It’s raining today for the fifth day in a row. It’s an Oregon rain. Non-stop. No sunrise. No sunset. The sky will lighten to show it is day, but otherwise remains an evenly spread wet concrete grey. No heavily saturated clouds powering down on us, threatening, then jostling into their positions to rain. Pouring dumping buckets of basement flooding rain. That’s what we’re used to in Michigan. Not this. Not this static, every-waking-moment-with-no-break-in-the-sky-for-the-sun-to-beam-through-momentarily-giving-us-hope-and-a-sense-of-humanity-again rain.
Michigan people walk with umbrellas to shield themselves from this, if they go out to walk at all. In Oregon, umbrellas were rare. Rain was just a part of daily life for six months. People adapted. Why give up your left or right hand, or both on a windy day, for six months every time you step outside? But in Michigan, we haven’t adapted to that yet. We still give up a hand to our umbrellas, to walk beneath our own roofing with no gutter system, which would only clog with leaf debris and fail anyway. More than this, we have not yet learned to commune with the rain in the same way as Oregonians who live in the damp sweatshirts and jeans and call it cozy all the same.
No, in Michigan we still try to separate ourselves from the rain at every opportunity, the umbrella our remaining stronghold. Keep it off of me. It’s not enough to wear a rain coat, but keep it at least twelve inches away from touching me. And we like this view from inside our umbrella space. Perhaps it has something more to do with our living where it snows for as many months as it rains in Oregon. We sit inside our cozy warm homes and look out onto the snow. We do not commune with it. We shovel it, plow it, salt and sand it, pack and shape it for entertainment, and some of us wear devices and fuel up motorized technology that allows us to control it, to command it as we ride over it (and sometimes snow refuses to be commanded, as my first high school sweetheart must have realized at a final moment when he was buried and died in an avalanche while skiing in Utah).
Rain is only unfrozen snow, yet we cannot figure out how to command and control it (note earlier comments on failing gutters and wet basement), so we remain separated from it. We refuse to commune with it, and instead stay indoors, or when we go out, refuse to embrace it by filling our hands with umbrellas.
There is a lull in the water slapping against the windows. A break in the waterfall that formed at the place where the gutter is clogged. I hear birds chirping, singing their instinctive morning calls as they no doubt flutter and shake the moisture from their feathers and attempt to fluff themselves dry in the 100% humidity. A lull where, though drops do not fall from the sky, they continue to drip from roofs and eaves and leaves on trees. Where puddles driven through splash onto sidewalks. And the air can do nothing but hang thick with moisture. No rain from the sky, but to walk in it now feels like swimming, and where my hair sucks in the damp and tightens into ringlets at my neck, I feel I should grow gills. Soon, if this rain will not cease. Soon, if the sun should not shine. Soon, if it wasn’t for Oregon where the people have no gills.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Friday, May 05, 2006
Young Authors
Today my husband and I volunteered to help staff book sale tables for Young Authors day at the college. This is an annual event that brings in about 20 children's and young adult authors, and hundreds of young kids, from adolescent to pre-teen, who have been selected by their teachers to come for the day. It might be a whole class of kids, or just a select group. The commonality among them is that they are all young readers and writers, all interested in reading and many of them knowing the authors that were brought in to speak that day.
I was utterly amazed as I stood in the college gymnasium as a seemingly endless stream of young people came filing in and made their way around the book-table-lined edge of the room. Each of them was gaze bound to the books stacked on the tables, excitedly running up to certain sections and grabbing up copies of the books, ooohhing and aaahhing at the hardcover editions of the paperbacks they either owned or could only afford. I listened in fascination as they turned to one another and launched into explaining why they loved this book or that book, how many times they had read it, and how many of that same author's books they had already read.
It was the simple move of one child that momentarily stunned me. It was a young girl, maybe 10 years old, who picked up a book, looked at the cover, then turned it over and stood, reading the entire back cover of the book before slowly flipping the pages and looking at the text on the pages. How utterly not worth even noticing such a gesture may seem, but what struck me was it was the sequence of an accomplished reader. How did this child learn to look at that cover, become interested, and know to turn it over and read the back to learn more? How did she then know to flip through the pages, and what, really, was she even looking for? Nothing in particular, as any reader who has done the same a thousand times can tell you, except that we look for a kind of "feel" to the book as we do so. How could she, at such a young age, have already become so discretionary about her reading? Was I like that at that age? I can't remember, but I'd like to think, given all the time I spent at the public library, all the books ordered from Scholastic, and all the summer reading clubs, that I would have been something like that.
And maybe that's why I was so struck by the image. Perhaps it was me I saw standing there; a me I have been so long removed from I had forgotten that's where I'd come from. But to see her there, I found a connection so deep in my memory that I was momentarily stilled by the impact of its having risen to the surface.
Later that morning, a young boy came up to me, paperback in hand, and asked me how he could tell if it was a first edition. Already a young collector. I opened the first pages and showed him the imprint page, then found a hardcover of the same book and showed him the difference, explaining how hardcover come out first and are the official first edition, then the paperbacks come out, but that those also go through editions, and he was holding the first edition paperback. Knowing, like most of the kids there, that he wasn't going to be able to afford the hardcover, he seemed pleased to have a first edition paperback.
The morning buzzed on, the gym filled with little bodies, occasional big bodies interacting with them, keeping them orderly, sharing in their excitement for books. I realized that these were a "select" group of kids, no doubt on their best behavior to be there at all, but still, there was such an incredible difference between that gym packed with hundreds of young people and how it feels when it is filled with adult bodies. These kids were such much nicer and quieter and more polite than any such large group of adults I had ever been around at a book event. They were there, not boasting about their own writing, their own accomplishments in publishing, or pushing something they wanted published, but they were there to see and to share in the secret, imaginative world their favorite authors had created for them. They were gentle with the books, kind to one another as they moved in hoards from table to table, waiting politely to be able to get in and pick up a copy of a book, and excitedly talking about wanting to chip in together to buy a copy for their teacher. They just took up a lot less space than adults, in so many ways, and in that moment, I felt such gratitude for this time in their lives. This smaller time.
I was utterly amazed as I stood in the college gymnasium as a seemingly endless stream of young people came filing in and made their way around the book-table-lined edge of the room. Each of them was gaze bound to the books stacked on the tables, excitedly running up to certain sections and grabbing up copies of the books, ooohhing and aaahhing at the hardcover editions of the paperbacks they either owned or could only afford. I listened in fascination as they turned to one another and launched into explaining why they loved this book or that book, how many times they had read it, and how many of that same author's books they had already read.
It was the simple move of one child that momentarily stunned me. It was a young girl, maybe 10 years old, who picked up a book, looked at the cover, then turned it over and stood, reading the entire back cover of the book before slowly flipping the pages and looking at the text on the pages. How utterly not worth even noticing such a gesture may seem, but what struck me was it was the sequence of an accomplished reader. How did this child learn to look at that cover, become interested, and know to turn it over and read the back to learn more? How did she then know to flip through the pages, and what, really, was she even looking for? Nothing in particular, as any reader who has done the same a thousand times can tell you, except that we look for a kind of "feel" to the book as we do so. How could she, at such a young age, have already become so discretionary about her reading? Was I like that at that age? I can't remember, but I'd like to think, given all the time I spent at the public library, all the books ordered from Scholastic, and all the summer reading clubs, that I would have been something like that.
And maybe that's why I was so struck by the image. Perhaps it was me I saw standing there; a me I have been so long removed from I had forgotten that's where I'd come from. But to see her there, I found a connection so deep in my memory that I was momentarily stilled by the impact of its having risen to the surface.
Later that morning, a young boy came up to me, paperback in hand, and asked me how he could tell if it was a first edition. Already a young collector. I opened the first pages and showed him the imprint page, then found a hardcover of the same book and showed him the difference, explaining how hardcover come out first and are the official first edition, then the paperbacks come out, but that those also go through editions, and he was holding the first edition paperback. Knowing, like most of the kids there, that he wasn't going to be able to afford the hardcover, he seemed pleased to have a first edition paperback.
The morning buzzed on, the gym filled with little bodies, occasional big bodies interacting with them, keeping them orderly, sharing in their excitement for books. I realized that these were a "select" group of kids, no doubt on their best behavior to be there at all, but still, there was such an incredible difference between that gym packed with hundreds of young people and how it feels when it is filled with adult bodies. These kids were such much nicer and quieter and more polite than any such large group of adults I had ever been around at a book event. They were there, not boasting about their own writing, their own accomplishments in publishing, or pushing something they wanted published, but they were there to see and to share in the secret, imaginative world their favorite authors had created for them. They were gentle with the books, kind to one another as they moved in hoards from table to table, waiting politely to be able to get in and pick up a copy of a book, and excitedly talking about wanting to chip in together to buy a copy for their teacher. They just took up a lot less space than adults, in so many ways, and in that moment, I felt such gratitude for this time in their lives. This smaller time.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Awww, Squirrel
Over the weekend, I had the misfortune to come face to face with a common city occurance - a squirrel that had been hit by a car, not dead yet! (Monty Python style), but still able to crawl around and attempt to climb a tree. Clearly, its back was busted up, but it was still able to "hump" around (literally, that's the movement), its back feet splayed out behind its chubby midsection.
This was on Friday. I called the vet, and they gave me a number to call, a woman who helps hurt wild animals. She called a while later, told me to catch it and take it to animal control and they would either try to save it or put it out of its misery.
