for a long run, adding a half mile every week. Honestly, I haven't done the math and until I can break a six mile long run in my vibrams I won't look at races or dates, but that's my new plan. I think it's more effective than trying to run longer every day. Plus on my off days I can take it to the bike and have a hard core yoga session. Next week the plan is 3 miles Monday, Wednesday and a 4 miler Saturday. It's really not an intense schedule from an outsider's perspective but it will push me and it's a schedule. Yay for planning!
So I'm running to an especially awesome mix today. I just downloaded Dog Days are Over by Florence and the Machine who I should have known about earlier but am only now discovering. It's probably all I need to be happy right now. It's like the new and improved story of my life. Somehow. Anyway, I used that song to create a genius mix on my itouch. Let it be known Apple did NOT fail me today.
Well at the end of my run to give me that extra push as I sprint my little heart out I go back to Dog Days. And then the next song comes on, and it's this one. And if I thought life couldn't get any better I was wrong. It was my cool down song and it was nearly dark. So I pulled a Marseille and started busting out skipping/dancing/walking moves on the sidewalk. I got to the park and wanted to ran around/play in the grass but decided Mom would never forgive me if I got struck by lightning there in the middle of a huge open field. Even if I am only 5 foot 4 and would hardly consider myself a target. I can't be out in the rain without hearing her voice telling me to come in. And I got to thinking, that of all the ways to go, lightning would be okay by me; so long as it was quick. And it would be ironic to boot. I mean, my name is a weather pattern; my first word was rain. (I had mentioned this to Alex in passing and yesterday when the neighbor was over he introduced me and elaborated with "Her first word was rain". Kids, they never cease to amaze and amuse). It would only be appropriate you know. Not like I'm gonna tempt fate or anything. Don't worry, Mom, I sometimes still listen to your voice in my head. Though maybe not as often as I should. You can blame Kings of Leon.
***************Abrupt Transition*******************
So, I'm starting my book summaries. I don't necessarily expect anyone to be interested. But when I was in Highschool I would type up all the favorite quotes/passages of the books I read. I probably have over a hundred pages word document. I think if you're going to write, it's important to identify good writers, what makes them good, and what you like about them. However, I think that the main motivation I have for taking back that old habit is that if I am going to spend the time reading something I should spend the time letting it go through me. And that's not an entirely passive process. I have a lot of books I want to read; I won't always have time to go back and reread books if I want to read new ones. So I have to make them count.
Here goes with that effort. In the meantime, some words of inspiration from Nicole Krauss. Who may or may not be some kind of soul mate. Anyway, I love this. And I hate it; because I wish I had written it. But you can't hate truth; it's what sets you free. So I love. Mostly.
"Why does one begin to write? Because she feels misunderstood, I guess. Because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak. Because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost. Because it's something to do to pass the time until she is old enough to experience the things she writes about."
Amen, girl. A-freaking-men.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
This is me proving Zack wrong: a favorite pastime.
Today's run could merit a post all on its own. I set goals for myself last night as far as running and working out and it's doing wonders already. Case in point: I woke up feeling sick to my stomach and weak. I can't decide it this is actually a result of my running. My Dr. says that "running is hard on the female body" and that always makes me want to say, with some indignity "NOT fair". Anyway, I can't decide if it's the running that's doing a number on my "female body" or if it's just doing a number on my hypoglycemia. I wake up most mornings with a stomachache. I teeter-totter all day between being starving and force feeding myself because I have no appetite. I wouldn't be surprised if I'm not eating enough to compensate for the calories I burn. And if the heat is just too hot. Fancy that.
ANYway, my retarded body aside, I forced myself to go running this evening. It was delicious. Had my itouch, a storm coming in at my back and to-do lists running through my head. At the start of my run I passed this guy in a park on a bench. He had a huge water bottle and was writing in a notebook. "He's a writer for sure," I told myself. Then "I wonder what he's writing."
