I wait and I tell myself, 'Life ain't chess'.

It should be known that thanks to Room on Fire, my favorite Stroke's album, I do actually stop and tell myself "Life ain't chess" when I am freaking out (frequently) about this or that. And it totally soothes. The imagery is perfect: I imagine the chess board set and laid out in front of me as I scrutinize and try to plan my next move. The futility of the scene is exaggerated by the fact that I don't know how to play chess. Like, at all. Most of what I know I learned from Harry Potter and let's be honest, so did you. Naturally, in a jest slightly more vehement than throwing up my hands in the air, I imagine myself knocking the chess board off those dainty chess tables and watching it fall to the ground, a storm of black and white. "Life ain't chess". With such violent imaginings (I love this word, by the way) it should come as no surprise to those who know me well that this kind of phantom role playing should soothe me.

The irony is perhaps that other thing that helps me in moments of wannabe crisis is repeating what M's mom says: "Am I on fire? No." Which is to say that I'm not a gonner (yet) and so not only could things be worse, but I am in a place to stop all the inward worry and turn it to outward action and make things better. Maybe I should, in honor of Julien Casablancas, rephrase that one: Am I in a room on fire? No.

Oh Julien.

Today's post is a direct result of my being a self-help book junkie. I'm not going to divulge the book I found myself reading (in my defense, it came to me through a set of old books someone asked me to go through and take what tempted me) but I'll indicate that the title of the chapter is: Get Comfortable Not Knowing. I'm just going to type it in here and let it speak for itself. As for me, I will now be adding the mantra "maybe so, maybe not". Third [mantra] is the charm, right?

"There once was a village that had among its people a very wise old man. The villagers trusted this man to provide them answers to their questions and concerns.

One day, a farmer from the village went to the wise man and said in a frantic tone, "Wise man, help me. A horrible thing has happened. My ox has died and I have no animal to help me plow my field! Isn't this the worst thing that could have possible happened?" The wise old man replied, "Maybe so, maybe not." The man hurried back to the village and reported to his neighbors that the wise man had gone mad. Surely this was the worst thing that could have happened. Why couldn't he see this?

The very next day, however, a strong, young horse was seen near the man's farm. Because the man had no ox to rely on, he had the idea to catch the horse to replace his ox-and he dd. How joyful the farmer was. Plowing the field had never been easier. He went back to the wise man to apologize. "You were right, wise man. Losing my ox wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. It was a blessing in disguise! I never would have captured my new horse had that not happened. You must agree that this is the best thing that could have happened." The wise man replied once again, "Maybe so, maybe not." Not again, thought the farmer. Surely the wise man had gone mad now.

But. once again, the farmer did not know what was to happen. A few days later the farmer's son was riding the horse and was thrown off. He broke his leg and would not be able to help with the crop. Oh no, thought the man. Now we will starve to death. Once again, the farmer went to the wise man. This time he said, "How did you know that capturing my horse was not a good thing? You were right again. My son is injured and won't be able to help with the crop. This time I'm sure that this is the worse thing that could have possible happened. You must agree this time." But, just as he had done before, the wise man looked at the farmer and in a compassionate tone replied once again, "Maybe so, maybe not". Enraged that the wise man could be so ignorant, the farmer stormed back to the village.

The next day troops arrived to take every able-bodied man to the war that had just broken out. The farmer's son was the only young man in the village who didn't have to go. He would live, while the others would surely die.

The moral of the story: If we keep our cool and stay open to possibilities, we can be reasonably certain that, eventually, all will be well.

Veni vidi vici

Fact: I live in Provo.
Subfact: I have no job, know only a handful of people, still cannot go running, have 4 new roommates. In Provo.

I'd like to welcome you to summer blogfest 2011. It will be a lot like summer 2009, only less exotic though perhaps just as foreign. This is Provo, after all. It will probably also be a lot like summer 2010; then as now, I had no social life to speak of and had to undertake little adventures and blog all too frequently to feel like I was still getting my kicks. Let's just hope I watch less television this year and read more books.