After I got her call, I tried to find Squirrel, but it was gone. Casey found it across the street, and we went after it, me with a towel and thick leather gloves, and him with a box and lid. The damn squirrel had enough gumption to get up a spruce where we couldn't get in to grab it. I considered it well enough to stay away on its own and left it for the time being. Throughout they day, I kept an eye out for it, but it never reappeared.
Saturday went by with no Squirrel. Saturday night, I went to walk the dog, and there was Squirrel, hanging out by our house again, near a tree, but not able to run up it. I turned around and went back home. Casey helped me capture him, and I called the woman again about what to do with him. Animal control was closed, and all I got was her answering machine. I gave Squirrel some almonds and pumpkin seeds and water and left him in the box.
Sunday came, and Squirrel was still alive. It'd eaten some of the nuts, and the water was all gone (spilled, no doubt), and it was chucking up a storm at me when I opened the box, so it seemed alright, though not moving much. I left it in the box, in the garage where it would be quiet and not disturbed.
Sunday night, the wildlife lady called. I told her about the squirrel, and she said to take it to animal control in the morning. I said I would, saying it was better off in the box, even if it was going to die, than out on the street where kids and cats and cars might bother it. Still, I worried about it as I fell asleep.
The next morning, it was dead. No chucking. No shifting around in the box. The nuts that were there were still there. The water, untouched. I drove it out to animal control anyway, not able to bear just tossing it in the garbage. Just seemed like it was the better thing to do, even if animal control just tossed it in their garbage. At least I felt like I had done what I could, and should.
This was on Friday. I called the vet, and they gave me a number to call, a woman who helps hurt wild animals. She called a while later, told me to catch it and take it to animal control and they would either try to save it or put it out of its misery.
After I got her call, I tried to find Squirrel, but it was gone. Casey found it across the street, and we went after it, me with a towel and thick leather gloves, and him with a box and lid. The damn squirrel had enough gumption to get up a spruce where we couldn't get in to grab it. I considered it well enough to stay away on its own and left it for the time being. Throughout they day, I kept an eye out for it, but it never reappeared.
Saturday went by with no Squirrel. Saturday night, I went to walk the dog, and there was Squirrel, hanging out by our house again, near a tree, but not able to run up it. I turned around and went back home. Casey helped me capture him, and I called the woman again about what to do with him. Animal control was closed, and all I got was her answering machine. I gave Squirrel some almonds and pumpkin seeds and water and left him in the box.
Sunday came, and Squirrel was still alive. It'd eaten some of the nuts, and the water was all gone (spilled, no doubt), and it was chucking up a storm at me when I opened the box, so it seemed alright, though not moving much. I left it in the box, in the garage where it would be quiet and not disturbed.
Sunday night, the wildlife lady called. I told her about the squirrel, and she said to take it to animal control in the morning. I said I would, saying it was better off in the box, even if it was going to die, than out on the street where kids and cats and cars might bother it. Still, I worried about it as I fell asleep.
The next morning, it was dead. No chucking. No shifting around in the box. The nuts that were there were still there. The water, untouched. I drove it out to animal control anyway, not able to bear just tossing it in the garbage. Just seemed like it was the better thing to do, even if animal control just tossed it in their garbage. At least I felt like I had done what I could, and should.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Summers Off - Yeah, Right
I finished reading papers and figuring grades on Friday. By noon. Grades aren't due until Tuesday at 2:00, and I'm waiting until the last minute to submit them just in case one of my students doesn't like what they see on the online grade posting. That and one last paper just came in yesterday, so I'll have to sit and read it and figure one more grade. That was an okay late paper. One of my students starting having seizures during the semester and couldn't drive to classes anymore. What can you do? I figured out a way to have him complete the class via e-mail. It's the only class he'll be able to finish. Not to complain about colleagues, but I'm disheartened that more of his instructors couldn't have worked something out with him. He's a brilliant young man and has been responsible about doing everything I asked of him. Maybe online will be the way he needs to go from now on.
Since Friday, what have I done?
Cleaned the house bottom to top.
Laundry.
Went running every morning.
Went for a walk every night.
Yoga every day.
Read the paper front to back.
Completed two crossword puzzles.
Went grocery shopping for 2 hours.
Went to the Goodwill 75% off sale and got a huge bag of clothes for $7.
Went to burger day at the River Rock and played Yatzee with my husband.
Slept in (until 7:30!) and took naps two days in a row.
Cooked. No, I mean actually put more than three ingredients together, not including spices, which account for at least another three, and came up with something that did not look like anything I started with and with no picture on a box it could match. That kind of cooking.
Sat and watched a movie start to finish.
Two hours of yardwork.
Blogged.
I know this might all seem a bit mundane, but it really is everything I can't do during the regular school year, and why people who say teachers have it easy will never truly understand just how much we don't get done in our own lives so that we can focus on others. I love my job, but I love my own life too, and I love having summers "off" just so I can have my life for a little while, even if it's all just crammed into three months out of each year. And not even, as I look at my schedule and see this school likes us to attend meetings after the semester, so this week and next week and the week after, I have meetings to attend. And I did sign on for a seven-week spring class. All the same, I know there will be at least one solid month in there where I won't have any scheduled commitments to school. And that's when I begin to prepare for next year!
Since Friday, what have I done?
Cleaned the house bottom to top.
Laundry.
Went running every morning.
Went for a walk every night.
Yoga every day.
Read the paper front to back.
Completed two crossword puzzles.
Went grocery shopping for 2 hours.
Went to the Goodwill 75% off sale and got a huge bag of clothes for $7.
Went to burger day at the River Rock and played Yatzee with my husband.
Slept in (until 7:30!) and took naps two days in a row.
Cooked. No, I mean actually put more than three ingredients together, not including spices, which account for at least another three, and came up with something that did not look like anything I started with and with no picture on a box it could match. That kind of cooking.
Sat and watched a movie start to finish.
Two hours of yardwork.
Blogged.
I know this might all seem a bit mundane, but it really is everything I can't do during the regular school year, and why people who say teachers have it easy will never truly understand just how much we don't get done in our own lives so that we can focus on others. I love my job, but I love my own life too, and I love having summers "off" just so I can have my life for a little while, even if it's all just crammed into three months out of each year. And not even, as I look at my schedule and see this school likes us to attend meetings after the semester, so this week and next week and the week after, I have meetings to attend. And I did sign on for a seven-week spring class. All the same, I know there will be at least one solid month in there where I won't have any scheduled commitments to school. And that's when I begin to prepare for next year!
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Oh, the Things They Say...
It never fails, no matter how much I try to vary my teaching schedule, slow one class down, speed another class up, it seems like first papers of the semester all come in at exactly the same time. Four classes, 80 students, 80 papers to read over a weekend. From Thursday night until - well, until I'm done, I do nothing more than sit, read, eat, bathroom break, walk around a bit, repeat until done. Luckily, this only seems to happen for the first paper, but, all the same, I hit a point in the reading where I feel as though I have stepped into the Twilight Zone and am living in the lines and lives of my students. It's a strange, eerie feeling, when I lift my head from reading and wonder where my reality lay amid my vision. A quick phone call home to my husband helps to ground me, or, as happens once in a while, a line from a student paper that makes me laugh out loud. I always swear I'm going to start a notebook of funny things my students write, I jot them down on scrap paper and then they get lost. So, before I forget, here's a couple that got me laughing out loud in the library.
"I turned the page and couldn't believe what I was seeing. A menashatwa."
(Okay, so here, I'm pronouncing the word: men-nah-sha-twa, thinking it's some kind of Native Amerian Indian terminology for something...)
"One man and two women."
(Oh! menage a trois!)
LOL
The next one:
"When I got to work [at the nursing home], I started my shift by passing ice."
(Ow! Ow! Ow!)
So, it's not all drudgery. A few light moments like this, and then tactfully finding a way to correct the writer as to the spelling or correct grammatical usage. Back to work, passing comments.
No, I really mean that one.
"I turned the page and couldn't believe what I was seeing. A menashatwa."
(Okay, so here, I'm pronouncing the word: men-nah-sha-twa, thinking it's some kind of Native Amerian Indian terminology for something...)
"One man and two women."
(Oh! menage a trois!)
LOL
The next one:
"When I got to work [at the nursing home], I started my shift by passing ice."
(Ow! Ow! Ow!)
So, it's not all drudgery. A few light moments like this, and then tactfully finding a way to correct the writer as to the spelling or correct grammatical usage. Back to work, passing comments.
No, I really mean that one.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Best-laid Plans
As I headed out for my morning run, I met up with my neighbor, Mary, also a runner. We stopped for a moment to chat, commiserating on the weather, our ailments of the week, and discussing upcoming races. “There’s still time to register for the run on Saturday,” she tells me. “I’m sure if you sent it in today, they’d still take it as early.”
“Oh, no,” I replied. “I don’t do early registration.”
“Ah, you’re more of an impulse kind of person…”
“No. No I’m not. Not at all.”
No, when I first began racing, and I mean really racing, not just doing a run here and there for fun when it was in my own backyard, I would plan my entire summer (or season – The Season) around my race schedule. As the sport publications came rolling in, I would be checking out the schedules in the back, logging onto race web sites, using search engines to find more obscure races. I would plan which race to do when, how it would compliment the races to come, and how to work in training to build for each successive challenge. Impulse? No way.