I ended my run and did my stretches in that same park. I ended with some cartwheels and when I was done I noticed that the guy was still there, standing and facing me. It looked like he was sewing up his pants-they had holes everywhere. And as I was laying there on the grass raindrops started to fall and I wanted to go back to running again until I was soaked all the way through. Yet I knew that I would be overdoing it if I did. So I thought, well, I could just stay here and lay here and let it soak me. But the rain was slow in coming and there was this dad playing ball with his son eyeing me. And there was this guy, on the bench but not on the bench. Because he was standing. And I didn't want either of them to think I was sticking around because of them. But the truth of it is, I really wanted to walk over and sit on that bench. And talk to that guy because he looked like someone interesting. Totally out of the ordinary. And I just wanted to soak it all in. And maybe get soaked by the rain to boot.
But I didn't want him to think I was hitting on him. That's what I hate about life these days is that you can't just walk up to someone and be interested in them without them thinking you're hitting on them. It's bad enough with guys but it's way worse with girls. I mean, I always feel awkward around girls. Which is really too bad because there are a lot of interesting ones out there but I feel like I have to pretend not to be too interested or else they get weirded out. The games are totally sick. And the truth about people who aren't in the ordinary is that you never know with them. The other truth is that I sometimes go home and take notes about them because they have great paper-back potential. Which is totally normal, I mean Steinbeck did it and all, but I didn't quite have a clean conscious on the whole thing. So I got in my car and drove home.
And vowed that before going back to Utah I am getting soaked in a rainstorm and the next Jack Kerouac moment I have, I'm taking it.
ON ANOTHER NOTE. A very long-winded one.
Today's to-do list gets several major checks. The first one being I finally emailed the grad advisor at BYU to figure out the best way to do the letter of recommendation thing. I haven't taken a class in 4 years (going on 5) and my French is at least 4 times better than when I graduated. I couldn't even use the subjunctive for crying out loud. ( Oh subjunctive. I thought you were the bane of my existence until subjunctive in Spanish came along to haunt so many of my Montreal dreams.)
So my options are to either get a recommendation from an old teacher on outdated ability or go back to school, paying $1000 and inconveniencing everyone at work because the class is midday to go back and retake a class I took junior year. Is it any wonder why every time I break out my GRE book to study that I lack motivation? Yeah, this things needs to become a reality and it needs to do that fast.
That is, IF I go into French. I've been at this decision since 2005 and it has yet to be made. So lame.
The reason being that I'm still torn about not pursuing an English degree. Especially after reading this most terrific and inspiring book "Mindset". My work bought it for us to read this summer and I finished it in a matter of days. I have to say really quick that when I went back into the school to pick it up before returning to Colorado after going to Yellowstone that I totally got emotional walking through those doors. How much better can life get when you have a job that not only continually cultivates your mind but also feels makes you feel so good that when you come back from being away it makes you want to cry? K, so maybe I should clarify that those are tears of joy. I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen, that life doesn't get much better. Sometimes I don't know why I feel the need to leave.
I'll leave the sappiness and book-reporting for later because I have a couple of other books I want to cover as well. But I do want to say that the book brought me to one major realization about my writing aspirations: in the course of my college career in the English dept I came to believe that you either were a born writer, or that you weren't. And I never pursued English because I thought I was; I did it because I liked it and then had enough credits to graduate.
I was never the kid with a stack of different moleskin notebooks and fountain pens that flashed across pages so fast it could make you sick. I never had a satchel bag for my un-moleskin notebook and un-fountain pen. I wasn't "burdened" by the need to write-the 'sign' of a 'true artist', was well groomed and said "like" too much. I believed that writing came easier to me than other things, that I had a "knack" for poetry. But I never believed I was a "natural". And poetry doesn't even sell so that doesn't even count. Point here is, I wasn't very open to learning how to write. I accepted my limitations.
And I've started to wonder what might happen if I tackled writing like I tackled French. Reading this mindset book has me realizing that just because we have a certain mindset-a closed or open one-toward one thing doesn't mean that we carry that through to other things. Even in the world of academia. The trick is to identify your mindset towards everything in life and tweak it. In English, I accepted any strengths and defeats as inevitable; in French I was convinced that if I worked hard enough, even if that meant studying abroad and reading 60 pages aloud every night, I would one day get it. The irony here is that people tell me all the time I must have a gift for learning languages. And I laugh and try to get them to understand just how unnatural languages used to come to me; that I had a strong desire to defy my ineptness and I worked hard and taught myself how to teach myself the tricks to learning a language. That anyone could do that.