At least for the first part of the summer, I think you can expect my posts to deal with my limited surroundings; namely, my house.

I'd like to take this time to blame my parents for spoiling me with a suite-like bedroom peppered with aesthetic flare. Because of them, I have prematurely acquired a lot of stuff, some of which serves no other purpose than to look quaint. (Conversely, I take all blame for the six boxes of books I just unpacked). Then there is whole British empire thing I've got going on: the need to have lots of room and then to take it over! (With French paraphernalia, obviously) Thus it was that my search for an apartment orbited around these deeply ingrained needs.

Last time around, I scoped out a ward, find a girl that I thought I could live with and respect and almost agreed to living with her before even seeing the room itself. The whole thing was seamless: I walked into a ward and felt good about it and one of the few people I knew (and most of what I knew about her was that she liked to read and had served a mission) happened to need a roommate at the exact time I would be needing one. Something like fate, right? This time I didn't have the energy to indulge that kind of scoping. I just didn't want to feel like the walls were closing in on me.

Well, guess what: I got just what I wanted! After 5 or 6 or Ican'tkeeptrackanymore carloads, I now have MOST of my things. Since we're talking imperialism, I might as well just say that I feel like Napolean, the midget conqueror.

De la Roche wasn't always so generous in his depictions of Napoleon.

I moved a 6x6 bookshelf single-handedly (ok, so maybe there were some feet involved) all the way across my (have I mentioned?) very large room. I made a series of decisions with regards to how my room would be set-up without consulting anyone! I assembled a desk, a set of drawers, three lamps. Got my man on with the nail and hammer. The real feat was that of using an electric screwdriver. The wall may or may not bear scars from my first attempt when the screwdriver decided to jump off of the screw and into the wall. No big deal though, right? And let's not talk about how I struggled for a full 10 minutes because I had flipped the thing into reverse and the screws would just not go in. As my Dad said, everyone's done that at least once.

No offense Bonaparte, but I'm pretty sure Rosie out-mans you.

So that's my room, my little kingdom, in all its splendor. Now onto the rest of the house.

One house, four roommates, all of us blond. Apparently, we have a reputation: the blond house. I found that out Sunday and I'm not gonna lie, I had this "oh dear, what have I gotten myself into" moment. Originally the sheer number of girls and levels of estrogen in one house overwhelmed me when I was looking at housing. The thing that clinched the deal was the fact that I share the basement with one other girl and that we have a living room that no one really uses. You know, just in case I want to find myself out of everyone's way in a t.v. room complete with love sac. So the fact that I could retreat in typical hermetic fashion was a big plus. That and the fact that I actually really liked the girl who I replaced. Which doesn't make a lot of sense because it's not like I would be living with her, but I just liked her. The good vibe kinda sold me.


The irony here is (when is there NOT irony) that I also chose this area/neighborhood because it where the used-to-be-cool-kids-now-turned-into-mature-young-adults dwell. I didn't want to live close to campus with a bunch of 19 year olds. Before I was house-hunting I started this advertisement which was intended as a blog post:

Roommate Wanted:

The ideal candidate will:

Not judge me for my excessive phone habits.

Not object and even join in to impromptu dance parties that may or may not occur while I am doing the dishes or cleaning or doing homework or....yeah.

Not judge me for sometimes needing some Keisha and Gaga for said parties.

Like the Shins. I have met many people that do not love the Shins and I still like them. But I have never met a person who liked the Shins that I did not effortlessly like. It's pretty much the golden standard. I'd take a Spoons lover, however.

Be an even bigger health nut than I am (which is weak sauce). Preferable gluten-freakish like me.

Indulge the annual Fairy-tree and defend it (go A!) to scrutinizing visitors.

The possible grammar obsession and scattered late night conversations discussing the subjunctive and other such delicacies wouldn't hurt any.