Any other plans I had for summer had to fit around this schedule. If friends asked me to join them for a festival or concert or other summer fun activity, I first had to consult The Schedule. I could never be out past 9:00pm, as I needed my sleep to be up and training by 5:30am. Vacations were actually planned in accordance with races. If we went anywhere new it was because there was a race. Of course the great thing with triathlons is the need for water and long expanses of roadway, so most of the places we ventured to were really quite beautiful, near lakes, oceans, forests, mountains. Some of the sprints allowed for visits to cities, where not as much space is required, such as the Danskin Tri in Seattle.
And in keeping with all of this careful planning, I was a master of pre-registration. I had a system for always making the cut-off date, marking on the calendar the day I needed to send my payment for the race coordinators to receive it on time, or to make the postmark date. For series races, I had the fax number programmed in the speed dial of my fax at work, which I would dutifully follow-up each time with a phone call to be sure they received my fax. Impulse? No, now I think we’re bordering on neurotic.
So, what happened? When did this all change to “I don’t do early registration”? The year I planned to do “it”—the big one, an Ironman.
I was ready. I had raced for three years, completing two half Ironmans with qualifying times. I’d had one bad year in there where I suffered knee injuries, but had tacked a successful year on top of it to erase its memory. I was ready. I scoured the races, there now being so many more choices for the Ironman-length. I found one close to home that hadn’t closed for registration yet, but requiring some travel and accommodation plans. Oh goodie, a vacation!
I read all the preliminary information, studied the course maps, read participant comments on list serves and group pages. I was psyched. To better set myself for the challenge and to assure my place, I pre-registered for the race well in advance. I told people I was going to do it, talking it up with close friends and colleagues to gain their support and encouragement for my efforts. I was doing everything the pros advise to “get yourself into the race.” And then the t-shirt came – with the race logo on the front and the letters boldly emblazoned on the back “IN TRAINING.” I was so proud. My training soared. I was peaked both mentally and physically. I was doing everything right.
Then, two months before the race – you can guess this, right? – injury. A pinched disk in my upper back, between the shoulder blades. Every time I turned my head, the dagger twisted in my back. When I ran it wasn’t bad, but when I stopped and put my arms down, fireworks shot through my spine. I lost feeling and motor control in my right arm on several occasions. Swimming was out of the questions. Biking was the only activity that didn’t cause pain.
Well, three doctor visits later, I’m in PT for the remainder of summer, The Season. My psyche is Swiss cheese, my ego is crushed, and I’m all but on the verge of diving into the black hole of depression. I know The Race is out of the question. It has become an impossibility. Unreachable. Unattainable.
I look back over the race info. I can still ask for a refund, at least $150. I hammer out a letter and send it e-mail. A week later, no response. I call the number and leave two messages. No response. I send one more e-mail. This time, a response, telling me to send a letter through traditional post. I do so, and receive a response that my request has come too late to receive a refund (One week too late – do I argue this with them? No.), but they will carry over my registration for next year.
I put the letter away in a box of race memorabilia. I go to PT twice a week for three months until I just can’t stand to go anymore. Going to PT reminds me that I am an injured person, not whole, not able to compete. I have to tell friends, family, colleagues of my injury and inability to compete. Their disappointment for me only adds to my misery.
My recovery is slow. It’s not until March the following year that I even consider the upcoming season. It’s then I decide I will never again pre-register for a race again. Yeah, it costs more (and can you please tell me why it costs so much more sometimes? Really, is it $20 more worth of work to register a person the day of instead of the day before?), but I’m already out $150 on pre-registering, so I figure I’ll late register until the extra cost matches that, then reassess my approach.
I can remember an old racing pal of mine, Frank, who I would see stroll in the morning of a race and fill out the forms. He was a veteran, having seeing the Big Island numerous times, always pulling a first for his age group in local venues. Back then, I just couldn’t understand how he could wait until the last minute to register, someone as experienced as him should have it all planned out, right? Now I know, as do many other seasoned racers, that you don’t know what’s going to happen from race to race. It can’t be that neatly planned every time, as much as you may want it to be. I suppose it only takes one injury, one incident to remind us that we’re human. We can’t always count on making life plans based on the health and well-being of our bodies, or at least we have to expect there will be times when those best-laid plans will fall through, especially when we continue to push our bodies to extremes and beyond limits. That’s just what athletes do, but then we have to be willing to pay – literally.
This is the lesson I have learned. And what have I to show for it? Well, a $150 t-shirt for starters.
“Oh, no,” I replied. “I don’t do early registration.”
“Ah, you’re more of an impulse kind of person…”
“No. No I’m not. Not at all.”
No, when I first began racing, and I mean really racing, not just doing a run here and there for fun when it was in my own backyard, I would plan my entire summer (or season – The Season) around my race schedule. As the sport publications came rolling in, I would be checking out the schedules in the back, logging onto race web sites, using search engines to find more obscure races. I would plan which race to do when, how it would compliment the races to come, and how to work in training to build for each successive challenge. Impulse? No way.
Any other plans I had for summer had to fit around this schedule. If friends asked me to join them for a festival or concert or other summer fun activity, I first had to consult The Schedule. I could never be out past 9:00pm, as I needed my sleep to be up and training by 5:30am. Vacations were actually planned in accordance with races. If we went anywhere new it was because there was a race. Of course the great thing with triathlons is the need for water and long expanses of roadway, so most of the places we ventured to were really quite beautiful, near lakes, oceans, forests, mountains. Some of the sprints allowed for visits to cities, where not as much space is required, such as the Danskin Tri in Seattle.
And in keeping with all of this careful planning, I was a master of pre-registration. I had a system for always making the cut-off date, marking on the calendar the day I needed to send my payment for the race coordinators to receive it on time, or to make the postmark date. For series races, I had the fax number programmed in the speed dial of my fax at work, which I would dutifully follow-up each time with a phone call to be sure they received my fax. Impulse? No, now I think we’re bordering on neurotic.
So, what happened? When did this all change to “I don’t do early registration”? The year I planned to do “it”—the big one, an Ironman.
I was ready. I had raced for three years, completing two half Ironmans with qualifying times. I’d had one bad year in there where I suffered knee injuries, but had tacked a successful year on top of it to erase its memory. I was ready. I scoured the races, there now being so many more choices for the Ironman-length. I found one close to home that hadn’t closed for registration yet, but requiring some travel and accommodation plans. Oh goodie, a vacation!
I read all the preliminary information, studied the course maps, read participant comments on list serves and group pages. I was psyched. To better set myself for the challenge and to assure my place, I pre-registered for the race well in advance. I told people I was going to do it, talking it up with close friends and colleagues to gain their support and encouragement for my efforts. I was doing everything the pros advise to “get yourself into the race.” And then the t-shirt came – with the race logo on the front and the letters boldly emblazoned on the back “IN TRAINING.” I was so proud. My training soared. I was peaked both mentally and physically. I was doing everything right.
Then, two months before the race – you can guess this, right? – injury. A pinched disk in my upper back, between the shoulder blades. Every time I turned my head, the dagger twisted in my back. When I ran it wasn’t bad, but when I stopped and put my arms down, fireworks shot through my spine. I lost feeling and motor control in my right arm on several occasions. Swimming was out of the questions. Biking was the only activity that didn’t cause pain.
Well, three doctor visits later, I’m in PT for the remainder of summer, The Season. My psyche is Swiss cheese, my ego is crushed, and I’m all but on the verge of diving into the black hole of depression. I know The Race is out of the question. It has become an impossibility. Unreachable. Unattainable.
I look back over the race info. I can still ask for a refund, at least $150. I hammer out a letter and send it e-mail. A week later, no response. I call the number and leave two messages. No response. I send one more e-mail. This time, a response, telling me to send a letter through traditional post. I do so, and receive a response that my request has come too late to receive a refund (One week too late – do I argue this with them? No.), but they will carry over my registration for next year.
I put the letter away in a box of race memorabilia. I go to PT twice a week for three months until I just can’t stand to go anymore. Going to PT reminds me that I am an injured person, not whole, not able to compete. I have to tell friends, family, colleagues of my injury and inability to compete. Their disappointment for me only adds to my misery.
My recovery is slow. It’s not until March the following year that I even consider the upcoming season. It’s then I decide I will never again pre-register for a race again. Yeah, it costs more (and can you please tell me why it costs so much more sometimes? Really, is it $20 more worth of work to register a person the day of instead of the day before?), but I’m already out $150 on pre-registering, so I figure I’ll late register until the extra cost matches that, then reassess my approach.
I can remember an old racing pal of mine, Frank, who I would see stroll in the morning of a race and fill out the forms. He was a veteran, having seeing the Big Island numerous times, always pulling a first for his age group in local venues. Back then, I just couldn’t understand how he could wait until the last minute to register, someone as experienced as him should have it all planned out, right? Now I know, as do many other seasoned racers, that you don’t know what’s going to happen from race to race. It can’t be that neatly planned every time, as much as you may want it to be. I suppose it only takes one injury, one incident to remind us that we’re human. We can’t always count on making life plans based on the health and well-being of our bodies, or at least we have to expect there will be times when those best-laid plans will fall through, especially when we continue to push our bodies to extremes and beyond limits. That’s just what athletes do, but then we have to be willing to pay – literally.
This is the lesson I have learned. And what have I to show for it? Well, a $150 t-shirt for starters.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Nail Biter
I don't bite my nails.