I think a huge part of what I love about French it what learning it has taught me about me. French has brought me to cities wrought with memories of people and feelings and fears and discomfort that turned into delicious familiarity that I wouldn't have experienced otherwise. French brought me to my job that I love. It brought me here, to Colorado. It brought me faith in the power of boldness and of sacrificing.
It's only too appropriate now to quote from the Little Prince, another thing that French brought me and that changed me. For any of you who don't know it, it won't do just to quote from one part and you really should read it but until then I'll copy this section:
All chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat . . . "
ANYway, my retarded body aside, I forced myself to go running this evening. It was delicious. Had my itouch, a storm coming in at my back and to-do lists running through my head. At the start of my run I passed this guy in a park on a bench. He had a huge water bottle and was writing in a notebook. "He's a writer for sure," I told myself. Then "I wonder what he's writing."
I ended my run and did my stretches in that same park. I ended with some cartwheels and when I was done I noticed that the guy was still there, standing and facing me. It looked like he was sewing up his pants-they had holes everywhere. And as I was laying there on the grass raindrops started to fall and I wanted to go back to running again until I was soaked all the way through. Yet I knew that I would be overdoing it if I did. So I thought, well, I could just stay here and lay here and let it soak me. But the rain was slow in coming and there was this dad playing ball with his son eyeing me. And there was this guy, on the bench but not on the bench. Because he was standing. And I didn't want either of them to think I was sticking around because of them. But the truth of it is, I really wanted to walk over and sit on that bench. And talk to that guy because he looked like someone interesting. Totally out of the ordinary. And I just wanted to soak it all in. And maybe get soaked by the rain to boot.
But I didn't want him to think I was hitting on him. That's what I hate about life these days is that you can't just walk up to someone and be interested in them without them thinking you're hitting on them. It's bad enough with guys but it's way worse with girls. I mean, I always feel awkward around girls. Which is really too bad because there are a lot of interesting ones out there but I feel like I have to pretend not to be too interested or else they get weirded out. The games are totally sick. And the truth about people who aren't in the ordinary is that you never know with them. The other truth is that I sometimes go home and take notes about them because they have great paper-back potential. Which is totally normal, I mean Steinbeck did it and all, but I didn't quite have a clean conscious on the whole thing. So I got in my car and drove home.
And vowed that before going back to Utah I am getting soaked in a rainstorm and the next Jack Kerouac moment I have, I'm taking it.
************************************************************************
ON ANOTHER NOTE. A very long-winded one.
Today's to-do list gets several major checks. The first one being I finally emailed the grad advisor at BYU to figure out the best way to do the letter of recommendation thing. I haven't taken a class in 4 years (going on 5) and my French is at least 4 times better than when I graduated. I couldn't even use the subjunctive for crying out loud. ( Oh subjunctive. I thought you were the bane of my existence until subjunctive in Spanish came along to haunt so many of my Montreal dreams.)
So my options are to either get a recommendation from an old teacher on outdated ability or go back to school, paying $1000 and inconveniencing everyone at work because the class is midday to go back and retake a class I took junior year. Is it any wonder why every time I break out my GRE book to study that I lack motivation? Yeah, this things needs to become a reality and it needs to do that fast.
That is, IF I go into French. I've been at this decision since 2005 and it has yet to be made. So lame.
The reason being that I'm still torn about not pursuing an English degree. Especially after reading this most terrific and inspiring book "Mindset". My work bought it for us to read this summer and I finished it in a matter of days. I have to say really quick that when I went back into the school to pick it up before returning to Colorado after going to Yellowstone that I totally got emotional walking through those doors. How much better can life get when you have a job that not only continually cultivates your mind but also feels makes you feel so good that when you come back from being away it makes you want to cry? K, so maybe I should clarify that those are tears of joy. I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen, that life doesn't get much better. Sometimes I don't know why I feel the need to leave.