I think it's safe to say that we are covered on the dance parties and Keisha. In fact, I think I will be the indulgent one here. I am definitely the oldest and boringest one in the joint. I don't think we will be talking grammar but I have to say, I was pretty impressed that 'demure' and 'pallet' found their way into last night's conversation.

So I live with some young blond hooligans that may or may not epitomize the provo girl experience. In a conversation over breakfast about boys, ie "bullets" they had dodged, A calls out from down that "that boy wasn't a bullet, he was a whale-harpoon!"

Can you even imagine dodging one of these?

I can't wait for the other metaphors these girls will come up with. And, after all, wasn't I just mourning the loss of the less-mature version of myself? I've been mourning the loss of my freshman year since I was 18 and it wasn't even over yet. This might be just what I need to resurrect said version of me. Also, I think it was a version that analyzed a lot less. (Probably because there were too many boys to possibly analyze without going crazy. And let's not kid ourselves, I didn't analyze anything else substantial back then) So that's a start.

Not that satire is really my style, but this move may result in a satirical documentation of the endearing sort of my life in Provo for the next two-sigh-two years. After all, I have lived in a few different places and gone through my share of culture shock, and the truth of it is that no move has been as difficult for me to swallow and no other culture has seemed so foreign.

I will miss living in QR. I will miss the stellar people from my ward and living with A, who, for the record, was the easiest and best first roommate a girl could ask for. I have deliberated on this move for the past week, living out of two night suitcase at my parent's house and sharing a bed with L[i]s. I couldn't reconcile myself to the fact that I couldn't have both my old life exactly how it was and my new one. As LP says though, the hardest part of ending is starting again.

Screwdriver in hand, I'm feeling pretty confident.

Somethinglikethis.

If work permits.

One day I will come up with my own brilliant titles. That day is not today.

I'm sorry to report that today was ridiculously productive. Yesterday was as well. Sunday night I made a to-do list that made my head whirl it was so long. Or so I thought. Today I realized that the real stress-factor was the fact that the list was a summer to-do list. As in, a list that covers 3, count 'em, 3 months. And that it had an end.

Par for the course of a hypochondriac, I'm afraid somewhere between birth and my last birthday I became inflicted with a condition: workaholism. Hear me out.

I went to the physical therapist about my foot on Friday. I was explaining as cheerfully as possible my lack of physical activity the past month. And then I realized that "I have not ran in almost 4 weeks" was a downright lie. I had run that very afternoon to my car. I had then proceeded to run the 1/8th mile to a graduation ceremony I was, well, sorta late for. I had a vague memory of my running down the corridor of my apartment complex the day before. And I'm pretty sure I ran in the vacant hallways of my school. I can't specify why exactly. In fact, I'm pretty sure not a day goes by that I don't find myself running, however briefly, somewhere. Surely, nothing is truly so urgent that running all of 10 seconds makes any sort of difference.

I think, the truth of it is that I just like to run. And that I like to feel compelled to do so. In other words, I like living in a rush. I'm kind of a mind over matter person. I'm pretty decent at calming myself down when necessary. And that said Friday, before my Dr. visit, I was acutely aware that I was kind of in a rush for nothing and that I should probably chill out. But guess what? I didn't want to chill out. I specifically remember telling myself, "What kind of fun would that be?" You see, because living life overwhelmed makes everything seem like an adventure; more exciting than things really are. The same way that having a to-do list makes life seem purposeful.

And despite the useless running, the carrying more than I can carry, the frequent knots of the stomach, flutters of panic in my chest, stress induced head-whirling (oh dear, I sound like Mrs. Bennett), ALL of that is far more bearable to the anxiety caused by not having enough to do. Which is what I am currently suffering from.

Yes, I'll fess up. Denial is useless. I am a workaholic going through withdrawl. Premature withdrawl, I might add, since I am currently more than occupied. But come July and we are in serious trouble, ladies and gents.