My husband yells at me to stop biting my nails. I don’t bite my nails. My nails are just bad. They are weak and chip easily when I go swimming and grab the edge of the pool. They get banged up and break because I’m not careful with them when I do things like clean the house or garden in the yard. I really don’t garden much. But I also don’t bite my nails. I bite my cuticles. They split and tear easily, and so I bite them away. I grab the loose piece of skin in my teeth and try to nip it back flush, but it doesn’t always work. It sticks up. It gets snagged on things, like fabrics, and I can feel it rubbing up against my other fingers. Sometimes its hurts because it keeps getting bumped and pulled back even more, so biting it away helps it feel better. Unless biting it away makes it feel worse. This happens when I tear the skin back away from the nail. I pull it too far down into the finger. Then it quickly turns bright pink and bleeds.
I keep band-aids everywhere. In my desk at school, in my book bag, in my purse, at least four boxes of them right now in the house. Sometimes I go through three or four band-aids per finger each day. I hate it when they get wet, and I wash my hands regularly throughout the day. Maybe a bit irregularly. Often. I don’t like to touch things other people touch or may have touched with their hands. Unclean hands. Hands I don't know where they have been. I don't like to touch other people, doorknobs, food, anything. If I do, I wash my hands as soon as I can.
I lie to people when they look at my bandaged fingers and ask what happened. I say I burned myself. My friend Angela is a nurse. She said, “The pads are on the wrong side.”
“What?” I asked.
“The pads on the band-aids. If you burned yourself, they would be on the other side. On your finger tips. They’re not. They’re on your finger nails.”
Leave it to a nurse to notice this.
“I have bad cuticles,” I tell her, deciding, of all people in my life, she would understand. “They rip easily, and sometimes I pick at them.” Truth. “I’m trying to get myself to leave them alone.” Lie.
“Oh,” she nods.
It’s not just little bites and bits of skin that I pull away. I pick and pull and nip and shred at my fingers regularly, sometimes tearing away layers of skin in fleshy sheets. I played the upright bass for over twenty years, so some of my finger pads tend to callous up, then shed anyway, so some of it just happens; I can’t do anything about it. Like on my index fingers. The skin there will regularly slough off and pull away easily.
Once, while driving through town, I saw an old woman fall off her bike. She didn’t really fall so much as she had sort of almost stopped, lost her balance and tipped over. She was wearing carpi pants, leaving her ankles exposed. As she landed on someone’s grassy lawn, the bike came crashing down on top of her, the pedal slamming into her ankle and pulling backward as the momentum continued rolling its wheels away from her. The edge of the pedal, a kind of serrated edge to help the foot stay on, caught her skin and I watched as it pulled a layer of flesh back and away from her thinly muscled bone. She was old. I don’t know how old, but she had grey hair and spindly limbs with wrinkly skin. Her skin, the pedal just pulled it back like tissue paper. She had a horrified look on her face. I was only just driving by, but it all happened so quickly that I saw it. I don’t know if skin getting pulled away like that heals or not when you’re that old. It must still heal, it just must take a while longer.
That’s how my skin comes off my fingers. In sheets that I pull away with my teeth. It comes off pale, sometimes white, sometimes translucent. I shed. Sometimes it bleeds, sometimes the skin needed to come off, was ready to come off, so there is no blood. Not hardly even pink beneath it.
Last night, in the bar, I’d had maybe a bit much to drink. I was picking at my index finger on the left hand with my right hand, but fingers don’t always do it. So I chewed on it. I got some skin to come away. A small piece. I picked at it some more. I grabbed a small flap of skin in my teeth and pulled it away. It hurt, but I was buzzed, so I wasn’t feeling much to make me stop. I wouldn’t have stopped anyway, even if I hadn’t been drunk. I feel the pain and know it’s only going to hurt more, but I can’t make myself stop, because I would be left with a flap of skin just hanging there. I continued to pull. The place where the top flesh was being pulled away from the tender flesh beneath it tingled down my fingertip, following the transient line of separation. A large flap of skin came away, peeling all the way down the front of my finger, down the full length of the pad to the borderline of the first digit, then it ripped away completely. I sat there with the large piece of flesh in my mouth.
It was near the end of the night. I was alone at the table. JodiAnn had left, Shawn was in the bathroom, and Casey just wasn’t paying attention this time, or he would have yelled at me. I held the skin between my front top and bottom teeth. I ground my teeth back and forth, but the piece was too thick for me to break through it. Normally I could sit and nibble down bits of skin, cut them up between my teeth over and over again until they became a fine kind of fleshy gravel, then I would spit it out. Sometimes. Sometimes I don’t spit it out. Sometimes, I’m a cannibal. I couldn’t break this piece up into smaller pieces.
I looked at my finger. I had a bright red spot where the skin had been. It was the shape of Lake Michigan, my normal, unscathed flesh on the left, Wisconsin, and on the right, Michigan, with Ohio and Indiana down below the digit border. It wasn’t bleeding, but it hurt. I blew on it. It felt cold in the air, as though I were touching ice. The lines of my fingerprint went below that top layer (or was it two or three I had pulled away?); they looked like plump, juicy cells in a slice of fresh, ruby red grapefruit. I put my finger in my mouth. My tongue felt like sandpaper against the raw pad and it stung like a new burn when exposed to air.
The ball game ended. Our beers were empty, except for JodiAnn’s. She left some. Casey stood up to leave, and I took the hunk of flesh out of my mouth. It was a prize piece, that’s for sure, but I had to leave it behind. I dropped it on the floor and put on my coat. I had to hold my finger out straight and not use it. Like the hands in the Michelangelo painting, only I didn’t want to touch another person. I didn’t want to touch anything.
My husband yells at me to stop biting my nails. I don’t bite my nails. My nails are just bad. They are weak and chip easily when I go swimming and grab the edge of the pool. They get banged up and break because I’m not careful with them when I do things like clean the house or garden in the yard. I really don’t garden much. But I also don’t bite my nails. I bite my cuticles. They split and tear easily, and so I bite them away. I grab the loose piece of skin in my teeth and try to nip it back flush, but it doesn’t always work. It sticks up. It gets snagged on things, like fabrics, and I can feel it rubbing up against my other fingers. Sometimes its hurts because it keeps getting bumped and pulled back even more, so biting it away helps it feel better. Unless biting it away makes it feel worse. This happens when I tear the skin back away from the nail. I pull it too far down into the finger. Then it quickly turns bright pink and bleeds.
I keep band-aids everywhere. In my desk at school, in my book bag, in my purse, at least four boxes of them right now in the house. Sometimes I go through three or four band-aids per finger each day. I hate it when they get wet, and I wash my hands regularly throughout the day. Maybe a bit irregularly. Often. I don’t like to touch things other people touch or may have touched with their hands. Unclean hands. Hands I don't know where they have been. I don't like to touch other people, doorknobs, food, anything. If I do, I wash my hands as soon as I can.
I lie to people when they look at my bandaged fingers and ask what happened. I say I burned myself. My friend Angela is a nurse. She said, “The pads are on the wrong side.”
“What?” I asked.
“The pads on the band-aids. If you burned yourself, they would be on the other side. On your finger tips. They’re not. They’re on your finger nails.”
Leave it to a nurse to notice this.
“I have bad cuticles,” I tell her, deciding, of all people in my life, she would understand. “They rip easily, and sometimes I pick at them.” Truth. “I’m trying to get myself to leave them alone.” Lie.
“Oh,” she nods.
It’s not just little bites and bits of skin that I pull away. I pick and pull and nip and shred at my fingers regularly, sometimes tearing away layers of skin in fleshy sheets. I played the upright bass for over twenty years, so some of my finger pads tend to callous up, then shed anyway, so some of it just happens; I can’t do anything about it. Like on my index fingers. The skin there will regularly slough off and pull away easily.
Once, while driving through town, I saw an old woman fall off her bike. She didn’t really fall so much as she had sort of almost stopped, lost her balance and tipped over. She was wearing carpi pants, leaving her ankles exposed. As she landed on someone’s grassy lawn, the bike came crashing down on top of her, the pedal slamming into her ankle and pulling backward as the momentum continued rolling its wheels away from her. The edge of the pedal, a kind of serrated edge to help the foot stay on, caught her skin and I watched as it pulled a layer of flesh back and away from her thinly muscled bone. She was old. I don’t know how old, but she had grey hair and spindly limbs with wrinkly skin. Her skin, the pedal just pulled it back like tissue paper. She had a horrified look on her face. I was only just driving by, but it all happened so quickly that I saw it. I don’t know if skin getting pulled away like that heals or not when you’re that old. It must still heal, it just must take a while longer.
That’s how my skin comes off my fingers. In sheets that I pull away with my teeth. It comes off pale, sometimes white, sometimes translucent. I shed. Sometimes it bleeds, sometimes the skin needed to come off, was ready to come off, so there is no blood. Not hardly even pink beneath it.
Last night, in the bar, I’d had maybe a bit much to drink. I was picking at my index finger on the left hand with my right hand, but fingers don’t always do it. So I chewed on it. I got some skin to come away. A small piece. I picked at it some more. I grabbed a small flap of skin in my teeth and pulled it away. It hurt, but I was buzzed, so I wasn’t feeling much to make me stop. I wouldn’t have stopped anyway, even if I hadn’t been drunk. I feel the pain and know it’s only going to hurt more, but I can’t make myself stop, because I would be left with a flap of skin just hanging there. I continued to pull. The place where the top flesh was being pulled away from the tender flesh beneath it tingled down my fingertip, following the transient line of separation. A large flap of skin came away, peeling all the way down the front of my finger, down the full length of the pad to the borderline of the first digit, then it ripped away completely. I sat there with the large piece of flesh in my mouth.