I'll leave the sappiness and book-reporting for later because I have a couple of other books I want to cover as well. But I do want to say that the book brought me to one major realization about my writing aspirations: in the course of my college career in the English dept I came to believe that you either were a born writer, or that you weren't. And I never pursued English because I thought I was; I did it because I liked it and then had enough credits to graduate.
I was never the kid with a stack of different moleskin notebooks and fountain pens that flashed across pages so fast it could make you sick. I never had a satchel bag for my un-moleskin notebook and un-fountain pen. I wasn't "burdened" by the need to write-the 'sign' of a 'true artist', was well groomed and said "like" too much. I believed that writing came easier to me than other things, that I had a "knack" for poetry. But I never believed I was a "natural". And poetry doesn't even sell so that doesn't even count. Point here is, I wasn't very open to learning how to write. I accepted my limitations.
And I've started to wonder what might happen if I tackled writing like I tackled French. Reading this mindset book has me realizing that just because we have a certain mindset-a closed or open one-toward one thing doesn't mean that we carry that through to other things. Even in the world of academia. The trick is to identify your mindset towards everything in life and tweak it. In English, I accepted any strengths and defeats as inevitable; in French I was convinced that if I worked hard enough, even if that meant studying abroad and reading 60 pages aloud every night, I would one day get it. The irony here is that people tell me all the time I must have a gift for learning languages. And I laugh and try to get them to understand just how unnatural languages used to come to me; that I had a strong desire to defy my ineptness and I worked hard and taught myself how to teach myself the tricks to learning a language. That anyone could do that.
I think a huge part of what I love about French it what learning it has taught me about me. French has brought me to cities wrought with memories of people and feelings and fears and discomfort that turned into delicious familiarity that I wouldn't have experienced otherwise. French brought me to my job that I love. It brought me here, to Colorado. It brought me faith in the power of boldness and of sacrificing.
It's only too appropriate now to quote from the Little Prince, another thing that French brought me and that changed me. For any of you who don't know it, it won't do just to quote from one part and you really should read it but until then I'll copy this section:
***********************************
"Come and play with me," proposed the little prince, "I am so unhappy."
"I cannot play with you," the fox said, "I am not tamed."
"Ah please excuse me," said the little prince. But after some thought, he added: "What does that mean--'tame'?"
"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. "It means to establish ties.""To establish ties?"
"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ."
"I am beginning to understand," said the little prince. "There is a flower . . . I think she has tamed me . . . "
"It is possible," said the fox. "On earth one sees all sorts of things."
"My life is very monotonous," [the fox] said. "I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat . . . "The fox gazed at the little prince, for a long time. "Please--tame me!" he said.
"I want to, very much," the little prince replied. "But I have not much time. I have friends to discover, and a great many things to understand."
"One only understands the things that one tames," said the fox. "Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all ready made at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me . . . "
"What must I do, to tame you? asked the little prince.
"You must be very patient," replied the fox. First you will sit down at a little distance from me--like that--in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day . . . "
The next day the little prince came back.
........So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near--
"Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."
"It is your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you . . . "
"Yes, that is so," said the fox.
"But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince.
"Yes, that is so," said the fox.
"Then it has done you no good at all!"
"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields." And then he added: "Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret."
The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.
"You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made a friend, and now he is unique in all the world."
And the roses were very much embarrassed.
"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose."
And he went back to meet the fox. "Goodbye," he said. "Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."
"What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.
"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.'"It is the time I have wasted for my rose---" said the little prince so he would be sure to remember.
"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose . . . "
"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.
***********************************
Someone once told me that the root of the word "sacrifice" came from French. Faire: to make, and Sacré: sacred. To sacrifice for something makes that thing sacred to you.
I have sacrificed a lot for French. In a sense, it has tamed me. Now I am realizing that I, if I did the same thing for English, well who knows what might happen. The trouble of it all is that the price to pay is a high one. I would have to probably enroll as an undergrad again. Take some more classes and make a concentrated effort to get published more. Creative writing programs are super competitive. And the risk is that you come out a better writer but at the risk of losing your voice and sounding like every other MFA grad.