In need of a fix, I've turned to this, my happy therapeutic corner of the blogosphere. To make lists! Naturally.

My first list is pretty straight forward. In order to prevent the inevitable "my life has lost all meaning now that school is out and I can't live off of hugs and gossip and lesson plans" crash, I'm going to put this last year in perspective. Since this time last year I have done the following:

• Nannied in Colorado and learned, well, a lot. About families and about myself.
• Moved out. Learned to make a lot of gluten-free food.
• Decided to go to Grad School. Don't underestimate the hours spent on that decision.
• Was head teacher (sorta) and then not. I survived ensuing drama and came out the better for it.
• Got crafty. As in, I thought about something, and then made it!
• Studied and passed the GRE.
• Sent my BFF off to Texas. Adjusted my phone appointments accordingly.
• Applied for and was accepted to the program I wanted.
• Had the longest lasting dating relationship to date. Usually I wouldn't include this kind of sappy information but it will be good to remind myself come Fall semester that I am in fact capable of balancing school/work/relationships.
  
• Survived the ever-dreaded fakeout.
• Trained for and ran a 1/2 marathon. Last time this year I was barely running 2 miles in Vibrams!
• Stuck with my decision to attend said Grad program. Again, don't underestimate the stress that decision caused me.
• Found an apartment and a ward to my liking.
• Undertook my first ever entrepreneur-like endeavor: Summer French Camp the curriculum of which is currently being refined, thus keeping me semi-busy.
  

All in all, a pretty good year. Thanks for indulging me. I need more than the average dose of self-congratulation to function, clearly.

As for this summer, I suppose I got what I wanted: a flexible summer. I didn't want to work 40 hour weeks at some menial job, whatever the money. I wasn't sure about working at a Nat'l Park or living abroad. All I knew was that I wanted the flexibility of camping, traveling, and reading French lit. I will most definitely have that flexibility.

I might have thought things through a little more though. Because I need people to camp and travel with and not working means I don't meet anyone. It also means that I could spend hours upon hours daily of not interacting with a single human soul. This very thought makes me shudder. And no, not from joy. So here's the remedy for my ill-conceived summer plan:

1) Do not try to mask boredom with food. For some reason, when I am not stressed, I have a fantastic appetite for junk. Which I will NOT be indulging.

2) Volunteer: tutor for refugees, translating at hospitals (still have to inquire on this account). If possible, daily. Just to get me out of the house.

3) Pilates, yoga, running or biking daily.

4) Read a French book a week. Create flashcards of words I don't know. Flashcardmachine.com, you and I are going to get real cozy this summer. I'm actually really excited about this one. Confession: I have this huge amount of jealousy for anyone spending their summer living in France when I think how beautiful their French will be when they return. Then I remember my own summer abroad and what I learned: that I learn more French by reading books than living in France. Of course, my learning curve is higher when I both live and read there but, well, let's be realistic here.

5) A weekly temple trip.

6) Barring further injury, I don't see why I can't have worked back up to 10 mile runs.

7) Go on a trip. As irresponsible as Europe would be, I can't get over the notion that this could be my last free and flexible summer and that I should take two weeks or more and make them count. I refuse to make this kind of trip alone though. On top of a summer of solitude, I think that would be too much. So this goal is contingent on my finding someone to be irresponsible with.

8) Reread all the Harry Potters. Because, like, what else will I be doing?

9) Get fabulously tan. This will be no doubt due to the hours I spend in the lawn chair reading. The thought alone makes me want to sigh. With joy.

10) Hike Timp.

11) Use my super expensive camera. Attend classes. Take a lot of pictures before I buy more equipment.

12) Work on some creative writing. As in, learn to write about real things. And not just lists.

13) Take up a temp job if absolutely necessary. I just have to remember: money isn't everything.

14) Most importantly, overcome workaholism. Work, play, and learn to live without the 'over' in 'whemed'.

So live a life where spring has sprung

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.

How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes.