It was near the end of the night. I was alone at the table. JodiAnn had left, Shawn was in the bathroom, and Casey just wasn’t paying attention this time, or he would have yelled at me. I held the skin between my front top and bottom teeth. I ground my teeth back and forth, but the piece was too thick for me to break through it. Normally I could sit and nibble down bits of skin, cut them up between my teeth over and over again until they became a fine kind of fleshy gravel, then I would spit it out. Sometimes. Sometimes I don’t spit it out. Sometimes, I’m a cannibal. I couldn’t break this piece up into smaller pieces.
I looked at my finger. I had a bright red spot where the skin had been. It was the shape of Lake Michigan, my normal, unscathed flesh on the left, Wisconsin, and on the right, Michigan, with Ohio and Indiana down below the digit border. It wasn’t bleeding, but it hurt. I blew on it. It felt cold in the air, as though I were touching ice. The lines of my fingerprint went below that top layer (or was it two or three I had pulled away?); they looked like plump, juicy cells in a slice of fresh, ruby red grapefruit. I put my finger in my mouth. My tongue felt like sandpaper against the raw pad and it stung like a new burn when exposed to air.
The ball game ended. Our beers were empty, except for JodiAnn’s. She left some. Casey stood up to leave, and I took the hunk of flesh out of my mouth. It was a prize piece, that’s for sure, but I had to leave it behind. I dropped it on the floor and put on my coat. I had to hold my finger out straight and not use it. Like the hands in the Michelangelo painting, only I didn’t want to touch another person. I didn’t want to touch anything.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Counseling the Next Generation
South Dakota just passed one of the most stringent anti-abortion laws in this nation's history since Roe v. Wade, and is no doubt meant to be the instigator of the first of what will become many attacks on the decision. The goal of such measures: to completely outlaw abortions, except in the case where the pregnant woman's life is in danger. (And I would expect even that will come under attack by ultra-conservatives; as a result, being pregnant will literally mean you would give your life for your child's. Most mothers would undoubtedly stand for that after the birth of their child, but I don't know of many who would choose it before--but the choice, in the conservatives' minds, is exactly what women shouldn't have.)
What this does mean is that women who become pregnant as a result of rape and/or incest will not have the choice to abort that child. Not only that, but it also means that the perpetrator of such crimes and his family would then be considered in custody and other parental rights' decisions. Of course, it also means they could be held responsible for child support as well, but we all know wonderfully that whole system works.
The issue of counseling the next generation in a society where abortion is outlawed is knowing that there will be an increase in the number of human beings whose conceptions came of violence and/or family relations. Individuals will grow up either knowing or finding out that their existence is the result of forced intercourse, an illegal exertion of power and control, not as an act of love or willful creation of a next generation. How might this affect a person's sense of identity? Of self worth?
What about women who are raped, who are victims of incest and now pregnant? These women will also need support from the very society that forces them to carry these children and subsequently raise them or give them up for adoption. What are current attitudes towards single mothers? Towards young teens who are pregnant? As the number of pregnant women and teens increases, will supportive attitudes prevail and increase correspondingly? I'm going to hold a pessimistic "No" response on this one, but I would love to be proved wrong.
I also can't help but question how these mothers might actually raise these children, how a woman who is raped by a stranger will love her child, how a teen whose child has the same father as she does will interact emotionally with that child as she raises it. It cannot be assumed these women will automatically give their children up for adoption; in a culture which forces their continued pregnancies, they may also feel the pressure to see through raising the child as well. What will the mental and emotional dynamic be of these mothers' relationships with their children? And how is this going to affect this next generation of children?
As a result of such restrictive abortion laws there will also be an increase in the number of children born out of wedlock (already problematic nomenclature, but still a prevailing ideology in our culture). In a time of outcry against diminishing "family values" and protection of marriage acts passing in state after state, we will see an increase in children born to single mothers, to absent fathers (if they were even known at all), and fathers who are not in a position be take on the role of father to the child for whom they are also already grandfather, great-grandfather, uncle, etc. As a society, we must begin now to prepare ourselves for the onslaught of mental and emotional complexities that will result from all such possibilities.
If this concern seems overblown, keep in mind the statistic that one in three women will be a victim of sexual assault in this society. One in three. Now consider the likely percentage of those that might result in an unwanted pregnancy. Rape and incest are still hushed topics in our culture, but by outlawing abortion, we will literally be able to see before our very eyes just what a prevelant place these vile acts maintain. We are not, by far, a civilized nation, and it has nothing to do with abortion.
Our society must begin to prepare itself for a new generation of bastard children whom we have demanded be born, and be prepared to embrace them and bring them into our lives. (Not to mention being ready to support the ensuing health issues that will be on the increase, those genetic complexities that result from familial inbreeding, and unknown health issues that a rapist passes on to his resulting child. An increase in special education needs in elementary schools, an increase in health care needs for young mothers dependent upon state aid...)
I wonder just how many parents would be eager to have their child play with "Tommy" from next door, who was born as the result of the 12-year-old neighbor being raped by her grandfather, all of whom are still living as a family unit. Or how supportive teachers will be of the single mother coming to parent teacher night who explains the reason for "Emily's" absent father is that she had been raped by a stranger and there was never any father in the picture. You might say that she wouldn't even say that, but why wouldn't she? We have told her it is nothing by which to be ashamed. Or will there be an increase as well in the currently prevailing response of victim blaming? So that now, not only is the woman to blame for being raped by stranger, family or friend, but this child is the living punishment for her transgression (of simply being born a woman in this society)? How would you feel as an adult to know that this society believed your existence to be the punishment for your mother having been raped by a stranger or by her own brother? I can't even begin to imagine the years of therapy that will take or the emotional response an individual might take against that very society as a means of acting out.
We must all seriously question just how we plan to live with this next generation of children, how we plan not to ostracize this group and make them feel as though their births were not misfortunes or mistakes. Frankly, I don't see it happening. If anything, we are about to become the first of a series of generational dominoes that will come crashing down as these children grow up despised, regretted and outcast from the very society that demanded they exist in the first place. It will be a long time in coming, if ever, before we embrace them and call them family.
What this does mean is that women who become pregnant as a result of rape and/or incest will not have the choice to abort that child. Not only that, but it also means that the perpetrator of such crimes and his family would then be considered in custody and other parental rights' decisions. Of course, it also means they could be held responsible for child support as well, but we all know wonderfully that whole system works.
The issue of counseling the next generation in a society where abortion is outlawed is knowing that there will be an increase in the number of human beings whose conceptions came of violence and/or family relations. Individuals will grow up either knowing or finding out that their existence is the result of forced intercourse, an illegal exertion of power and control, not as an act of love or willful creation of a next generation. How might this affect a person's sense of identity? Of self worth?
What about women who are raped, who are victims of incest and now pregnant? These women will also need support from the very society that forces them to carry these children and subsequently raise them or give them up for adoption. What are current attitudes towards single mothers? Towards young teens who are pregnant? As the number of pregnant women and teens increases, will supportive attitudes prevail and increase correspondingly? I'm going to hold a pessimistic "No" response on this one, but I would love to be proved wrong.
I also can't help but question how these mothers might actually raise these children, how a woman who is raped by a stranger will love her child, how a teen whose child has the same father as she does will interact emotionally with that child as she raises it. It cannot be assumed these women will automatically give their children up for adoption; in a culture which forces their continued pregnancies, they may also feel the pressure to see through raising the child as well. What will the mental and emotional dynamic be of these mothers' relationships with their children? And how is this going to affect this next generation of children?
As a result of such restrictive abortion laws there will also be an increase in the number of children born out of wedlock (already problematic nomenclature, but still a prevailing ideology in our culture). In a time of outcry against diminishing "family values" and protection of marriage acts passing in state after state, we will see an increase in children born to single mothers, to absent fathers (if they were even known at all), and fathers who are not in a position be take on the role of father to the child for whom they are also already grandfather, great-grandfather, uncle, etc. As a society, we must begin now to prepare ourselves for the onslaught of mental and emotional complexities that will result from all such possibilities.
If this concern seems overblown, keep in mind the statistic that one in three women will be a victim of sexual assault in this society. One in three. Now consider the likely percentage of those that might result in an unwanted pregnancy. Rape and incest are still hushed topics in our culture, but by outlawing abortion, we will literally be able to see before our very eyes just what a prevelant place these vile acts maintain. We are not, by far, a civilized nation, and it has nothing to do with abortion.
Our society must begin to prepare itself for a new generation of bastard children whom we have demanded be born, and be prepared to embrace them and bring them into our lives. (Not to mention being ready to support the ensuing health issues that will be on the increase, those genetic complexities that result from familial inbreeding, and unknown health issues that a rapist passes on to his resulting child. An increase in special education needs in elementary schools, an increase in health care needs for young mothers dependent upon state aid...)
I wonder just how many parents would be eager to have their child play with "Tommy" from next door, who was born as the result of the 12-year-old neighbor being raped by her grandfather, all of whom are still living as a family unit. Or how supportive teachers will be of the single mother coming to parent teacher night who explains the reason for "Emily's" absent father is that she had been raped by a stranger and there was never any father in the picture. You might say that she wouldn't even say that, but why wouldn't she? We have told her it is nothing by which to be ashamed. Or will there be an increase as well in the currently prevailing response of victim blaming? So that now, not only is the woman to blame for being raped by stranger, family or friend, but this child is the living punishment for her transgression (of simply being born a woman in this society)? How would you feel as an adult to know that this society believed your existence to be the punishment for your mother having been raped by a stranger or by her own brother? I can't even begin to imagine the years of therapy that will take or the emotional response an individual might take against that very society as a means of acting out.