So I have some research to do and some commitment to make here soon. And I share all of this in detail because a) this is what happens when you (okay, I) deprive me (myself) of my telephone and facebook and b) because I finished reading The Alchemist today and it's all about the discovery of your "personal legend" and of not being afraid to follow it. And I think that I am not the only one trying to figure out what mine is and so the sharing of the details isn't too excessive. At least I hope.
Now,
I was giving advice to a friend who was trying to decide what to do the other day and I decided to take it into account. Like every other person out there, I give great advice; following it and applying it to myself is the real trick. The advice I gave her was to put out in her mind the things she wanted to do. And in order to figure out where her priority lies, to tell herself which of the things, if she ended up not having it or doing it, would hang over her as a regret the rest of her life. Now, I'm not about living in fear of regret. But I think that it helps to put things into perspective.
In prep for grad school I have also been playing with the idea of taking a year off to travel beforehand. A sort of Eat, Pray, Love thing. I love taking the summers off but experiences are different when you know something is short-term versus long term. And I keep telling myself that writers can only write what they know. And that the only way to learn the world is to live it.
I was giving my sister, Lis, some awesome advice that I have been reflecting on as well. She was talking about school and a mission and a job and traveling, etc. And I told her that school is something she will end up doing because the world will require that of her. And she will end up getting a job and then finding better jobs because the world will require that of her too. These are the things that just kind of happen to us in life for the most part: inevitabilities. But traveling is different. Traveling is not an inevitability.
I got an email today about internships in Brussels. I have been thinking a lot about next summer. About needing to leave the country. And I have to ask myself, "If life were to happen but it would mean your traveling days are over-or at least for the next couple of years-would you have any regrets?
And the truth is I don't know. But 'I-don't-know' is not 'no'. And if the answer is 'yes' then I have some figuring out to do.
I'll get around to typing up my book reports later. The mere habit speaks volumes on just how much I need to go back to school. Or join a book club. I have "A History of Love", "My Name is Asher Lev", "Screwtape Letters", "Mindset", and "The Alchemist" to cover in quotes. For you but mostly for me. But also for you because maybe you will be inspired to read them and if you don't have time well then I spared you the trouble and handed you the best parts on a silver platter, free of charge.
**********************************************************************************
Oh silly Zack. You though I was gonna cave by day two. You obviously underestimated my ability to converse with myself in equally exhaustive ramblings via this blog. I win.
Friday, February 26, 2010
A good example of why it is good to have an idea of what you want to write about before you sit down to write.
I have a new goal. I made it today:
write in blog at least once a month.
I try to keep at least some things in life simple. (Proper to contrary belief.) Yes, that was intentional dyslexia. It's a Liz-ism and the full sentence in which it was coined is as follows: "Proper to contrary belief, I am NOT a man". Apparently she thought we were the ones confused.
Anyway, it's the end of the month. As is now habit, I start this post with nothing more than excuses to compel me onward.
First off I have to confess my ambiguous sentiments toward the blogosphere. I feel like I'm echoing my first post here, but when I think of blogs and blogging, several words come to mind:
love. hate. awe (as in wonder). awe (as in awful). envy. denial of said envy. egocentricity. hypocrisy.
and sweet justification.
See, part of me thinks that blogging is kinda evil. In the same way that Facebook is evil. In that it's takes keeping up with the Jones's to a whole new and totally-too-hip-for-anyone's-true- good-ish level. Like I remember being on my mission and having something happen and thinking "perfect status update". Like everyone would be better off for seeing how awesome my life was or how funny I am. And I mean let's face it, blog-stalking blows any other forms of stalking out the window. It's feels so wrong to read the intricacies of another person's life. And yet, so right. Maybe the only ambiguity here is me, but I can't believe that harboring opposing opinions and feelings on a subject is all that healthy so I just have to get this out there. It's such a self-centered mentality that is being nurtured here, this million-and-one-ways to express one's self culture that we live in. And then there's the hours you waste in front of screen, whether reading or writing, and to what real end? Are there not books to be read, places to be visited, and people in our lives who need, US, in all our flesh and blood glory, to do things that cannot be done with mouse and keyboard?