Disclaimer:

This is a blatant violation of my discretion policy and is an account of Grad School Decision Drama. While I wouldn't want to inflict being in my head on anyone, I think that I am the quintessential epitome of the undecided, divided, noncommittal persona. And that, by degree, someone out there can probably relate on some end of the scale. Even if you don't give the same credence to the man upstairs. You've been warned, He factors in a lot on this post here.

**********************

As usually happens when life gets complicated or overwhelming, lyrics pop into my head. Yesterday's choice lines brought to you by Spoon (who else, honestly?):

Everything hits at once/ what you need is just what you wants.

In an effort at brevity I'm going to try to start with the facts:

The relevant fact: After thinking about what I wanted to do with my life (infer from the word "thinking" excessive analyzing, late night internet searches, meeting with people, collecting and weighing opinions) for oh, the past 8 years of my life, I committed at long last mid October, 2010, to the pursuit of Grad Studies. At BYU. In French. Let's just say that the decision had been long in coming, that I had tried to decide otherwise, but that I kept coming back to this. And it felt, well, good. Logical.

Thus began GRE prep and the frantic and mendicant search for recommendations. In an effort to give my professors ammunition with which to write said recommendations, I went back and edited my capstone projects. I also reread one of my French texts and completely redrafted the original papers I had written on that text. It was a lot of work, yes, but purposeful. It felt good to have some direction in my life.

Fast forward to this week. I have been accepted into BYU's program. I have, quite unexpectedly, been offered a full tuition scholarship that will likely be renewed next year as well. I have been given a position as student instructor which is, not only one of the better paying jobs on campus, but, pointedly, a fantastic learning opportunity. I will be under the tutelage of some of BYU's master educators to learn how to effectively teach the French language. In the process, I will have experience teaching college aged classes. This is a chance to get direction in my teaching goals: children, or adults?

I meet with the chair of the department and find out that certification does not accompany this degree. As I study the coursework required, I notice there is little emphasis in methodology and pedagogy, which has been my expressed interest ever since having met with an advisor last spring and was also expressed in my statement of intent essay. The program overview on the website also specifies that this degree can help prepare students for a degree in education. All of the sudden, I'm wondering, "HOW?".

I wonder if I should have actually applied for the Masters of Second Language Teaching degree, also offered at BYU. I visit with the advisor of THAT program and am told that the French linguist is retiring this year, that they are not sure when he will be replaced, nor of the quality of his replacement. Apart from the other obstacles such as, oh, the fact that I don't quite yet have the credentials to apply for the program and that the application dates have passed, this is the greatest obstacle. Even currently admitted French students are being told to carefully consider their acceptance into the program.

I meet with another advisor, one who spearheads the secondary certification program at an undergraduate level. None the more promising, as I'd have to pursue a Master's program and an undergrad program simultaneously, which would drag out my program and probably result it cut funding. If that was even allowed at all.

This last person I talked to looking for advice runs the dual immersion program. She spent over 2 hours on the phone advising me that the best thing to do, if I want to be a competitive candidate when I am done with my studies, is to actually get a degree in, not French, but Education. Though apparently my French is not up to par and would simultaneously need to be improved upon. She told me that she has an MA in French and that all it got her were part time jobs teaching at the community college or university. No benefits.

Thus it was that in the course of ONE week I learned that the program I thought I wanted not only didn't offer what I thought it would (and here I had thought to have done my research) but I was being told that it was, in essence, redundant.

Everything hits at once, alright.

I was talking to my lovely roommate this morning about how sometimes life would be easier if one didn't in fact believe in signs. If I didn't truly believe that there was someone (with a capital S) who didn't have my best interest at heart and knew what was best for me and who tried to guide me along my happy way with a series of nudges and winks. Because the minute you believe in nudges, winks, and wrong, good, better, and bests for your life, you start reading into EVERYTHING. At least if you are me you do.