We must all seriously question just how we plan to live with this next generation of children, how we plan not to ostracize this group and make them feel as though their births were not misfortunes or mistakes. Frankly, I don't see it happening. If anything, we are about to become the first of a series of generational dominoes that will come crashing down as these children grow up despised, regretted and outcast from the very society that demanded they exist in the first place. It will be a long time in coming, if ever, before we embrace them and call them family.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Whimsy
I have been focusing on this word the past week or so. It came to mind one early morning as I was out walking the dog just before dawn in a light dusting of new-fallen snow. The air was crisp and as we walked, we left our footprints behind us. I could see the footprints of someone else who had been up before us. Unmistakable by its path, down the whole block-length sidewalk, a few steps up each house walkway: the paperboy (in our case, yes, it is a young male). I looked at and was able to identify the pattern of his boot tred on several blocks in a row. Suddenly, on one block, I noticed his individual steps had become a shuffling walk. He had dragged his feet to create two solid lines through the snow down to the concrete sidewalk. The parallel lines then took to curving, as he had shuffled his feet first from one grass-edged side of the walk to other. Looking up, I was taken aback to see he had continued this movement down the entire length of the block, a carefully measured serpentine pattern that arced left and right, left and right. I felt a spontaneous smile emerge as I stood in awe of the simple artistic beauty of these lines, the snow and cement and entire city block his canvas on which to create this transient image.
I laughed an appreciative and surprising laugh as I moved onto the terrace to continue our walk, careful not to disturb his work. I marveled at the time and careful thought it must have taken him to drag through this block, no doubt the whole time burdened with his pack of papers, but no more in a hurry to be done with his chore. I wonder if at some point he stopped and looked back at his work, satisfied with his creation. Did he for a moment hope that others might come upon it and appreciate its beauty, or be mystified by its appearance, something akin to crop circles? Or maybe this is just something he had done numerous times, out of boredom, walking that route every morning, rain, snow, darkness and sunrise. Regardless, I would just bet that at some point, either before, during or after his act of creating this, he must have smiled, if even slightly, at the thought of it, upon seeing its completion. In the same way I smiled upon encountering it and relishing in its existence. This, then, is what I came to identify as an act of whimsy, both in its creation and in its appreciation.
Whimsy, I said to myself over and over. How simple. How utterly delightful. How fun. Whimsy. But not just silly or childish. It was artistic. It was creative. Whimsy. The word stuck with me, as much fun to say as its own meaning, like how an onomatopoeia sounds like what it means to describe (pitter-patter of rain, creak of the door), this word makes you feel like what it means to define. Just try saying it: whimsy. It makes you want to smile just a bit, or even giggle. Maybe it’s an emotionomatopoeia—an emotional reflection of the word, or a psychonomatopoeia. Yet more whimsy in just creating these words.
Whimsy. The word hung in my head. What is whimsy? Of course, like good English-folk, I went to my dictionary for a more precise definition and was actually most dissatisfied with what I found there: an odd or fanciful idea; a quaint or fanciful quality; acting more from unpredictability than reason or judgment; an odd idea; a freak; an odd conceit; capricious (impulsive, unpredictable).
No, no. These wouldn’t do at all. It wasn’t what I had felt in seeing the serpentine creation; in some ways, yes—it was “odd” in that it was out of the ordinary, and unpredictable in that same way, as well as fanciful. But there seemed to be more negative connotation to those dictionary descriptors than what I sensed when I thought of whimsy. Certainly, I can see this having been a definition of the word when it would have been created, in a time when there wasn’t an appreciation for that which may have on the surface seemed frivolous. But, then, weren’t many artists considered such? Their works not considered serious, not, certainly, a serious profession, and most likely in their lifetimes, not appreciated for their innovation and depth. We see this a great deal more upon reflection of artists’ works from the past. Has this really changed that much? In some ways I think we do have a new and different sense of value for art, a greater appreciation and understanding of it and of our need for it in our lives, yet at the same time, some of those same old struggles continue. Can we not, then, revisit this notion of whimsy and perhaps create a new definition of it? Lets. Something which reflects a greater sense of fun and joy, snippets of bliss in our daily lives of mundane predictability and grayness. Accessorize with whimsy.
I think about ways in which I can be whimsical in my daily life, so I’m not sure that the act of being whimsical is in itself the unpredictable part so much as the person on the receiving end of the act does not predict its presence in their daily lives. For example, at the beach, collecting rocks and stacking them in a grouping so that others who come walking down the same path will see them. I would consider that an act of whimsy. It’s really meant to be simply fun, something that others will look at and say, “Oh, neat” and “Look at this, isn’t that fun?”
Acts of whimsy are actually quite creative, and require some thought and planning on the part of the creator, either in advance, or in the spur of the moment, but enough thought so that when asked about the creation of it, the answer isn’t simply, “Oh, I don’t know.” But instead could be, in the case of the bored paperboy, “I thought it was fun to walk back and forth, and I wanted to see if I could do it for the whole block.” Or “I thought it looked cool when I started it, so then I wanted to see if I could do a really long design.” That shows some consideration of the part of the creator which could be found out if queried. Another example is that at home, I have a tiny carved bear fetish my husband gave me to carry around in my pocket. However, I knew if I had it in a pocket, it would quickly become forgotten, lost in the wash, or vacuumed up some fateful afternoon after having fallen out. So, instead, I began placing it around the house. I set it on the banister. My husband asked about it, and I said the bear wanted to be there so he could watch us as we worked during the day. A few days later, I moved the bear to a window sill. My husband noticed this and asked about it. I said the bear must have wanted to look out the window and watch the snow fall. I don’t have a set schedule for moving the bear, and I don’t have it planned where he will go next, but, on a whim, I know I will someday grab him and simply drop him off in a new location and there will be a new story to go along with it once I am asked. Or, maybe this time, my husband will come up with the story himself and participate in creating this act of whimsy.
Are animals whimsical? I have wondered as I’ve been pondering the concept of whimsy. I often think my dog or cat really does mean to be funny sometimes in their own instinctual animal ways. When walking through the room, the cat will sometimes come out and jump up at the back of my legs, then simply drop to the floor and look at me as I yelp back in surprise. He doesn’t run away. He doesn’t look as though he wants to continue to play. He just sort of sits there and, yes, smiles at me, like, “Ha! Wasn’t that funny? Don’t you find me cunning and creative for still being able to surprise you like that?” Or the dog, who likes to hide his toys inside his owner’s shoes. I know an animal behaviorist will have a scientific explanation for this, but couldn’t it also be considered and animal act of whimsy? Or, for simple-minded me who doesn’t know the explanation for it, can I not consider it an act of whimsy and appreciate it as such?
I heard a song on the radio the other morning, its lyrics went something like, “I know why the Mona Lisa smiles, that DiVinci must have been a pretty funny guy.” And I thought, sure, the Mona Lisa is one of our greatest examples of how an artist himself created one of the most lasting symbols of whimsy. Was he intentionally being whimsical in his creation of the figure? Was the Mona Lisa model appreciating a bit of whimsy at the time of the painting, as the singer suggests? Don’t we continue to appreciate it as a bit of whimsy in our own lives? What mystery and at the same time what satisfaction this one piece has created for generations of viewers. And how greatly is it that we truly need and desire whimsy in our lives, as we have valued this painting as some kind of treasure.
Like purposefully creating opportunities for random acts of kindness in our days, I propose we also now add whimsy to our repertoire. Perhaps not every day, but once in a while, how about a random act of whimsy (is that redundant?). How about a simple sticky note with a smiley face on it stuck to the inside of a cabinet at work; pencils on a table lined up to spell out HI; a stack of rocks in an unexpected place; macaroni art in a gilded frame; famous quotes on labels stuck in unexpected spaces to enlightened someone’s day… The possibilities are endless since whimsy can crop up at any moment, inspired by the moment, anonymous, to be enjoyed or ahhh’d. But most of all, whimsy is more than the thought of action, it’s more than simply thinking, “Wouldn’t it be fun if…?” It’s the act. And so I urge you all, today, just let a little edge of your daily guard down, let loose a bit of that social rigidity, give in to a “freak” creative thought in the mire of daily structure and predictability. Be whimsical. I think you’ll enjoy it. And others will too. What a better world it will be with just a little more whimsy.
I laughed an appreciative and surprising laugh as I moved onto the terrace to continue our walk, careful not to disturb his work. I marveled at the time and careful thought it must have taken him to drag through this block, no doubt the whole time burdened with his pack of papers, but no more in a hurry to be done with his chore. I wonder if at some point he stopped and looked back at his work, satisfied with his creation. Did he for a moment hope that others might come upon it and appreciate its beauty, or be mystified by its appearance, something akin to crop circles? Or maybe this is just something he had done numerous times, out of boredom, walking that route every morning, rain, snow, darkness and sunrise. Regardless, I would just bet that at some point, either before, during or after his act of creating this, he must have smiled, if even slightly, at the thought of it, upon seeing its completion. In the same way I smiled upon encountering it and relishing in its existence. This, then, is what I came to identify as an act of whimsy, both in its creation and in its appreciation.