I want to be too big of a person for it. But I'm not. I'm just little sunny. And sometimes, it is like my siren call.
So for this reason I sometimes stay away from posting anything here. Because I don't want to loathe myself afterward for being so self-involved. It occurred to me that maybe I would feel better if I followed other people's blogs. A kind of "I'll feel better about wanting you to read mine if I read yours". But then there's the threat of living vicariously (a dangerous drug) or you end up coveting this or that that someone else has or does or is or, on the other hand, you figuratively walk away a little too self-satisfied.
I'm starting to feel like the evil of blogging all comes from me and that I'm just projecting it here and that maybe I'm being too honest. So I hope I don't offend anyone.
So my goal number two is do the blog thing in moderation. (Which is the obvious answer, but I feel is easier said than done). I can't swear off of it because I think there is something about writing and knowing that someone might read it that compels me to do, live, and become more. If nothing else, it is the thing that gets me writing; gets the rambling, bad writing, out of my system so that I can move on to something more worthwhile. For this reason I have dubbed it a necessary evil, and one that I should do (ever so slightly) more of.
So I am going to try to balance things out. Follow some blogs, set some limits, and above all try to write things that are worth (a relative term, thank my stars) writing and reading, even if only for my sanity. Well I realized, just today, in fact,that I don't even know how to follow another person's blog. So if anyone knows how, please let me know.
Apart from blogging about blogging, I don't have a whole lot to say that fits my new parameters.
But I can say that since January I have come across a few things are worth sharing.
The first is this book:
Yes, it is The Little Prince. And it pops up.
One of my girls from class brought it in while we were doing a little unit on the book. My copy is officially in the mail.
I have such a thing for children's books. I can't usually get through this book without crying. It's pretty sad. (My crying, not the book).
For those of you who have never read it, it will change your lives. Here's a copy of the book's dedication, and it gives you a fair idea of what to expect from the book itself.
Thirdly, my voyage into the realm of barefoot running has been an adventure so far. I was trying to train for a half marathon in April. I haven't run over 4 miles in over 2 months and haven't run over 5 miles ever. But I'm not going to stress it because right now I'm working of perfecting my form by going barefoot. The mileage will come, I tell myself. But I have to say that barefoot running has been the best thing ever to happen to my calves. Sure, they hurt like nothing else afterward, but man are they starting to look good. This might sound like vanity to some, but if you saw me during my awkward years (8-18) you would understand that I have a right to rejoice over not having chicken legs. I earned it by the sweat of my brow. Quite literally.
Now I'm not trying to sway anyone here or anything, since my Barefoot sejour has been a short, and I consider, incomplete, but I do have to tout the awesomeness which is sprinting at the end of a run. I couldn't believe my legs the first time I tried it. It's like they weren't even there and I was just flying. I can't wait for spring to come so I can get out and really get my feet dirty.
So two months of the year are pretty much gone and I only have two books read to show for it. If you were to tell me that 2010 would be the year in which I only read a book a month I would be really depressed but that's what it's shaping up to be unless I learn stop wasting my time googleing why this or that is hurting me, the tastiest chocolate granola recipe, the healthiest chocolate granola, how to substitute tasty ingredients for healthy ones, and what the best rice cooker is and is a rice cooker even worth having in the first place if you are just one person and don't eat rice every day. Honestly, these are things I have wasted hours on the past couple of weeks.
But I finally did manage to finish Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" even our book club still hasn't met and may never again. I'll join a book club and spare you all my musings on that subject.
For Valentines day weekend I was under the weather and decided to pamper myself. I picked up an old childhood favorite, one that ingrained in me the belief that I had writing in my blood and that that blood was Scottish. I can't be objective where this book is concerned as it is probably the book I have read the most throughout my life and encompasses a lot of memories. How good it really is I cannot fairly say but it was definitely a guilty pleasure reading this again:
My major accomplishment for the month of February was finishing the introduction of Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath, a book I've been dying to read for years. The intro was way tedious but now that I'm reading it, I'm glad I went to the effort of plodding through the intro even if it did scare me away quite a bit from the actual text itself.