The logic that followed the discovery that I may in fact need to rethink my whole education to include a PRACTICAL Masters of Education (and thus certification) and that this education could not start this fall but next fall, at an unknown institution went something like THIS (for full effect, read at speed times 1.5-2.5):

Deep breath. Deep breath. Listen to Spoon. Weird...that usually helps. K, so I thought doing the French program at BYU was the RIGHT thing for me to do. I mean, what the heck?! I've only been praying about it and felt good about it for year, possibly 2 depending on the relative usage of the word 'good'. But then again, I've felt good about things that have been wrong for me before. I mean, I even blogged about the futility of emotion, speaking of the frustration that comes when you try to assign meaning (especially moral meaning) to emotion. The Shins are genius: fatal flaw. So I felt good about something? So what? Maybe I assigned to that 'good feeling' the moral implication that that choice was 'right' and what if it being right has all just been in my head?! And I just kept feeling good about things because everything kept falling into place and now here I am, at a crossroads (ugh, cupcakes), "seeing the light" at the most inconvenient of times to see if I really have enough faith to take the plunge and do, not what I have been planning to do for the past year or so, but to wait a year and do what is practical. I mean, test of faith and all that. Like this is God's way of showing me that he knows best and that if I really believe that then I'll abandon ship. Because honestly the practical alternative doesn't exactly seem to GLIMMER with promise either. I mean, could things GET any more ironic?! And what if irony is the point? I mean, I think God wants us to act on our dreams and that he allows us that liberty and so maybe that's what he's been doing, just letting me tread my own path until he had to interfere, big time, with a sign or say, a phone call, with big red letters saying "Do not pass GO"? How many times have I heard that if we've made the wrong decision, He'll be sure to make that clear to us. So the ironic timing is not anyone's fault but my own for making the wrong decision initially. And really I'm just being ungrateful for feeling so inconvenienced. BUUUUUUT, maybe that's not the test at all. Maybe it's another kind of test...........................

Trust me, there's more. Much more. Lots of particulars. From which I'll generously spare you.

This or some point around this point in time is where there were tears. Most of the time, I cry because of overwhelming circumstances/feelings: joy, the absence of joy, hilarity, anger/frustration. Then there is the rare occasion when I singlehandedly induce brain coma, the trauma of which causes physical symptoms in the form of eye-duct leekage.

I did some room pacing. Listened to more music. Oh, don't worry, the Fray came on (don't judge me): We'd never know what's wrong without the pain / Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same.

Amen. But wait. So does that mean that because quitting my French program is hard that proves that it's the right thing? So sometimes things being hard is a sign things are wrong and sometimes things being hard is a sign that things are right........? Oh my stars. Just. Stop.

I called my mom. Those phone calls always help. Our joint conclusion was that I should stick with French. My personal conclusion was that I would rather make the wrong choice and be absolutely SURE of it being wrong instead of settling on another choice because my mind couldn't handle the second guessing; risking regret for the elimination of doubt so to speak. And then of course after the conversation was over I started to doubt her advice. Not because it is bad but because I am her daughter and it would follow that we draw conclusions from the same vein of inherited family logic and that maybe it was that logic that got me into this mess in the first place.

So I started a bit of research. I had been talking to my mom several days previously of my experience writing for the Century (institute magazine). It was on my mind. Then I remembered that I had in fact written an article about making decisions, drawing from other people's advice in turn to write it. I decided to track down that article, knowing that I had understood things once, and maybe a return to that understanding (especially as phrased by me) would be what I needed. Brought to you by my 22 year old self is the following article:

My father is fond of telling me, like an old war veteran who lived through the battles I am still fighting, how amusing he finds seeing me caught up in the “seeming cruciality” of life during college. Even with my eyes rolling at his amusement, I can’t blame him too much for the condescension of his post-crucial position; he has made life’s more crucial decisions and managed to live through them, and like a veteran, carries battle scars. That warrants a bit of respect, if not awe, as he was at the time a hippy, who achieved longer and blonder hair than I could ever hope for.