Whimsy, I said to myself over and over. How simple. How utterly delightful. How fun. Whimsy. But not just silly or childish. It was artistic. It was creative. Whimsy. The word stuck with me, as much fun to say as its own meaning, like how an onomatopoeia sounds like what it means to describe (pitter-patter of rain, creak of the door), this word makes you feel like what it means to define. Just try saying it: whimsy. It makes you want to smile just a bit, or even giggle. Maybe it’s an emotionomatopoeia—an emotional reflection of the word, or a psychonomatopoeia. Yet more whimsy in just creating these words.
Whimsy. The word hung in my head. What is whimsy? Of course, like good English-folk, I went to my dictionary for a more precise definition and was actually most dissatisfied with what I found there: an odd or fanciful idea; a quaint or fanciful quality; acting more from unpredictability than reason or judgment; an odd idea; a freak; an odd conceit; capricious (impulsive, unpredictable).
No, no. These wouldn’t do at all. It wasn’t what I had felt in seeing the serpentine creation; in some ways, yes—it was “odd” in that it was out of the ordinary, and unpredictable in that same way, as well as fanciful. But there seemed to be more negative connotation to those dictionary descriptors than what I sensed when I thought of whimsy. Certainly, I can see this having been a definition of the word when it would have been created, in a time when there wasn’t an appreciation for that which may have on the surface seemed frivolous. But, then, weren’t many artists considered such? Their works not considered serious, not, certainly, a serious profession, and most likely in their lifetimes, not appreciated for their innovation and depth. We see this a great deal more upon reflection of artists’ works from the past. Has this really changed that much? In some ways I think we do have a new and different sense of value for art, a greater appreciation and understanding of it and of our need for it in our lives, yet at the same time, some of those same old struggles continue. Can we not, then, revisit this notion of whimsy and perhaps create a new definition of it? Lets. Something which reflects a greater sense of fun and joy, snippets of bliss in our daily lives of mundane predictability and grayness. Accessorize with whimsy.
I think about ways in which I can be whimsical in my daily life, so I’m not sure that the act of being whimsical is in itself the unpredictable part so much as the person on the receiving end of the act does not predict its presence in their daily lives. For example, at the beach, collecting rocks and stacking them in a grouping so that others who come walking down the same path will see them. I would consider that an act of whimsy. It’s really meant to be simply fun, something that others will look at and say, “Oh, neat” and “Look at this, isn’t that fun?”
Acts of whimsy are actually quite creative, and require some thought and planning on the part of the creator, either in advance, or in the spur of the moment, but enough thought so that when asked about the creation of it, the answer isn’t simply, “Oh, I don’t know.” But instead could be, in the case of the bored paperboy, “I thought it was fun to walk back and forth, and I wanted to see if I could do it for the whole block.” Or “I thought it looked cool when I started it, so then I wanted to see if I could do a really long design.” That shows some consideration of the part of the creator which could be found out if queried. Another example is that at home, I have a tiny carved bear fetish my husband gave me to carry around in my pocket. However, I knew if I had it in a pocket, it would quickly become forgotten, lost in the wash, or vacuumed up some fateful afternoon after having fallen out. So, instead, I began placing it around the house. I set it on the banister. My husband asked about it, and I said the bear wanted to be there so he could watch us as we worked during the day. A few days later, I moved the bear to a window sill. My husband noticed this and asked about it. I said the bear must have wanted to look out the window and watch the snow fall. I don’t have a set schedule for moving the bear, and I don’t have it planned where he will go next, but, on a whim, I know I will someday grab him and simply drop him off in a new location and there will be a new story to go along with it once I am asked. Or, maybe this time, my husband will come up with the story himself and participate in creating this act of whimsy.
Are animals whimsical? I have wondered as I’ve been pondering the concept of whimsy. I often think my dog or cat really does mean to be funny sometimes in their own instinctual animal ways. When walking through the room, the cat will sometimes come out and jump up at the back of my legs, then simply drop to the floor and look at me as I yelp back in surprise. He doesn’t run away. He doesn’t look as though he wants to continue to play. He just sort of sits there and, yes, smiles at me, like, “Ha! Wasn’t that funny? Don’t you find me cunning and creative for still being able to surprise you like that?” Or the dog, who likes to hide his toys inside his owner’s shoes. I know an animal behaviorist will have a scientific explanation for this, but couldn’t it also be considered and animal act of whimsy? Or, for simple-minded me who doesn’t know the explanation for it, can I not consider it an act of whimsy and appreciate it as such?
I heard a song on the radio the other morning, its lyrics went something like, “I know why the Mona Lisa smiles, that DiVinci must have been a pretty funny guy.” And I thought, sure, the Mona Lisa is one of our greatest examples of how an artist himself created one of the most lasting symbols of whimsy. Was he intentionally being whimsical in his creation of the figure? Was the Mona Lisa model appreciating a bit of whimsy at the time of the painting, as the singer suggests? Don’t we continue to appreciate it as a bit of whimsy in our own lives? What mystery and at the same time what satisfaction this one piece has created for generations of viewers. And how greatly is it that we truly need and desire whimsy in our lives, as we have valued this painting as some kind of treasure.
Like purposefully creating opportunities for random acts of kindness in our days, I propose we also now add whimsy to our repertoire. Perhaps not every day, but once in a while, how about a random act of whimsy (is that redundant?). How about a simple sticky note with a smiley face on it stuck to the inside of a cabinet at work; pencils on a table lined up to spell out HI; a stack of rocks in an unexpected place; macaroni art in a gilded frame; famous quotes on labels stuck in unexpected spaces to enlightened someone’s day… The possibilities are endless since whimsy can crop up at any moment, inspired by the moment, anonymous, to be enjoyed or ahhh’d. But most of all, whimsy is more than the thought of action, it’s more than simply thinking, “Wouldn’t it be fun if…?” It’s the act. And so I urge you all, today, just let a little edge of your daily guard down, let loose a bit of that social rigidity, give in to a “freak” creative thought in the mire of daily structure and predictability. Be whimsical. I think you’ll enjoy it. And others will too. What a better world it will be with just a little more whimsy.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Coffee Snobbery
We have been trying lots of different kinds of coffee since we moved to a new city. While there can be a lot of fun ways to explore a new town, having to find a new coffee has not been one of them for me.
Last year, at a conference in Florida, when we had gone from the hotel to the conference site without anything more than a bad cup of hotel coffee, we found that we kept complaining to people that we needed a "real" cup of coffee to get ourselves on track. We kept asking people we ran into where we could get a "real" cup of coffee, and finally got directions to the cafe all the way across the campus where the conference was taking place. Casey said something to me like, he never thought he would become one of those people who complained so much about bad coffee and needing a good cup of coffee. "A coffee snob," I said. "Yes, we are coffee snobs. There's nothing wrong with that."
Life's too short to drink bad coffee, if you can help it.
Our friend Dave told us he drinks coffee from a can, Folgers or whatever he can get at Big K where he works. Sometimes he just reheats a cup of coffee from the day before leftovers. That made my skin crawl.
Okay, yeah, hey now, wait a minute, it's not that I didn't used to do that too: make coffee from whatever was cheapest or on sale at the store, use a paper towel for a filter, run water through old grounds because we were totally out of coffee, depend on the corner gas station to be my morning coffee stop, etc. Been there, done that. I'm just saying I'd like to think I've graduated from that, just like I have a lot of other phases in my life. And I also understand that some people will spend their whole lives there, and that's fine for them. But, for now, I'm a coffee snob.
The best coffee? Higher Grounds
After years of trying lots of different kinds of coffees, these guys take the cake. Their best coffee of all time, unfortunately, is out of stock right now, the Mut Vit. It was one of the darkest, oiliest, full-bodied coffees we have ever had the pure pleasure of drinking each morning. Unfortunately, Higher Grounds' warehouse was located in New Orleans and, you guessed it, they lost their entire year's supply of this bean. Not something you can recoup from immediately. They have to wait until the next crop season to get this bean back in stock. For now, however, they have a Sumatran to take its place, and a great decaf blend. This is truly coffee that will knock your socks off, and is a great cause to support with your dollar power.
Second best coffee? Hubbard Lake Coffee Roasters
We met these roasters when we lived up north in Michigan. A doctor at the local hospital and her husband. He does most of the roasting and selling the coffee locally. We were skeptical of their beans at first. They didn't have any fair trade when they first started, although they do now. Where they get their other beans is a concern, and they don't say much about it on their web site, although this is a "trade secret." Still, if they were working directly with the growers, like Higher Grounds does, it would be an open selling point. Hubbard Lake went through a growing phase in which we weren't really thrilled with their coffee, but then, once we had to use it as a backup and tried it again, we were really pleased with their dark blends. Great stuff, local folks, so that matters too.
Third best? Starbucks
No kidding. Starbucks has come out with organic coffees and fair trade coffees to meet the demands of its socially conscious consumers. I've been drinking Starbucks for well over a decade now, and I really can't stand those people who whine about what a mega-corp they are with all their chains. Starbucks started as a small coffee shop. I actually think it's great they've become so large and well-known; they are a success story in business. I mean, seriously, if you started a business, wouldn't you want it to do well? That's what they did. There are still small coffee operations around that do just fine (unlike the WalMart model of business plundering). Not every coffee shop is a Starbucks, and that's great. I visit as many coffee shops in any given town as possible, and prefer the locals over Starbucks because I'm out for an adventure. But, given a need for caffiene in a strange town, I'm going for the first cafe I can find, and that's often times a Starbucks. Not to mention in the airports! THANK GOD for Starbucks in the airports!