Well, I think I probably got all my venting about blogging out of the way and, sufficiently excused, I hope to write next time without reservation.
In case you were wondering, on my list of purchases for next month is my own pair of little pink shorts. Ned's getting pretty sick of me always taking hers. I can't wait to see what scandalous little number I will end up with.
write in blog at least once a month.
I try to keep at least some things in life simple. (Proper to contrary belief.) Yes, that was intentional dyslexia. It's a Liz-ism and the full sentence in which it was coined is as follows: "Proper to contrary belief, I am NOT a man". Apparently she thought we were the ones confused.
Anyway, it's the end of the month. As is now habit, I start this post with nothing more than excuses to compel me onward.
First off I have to confess my ambiguous sentiments toward the blogosphere. I feel like I'm echoing my first post here, but when I think of blogs and blogging, several words come to mind:
love. hate. awe (as in wonder). awe (as in awful). envy. denial of said envy. egocentricity. hypocrisy.
and sweet justification.
See, part of me thinks that blogging is kinda evil. In the same way that Facebook is evil. In that it's takes keeping up with the Jones's to a whole new and totally-too-hip-for-anyone's-true- good-ish level. Like I remember being on my mission and having something happen and thinking "perfect status update". Like everyone would be better off for seeing how awesome my life was or how funny I am. And I mean let's face it, blog-stalking blows any other forms of stalking out the window. It's feels so wrong to read the intricacies of another person's life. And yet, so right. Maybe the only ambiguity here is me, but I can't believe that harboring opposing opinions and feelings on a subject is all that healthy so I just have to get this out there. It's such a self-centered mentality that is being nurtured here, this million-and-one-ways to express one's self culture that we live in. And then there's the hours you waste in front of screen, whether reading or writing, and to what real end? Are there not books to be read, places to be visited, and people in our lives who need, US, in all our flesh and blood glory, to do things that cannot be done with mouse and keyboard?
I want to be too big of a person for it. But I'm not. I'm just little sunny. And sometimes, it is like my siren call.
So for this reason I sometimes stay away from posting anything here. Because I don't want to loathe myself afterward for being so self-involved. It occurred to me that maybe I would feel better if I followed other people's blogs. A kind of "I'll feel better about wanting you to read mine if I read yours". But then there's the threat of living vicariously (a dangerous drug) or you end up coveting this or that that someone else has or does or is or, on the other hand, you figuratively walk away a little too self-satisfied.
I'm starting to feel like the evil of blogging all comes from me and that I'm just projecting it here and that maybe I'm being too honest. So I hope I don't offend anyone.
So my goal number two is do the blog thing in moderation. (Which is the obvious answer, but I feel is easier said than done). I can't swear off of it because I think there is something about writing and knowing that someone might read it that compels me to do, live, and become more. If nothing else, it is the thing that gets me writing; gets the rambling, bad writing, out of my system so that I can move on to something more worthwhile. For this reason I have dubbed it a necessary evil, and one that I should do (ever so slightly) more of.
So I am going to try to balance things out. Follow some blogs, set some limits, and above all try to write things that are worth (a relative term, thank my stars) writing and reading, even if only for my sanity. Well I realized, just today, in fact,that I don't even know how to follow another person's blog. So if anyone knows how, please let me know.
Apart from blogging about blogging, I don't have a whole lot to say that fits my new parameters.
But I can say that since January I have come across a few things are worth sharing.
The first is this book:
Yes, it is The Little Prince. And it pops up.
One of my girls from class brought it in while we were doing a little unit on the book. My copy is officially in the mail.
I have such a thing for children's books. I can't usually get through this book without crying. It's pretty sad. (My crying, not the book).
For those of you who have never read it, it will change your lives. Here's a copy of the book's dedication, and it gives you a fair idea of what to expect from the book itself.