“Seeming” or not, however, I think it is a fact that as college students we are assaulted with crucial decisions all the time. Once we have chosen to “follow him”, becoming the person he would like us to be seems to be complicated by these decisions: Do I really want to date this person? Do I really want to stop dating this person? Am I going on a mission? Do I go to this college? What will I major in? Should I change my major? What classes should I take? Am I going to graduate school? Do I accept this job? Do I quit this job? Do I want to continue listing examples? No, not really. That one was easy.

Most of these decisions, however, are not. And if they are not necessarily difficult they are certainly important in determining our future landscapes and choices. And if you are anything like me, even the insignificant decisions can be overwhelming. I think, though I am not completely certain, that have pinpointed the cause of my habit of tardiness down to the failure of being able to make decisions: what shampoo do I use? What cereal do I want? What shoes do I wear? Do I really need a jacket? Yes, I am one of those people who cannot order until everyone else at the table has done so, until I have asked the waiter’s advice, and then thought about it for a couple minutes more. At which point, I will probably change my mind.

Though I have been told that my indecisiveness is not “normal”, I do know that I am not the only one who has found themselves wishing that for many crossroads I approached, a green flashing arrow would appear to point me in the “right” direction. Because believe me, I would take it. In many situations, it is not a failure to “choose the right”, but the lack of “an obvious right”. In the midst of so many possibilities, especially those which are often not black and white but equally favorable, I think we find ourselves wishing for an intervention, for an elimination of possibilities so that all that would remain is an outline of what “the best” way is for each of us to follow. Why is it that it is so tempting to wish away the very thing that our existence was fought over: our free will, our ability to choose?

It is not that many of us lack the desire to “choose the right“. That is why we seek the guidance of something we think greater and more correct than ourselves. But I hope to remember that desire is not enough when I am at that next crossroads. Choice is a defining action that is qualified by our possibilities. The ability to make decisions for myself and amount of decisions I have to make is something that separates me from the innocent person I was at age five. This ability-to go the extra ten percent from wanting to make a wise decision to actually making one- separates the complacent from the committed and is integral to the process of growth.

The inspiration to help make those decisions that really are “crucial” relies on the action on our part of making a decision first and then bringing it to the Lord: “There’s a fine balance between agency and inspiration. We’re expected to do everything in our power and then to seek an answer from the Lord, a confirming seal that we’ve reached the right conclusion.” (Bruce R. McConkie, New Era, Jan. 1975, 38 ). If we have the faith that those decisions will be taken care of with the Lord’s help, there is no need to become overwhelmed by many possibilities nor to take them for granted. The mere existence of possibilities is evidence that we are truly blessed. Rather than be hesitant or overwhelmed as we consider the decisions and possibilities before us, I hope we can remember that. Did you know, for example, that the University of Utah offers a “Pleasure of Chocolate” course? What kind of luxury is that!? Will I be taking that class next semester? Hands down. Probably.

Nothing life changing there, and I totally judge myself for using the word crossroads then and using it again today, but there was something in the juxtaposition about commitment and complacency that I needed to read. It was also nice to see that I have improved in some of my chronic indecisive habits. Or at least I hope so.

I continued my search for wisdom outside of the family vein. Courtesy of Elder Jeffrey R. Holland and perhaps what was to me the most helpful thing I read is this, excerpts from his "Cast not away therefore your confidence":

"It is the plain and very sobering truth that before great moments, certainly before great spiritual moments, there can come adversity, opposition, and darkness. Life has some of those moments for us, and occasionally they come just as we are approaching an important decision or a significant step in our life.

Moses' message to you today is, "Don't let your guard down." Don't assume that a great revelation, some marvelous illuminating moment, or the opening of an inspired path is the end of it. Remember, it isn't over until it's over.

I wish to encourage every one of you today regarding opposition that so often comes after enlightened decisions have been made, after moments of revelation and conviction have given us a peace and an assurance we thought we would never lose.