TO LEON WERTH
I ask the indulgence of the children who may read this book for dedicating it to a grown-up. I have a serious reason: he is the best friend I have in the world. I have another reason: this grown-up understands everything, even books about children. I have a third reason: he lives in France where he is hungry and cold. He needs cheering up. If all these reasons are not enough, I will dedicate the book to the child from whom this grown-up grew. All grown-ups were once children-- although few of them remember it. And so I correct my dedication:
TO LEON WERTH
WHEN HE WAS A LITTLE BOY
Thirdly, my voyage into the realm of barefoot running has been an adventure so far. I was trying to train for a half marathon in April. I haven't run over 4 miles in over 2 months and haven't run over 5 miles ever. But I'm not going to stress it because right now I'm working of perfecting my form by going barefoot. The mileage will come, I tell myself. But I have to say that barefoot running has been the best thing ever to happen to my calves. Sure, they hurt like nothing else afterward, but man are they starting to look good. This might sound like vanity to some, but if you saw me during my awkward years (8-18) you would understand that I have a right to rejoice over not having chicken legs. I earned it by the sweat of my brow. Quite literally.
Now I'm not trying to sway anyone here or anything, since my Barefoot sejour has been a short, and I consider, incomplete, but I do have to tout the awesomeness which is sprinting at the end of a run. I couldn't believe my legs the first time I tried it. It's like they weren't even there and I was just flying. I can't wait for spring to come so I can get out and really get my feet dirty.
So two months of the year are pretty much gone and I only have two books read to show for it. If you were to tell me that 2010 would be the year in which I only read a book a month I would be really depressed but that's what it's shaping up to be unless I learn stop wasting my time googleing why this or that is hurting me, the tastiest chocolate granola recipe, the healthiest chocolate granola, how to substitute tasty ingredients for healthy ones, and what the best rice cooker is and is a rice cooker even worth having in the first place if you are just one person and don't eat rice every day. Honestly, these are things I have wasted hours on the past couple of weeks.
But I finally did manage to finish Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" even our book club still hasn't met and may never again. I'll join a book club and spare you all my musings on that subject.
For Valentines day weekend I was under the weather and decided to pamper myself. I picked up an old childhood favorite, one that ingrained in me the belief that I had writing in my blood and that that blood was Scottish. I can't be objective where this book is concerned as it is probably the book I have read the most throughout my life and encompasses a lot of memories. How good it really is I cannot fairly say but it was definitely a guilty pleasure reading this again:
My major accomplishment for the month of February was finishing the introduction of Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath, a book I've been dying to read for years. The intro was way tedious but now that I'm reading it, I'm glad I went to the effort of plodding through the intro even if it did scare me away quite a bit from the actual text itself.
Well, I think I probably got all my venting about blogging out of the way and, sufficiently excused, I hope to write next time without reservation.
In case you were wondering, on my list of purchases for next month is my own pair of little pink shorts. Ned's getting pretty sick of me always taking hers. I can't wait to see what scandalous little number I will end up with.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Frolicking
I'm not gonna lie, one of my major motivating factors to work out is the chance to slip into some short pajama shorts. My legs miss the freedom of pre-mission days like you would even believe. Frolic is the most cupcake word possible but you know what, that is what them shorts inspire: frolicking. Teaspoon, my youngest sister, has the cutest American Eagle shorts. They are pink and short and plaid and incredibly girly. I don't own shorts anymore, much less pajama shorts. She lets me borrow them and it is like slipping on a token of my summer-time youth. Now, I'm not scandalous or anything, but honestly, every girl should be allowed to run around her own basement in a pair of pink skimpies.
Thanks to running, a treadmill, bare feet and the bitter cold, I get to do that a few times a week.
Life is good. Good enough for me to begin, and end, in under 150 words; a rarity.
Almost a delicacy, but not quite.
Thanks to running, a treadmill, bare feet and the bitter cold, I get to do that a few times a week.
Life is good. Good enough for me to begin, and end, in under 150 words; a rarity.
Almost a delicacy, but not quite.