If it was right when you prayed about it and trusted it and lived for it, it is right now. Don't give up when the pressure mounts. Face your doubts. Master your fears. Stay the course and see the beauty of life unfold for you."

Elder Holland's words struck a chord and made me think of Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist, which is essentially the story of a quest for dreams and the signs along the way:

"Before a dream is realized, the Soul of the World tests everything that was learned along the way. It does this not because it is evil, but so that we can, in addition to realizing our dreams, master the lessons we've learned as we've moved toward that dream. That's the point at which most people give up. It's the point at which, as we say in the language of the desert, one 'dies of thirst just when the palm trees have appeared on the horizon'. Every search begins with beginner's luck. And every search ends with the victor's being tested."

The advice from these two men complements each other. Each is essentially saying the same thing in different terms, and from a different context. But isn't encouraging when your sources add up? Ben oui.

At some point I remembered the maxim of my current Bishop: "Don't take counsel from your fears-it is bad council ALL the time. Take counsel in your faith."

Essentially, my fear was making the wrong decision and being too stubborn, too blind, or too mind-spun to recognize it or being too stubborn, too lazy, or too proud to make the right one. I thought a lot about fear. I got a little philosophical, perhaps.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized what a silly waste of time it is: fear of pain, fear of loss, fear of failure or anything is usually worse than the pain the loss or whatever else itself. I think someone has said that originally. The reason why the fear of the thing is worse than the thing itself is because, in fear, the thing is not a reality. It exists as only a figment of a handicapped imagination and depending on one's prowess in the realm of imagination, can become quite the monster. Because it is only a figment of the imagination, one is immobile and cannot act in that same realm. When you are in a position that is unpleasant, you have no other choice but to act, to deal with it.

If one thing can be said of the human race it is that we are no strangers to adaption. And that ability to adapt is no more apparent in our ability to find contentment regardless of circumstance. But when we fear we don't allow in our imagination any room for the ability to adapt. Because adapting exists in the now. As does acting. The other thing I know about us humans is our ignorance of our own strengths and limitations. Often I will live through something unpleasant and then, once the moment has passed, I look back with both relief and awe, and either a kind of remembrance or a kind of forgetting. Somehow, looking back, things don't seem as hard as they felt at the time. In a sense, it's as if we don't realize our own pith until we are seeing ourselves from a distance.

Basically, my conclusion didn't change from my conversation with my mom but I do feel better about it: I am still going to pursue French. Even if it is a pointless degree and even if that is hopelessly naive and quite possibly not the 'right' choice. If there even is one to be had in all this. This kind of optimism and naivite arises from the fact that I already have a degree that is deemed useless by most and have landed the best job a person can ask for. I just want more options, more schooling. And is it so horrible that I think that things can get even better?

Taking again from Coelho (this time from Manual of the Warrior of Light): "On some nights, [the Warrior of Light] has nowhere to sleep, on others, he suffers from insomnia. ‘That’s just how it is,’ thinks the warrior. ‘I was the one who chose to walk this path.’ In these words lies all his power: he chose the path along which he is walking and so has no complaints."

I guess in the end, perhaps the most important question I can ask myself is the rhetorical, 'How can a decision be the right one if I am not willing to fight for it?' Even if that means being proven wrong in the end. French, as silly and slave driving as it is, is my dream. And if I don't have the wherewithal to pursue it, I can't really claim it as mine. If things blow up in my face or if at some point down the road I have regrets, at least I will know that I chose this, that I did so out of faith, and that I can adapt to meet the difficulties WHEN they come.

And there you have it: the inner working of my brain complete with pep talk and lyrics.

/ Awake, my soul /

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.

Lie #5

Two birds on a wire /
One tries to fly away.

..and the other....

je croirai tout.
il y a rien que je comprendrai pas.

Beenalittletoomuchtruthandnotenoughmonster.