So, as I sit here and type this, what am I drinking? Alas, Starbucks this morning, as I have an order in with Higher Grounds that is on its way: ten pounds of coffee winging its way across the state to come directly to my doorstep. Now that's heaven.
Last year, at a conference in Florida, when we had gone from the hotel to the conference site without anything more than a bad cup of hotel coffee, we found that we kept complaining to people that we needed a "real" cup of coffee to get ourselves on track. We kept asking people we ran into where we could get a "real" cup of coffee, and finally got directions to the cafe all the way across the campus where the conference was taking place. Casey said something to me like, he never thought he would become one of those people who complained so much about bad coffee and needing a good cup of coffee. "A coffee snob," I said. "Yes, we are coffee snobs. There's nothing wrong with that."
Life's too short to drink bad coffee, if you can help it.
Our friend Dave told us he drinks coffee from a can, Folgers or whatever he can get at Big K where he works. Sometimes he just reheats a cup of coffee from the day before leftovers. That made my skin crawl.
Okay, yeah, hey now, wait a minute, it's not that I didn't used to do that too: make coffee from whatever was cheapest or on sale at the store, use a paper towel for a filter, run water through old grounds because we were totally out of coffee, depend on the corner gas station to be my morning coffee stop, etc. Been there, done that. I'm just saying I'd like to think I've graduated from that, just like I have a lot of other phases in my life. And I also understand that some people will spend their whole lives there, and that's fine for them. But, for now, I'm a coffee snob.
The best coffee? Higher Grounds
After years of trying lots of different kinds of coffees, these guys take the cake. Their best coffee of all time, unfortunately, is out of stock right now, the Mut Vit. It was one of the darkest, oiliest, full-bodied coffees we have ever had the pure pleasure of drinking each morning. Unfortunately, Higher Grounds' warehouse was located in New Orleans and, you guessed it, they lost their entire year's supply of this bean. Not something you can recoup from immediately. They have to wait until the next crop season to get this bean back in stock. For now, however, they have a Sumatran to take its place, and a great decaf blend. This is truly coffee that will knock your socks off, and is a great cause to support with your dollar power.
Second best coffee? Hubbard Lake Coffee Roasters
We met these roasters when we lived up north in Michigan. A doctor at the local hospital and her husband. He does most of the roasting and selling the coffee locally. We were skeptical of their beans at first. They didn't have any fair trade when they first started, although they do now. Where they get their other beans is a concern, and they don't say much about it on their web site, although this is a "trade secret." Still, if they were working directly with the growers, like Higher Grounds does, it would be an open selling point. Hubbard Lake went through a growing phase in which we weren't really thrilled with their coffee, but then, once we had to use it as a backup and tried it again, we were really pleased with their dark blends. Great stuff, local folks, so that matters too.
Third best? Starbucks
No kidding. Starbucks has come out with organic coffees and fair trade coffees to meet the demands of its socially conscious consumers. I've been drinking Starbucks for well over a decade now, and I really can't stand those people who whine about what a mega-corp they are with all their chains. Starbucks started as a small coffee shop. I actually think it's great they've become so large and well-known; they are a success story in business. I mean, seriously, if you started a business, wouldn't you want it to do well? That's what they did. There are still small coffee operations around that do just fine (unlike the WalMart model of business plundering). Not every coffee shop is a Starbucks, and that's great. I visit as many coffee shops in any given town as possible, and prefer the locals over Starbucks because I'm out for an adventure. But, given a need for caffiene in a strange town, I'm going for the first cafe I can find, and that's often times a Starbucks. Not to mention in the airports! THANK GOD for Starbucks in the airports!
So, as I sit here and type this, what am I drinking? Alas, Starbucks this morning, as I have an order in with Higher Grounds that is on its way: ten pounds of coffee winging its way across the state to come directly to my doorstep. Now that's heaven.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Most Days
I love to get up in the morning. I love that quiet time in the house, when the world is still dark to my eyes and I depend on electricity to not trip and stumble down the stairs. I like it not bright in the morning. Muted light. I make my way through the house and get ready to take the dog out for a run. I turn the porch light off and step outside into the dark of morning, as though leaving the light on would make me noticeable to - well, to nobody - but it makes me feel stealth to step out into the darkness. By cat standards, it's really not that dark, and it only takes a moment for my eyes to adjust and be ready to set off on our run.
I like coming home to a quiet house, letting the cat out, the dog in, and finding my husband still warmly wrapped up in the flannel sheets and comforter in bed, snoring away (okay dear, breathing deeply...). There is such an incredible sense of comfort and calm to all of this simplicity. I relish in it within. I can feel it bubbling in me, a kind of self satisfaction with this life. It's a wonderful feeling that comes from really doing nothing but being who I am, where I am.
It's this time of morning I feel I meditate through the motions of my day. I breathe deeply through each task: running, stretching, yoga, making coffee, taking a shower. I believe in moving meditations, just being aware of and in the moment of the movements in which our bodies participate. The mind as working with and separate from this body, being it as well as seeing it. Routine, but aware.
By the time the light breaks on the day and I'm clean and caffeinated, I feel I have stepped out of my cocoon and am ready to alight. Most days are like this. And that's a good thing.
I like coming home to a quiet house, letting the cat out, the dog in, and finding my husband still warmly wrapped up in the flannel sheets and comforter in bed, snoring away (okay dear, breathing deeply...). There is such an incredible sense of comfort and calm to all of this simplicity. I relish in it within. I can feel it bubbling in me, a kind of self satisfaction with this life. It's a wonderful feeling that comes from really doing nothing but being who I am, where I am.
It's this time of morning I feel I meditate through the motions of my day. I breathe deeply through each task: running, stretching, yoga, making coffee, taking a shower. I believe in moving meditations, just being aware of and in the moment of the movements in which our bodies participate. The mind as working with and separate from this body, being it as well as seeing it. Routine, but aware.
By the time the light breaks on the day and I'm clean and caffeinated, I feel I have stepped out of my cocoon and am ready to alight. Most days are like this. And that's a good thing.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Wind Chill = No Run
Too cold this morning to go running. I could barely even get myself out of bed, not because of the cold, no, exactly the opposite. The heat was left turned up last night, which makes my head feel like a bag of rocks when I wake up. Anyone who lives in warm weather who might read this is going to think I'm crazy, but we keep the house at 67 during the day, and 61 at night. Even during the day, one degree of difference either way and I can tell; I either feel too warm or too cold. And at night, I've got to have it cool or my poor brain feels like it's set on simmer all night. I would have thought this very strange, except I know my parents sleep with a window cracked open in their bedroom all winter long. If the window isn't left open, my mom says she can't sleep or wakes up feeling groggy. Is this some kind of genetic medical condition? Or just general psychosis...
It's 20 outside this morning, which isn't so bad I wouldn't run, except for the rocks in my head, which cold air does help sometimes. No, it's the wind chill making it actually 8 degrees out that made me say, "Screw it. I'm staying in this morning." Not to mention that by noon it's supposed to be 38 degrees. Given the option, since it is a Sunday, no school, and no football until 3:30, I'm going to hold out for a noon run. The dog will just have to be happy to quack his duck around the house until then.
It's 20 outside this morning, which isn't so bad I wouldn't run, except for the rocks in my head, which cold air does help sometimes. No, it's the wind chill making it actually 8 degrees out that made me say, "Screw it. I'm staying in this morning." Not to mention that by noon it's supposed to be 38 degrees. Given the option, since it is a Sunday, no school, and no football until 3:30, I'm going to hold out for a noon run. The dog will just have to be happy to quack his duck around the house until then.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
No School This Morning
Dang! Who ordered the ice? But, I gotta say, niiiiiiice. No school. At least, not until 11:00. All the public schools in the area are closed, of course, but the college will open three hours late. Just enough for me to miss my first class. YIPPEE!!
I had no idea this was coming. I had a crappy night's sleep, got up at 4am, moved to the sofa and had another hour or so of fitful sleep. Finally got up and let the dog out. I heard a loud thump on the porch followed the the shuffling scrapes of his paws against the wood. I thought maybe he was scrambling after a cat or something. I looked out to see him standing there, looking a bit bewildered down at the porch and steps. Covered with ice. He had fallen and scrambled back up and was now wondering what the heck he was supposed to do to navigate this stuff.
I called him back in and suited up for a walk. It was raining and 24 degrees out. The back deck was covered with a sheet of ice, and the sidewalks glistened with it. We had to walk on people's lawns and on the terraces to keep from falling over! Poor Scrappy did a funky dog shuffle several times when he ventured off the grass and onto the sidewalk. Good thing he's young and limber!
It should clear up by noon, as the temperature rises. So, not a complete snow day for me, but something is better than nothing. I've so far spent a solid hour writing--in my journal, on a piece I'm working on for possible publication, and now on this. Two cups of coffee and a banana muffin, and I'd say it's starting out to be a pretty darn good day!
***
Later day update: No school all day! Double yippee! Counting on the rain and freezing temeratures to continue on through tomorrow...please...although, of course, keep all travelers safe, but CLOSE THE SCHOOLS!
I had no idea this was coming. I had a crappy night's sleep, got up at 4am, moved to the sofa and had another hour or so of fitful sleep. Finally got up and let the dog out. I heard a loud thump on the porch followed the the shuffling scrapes of his paws against the wood. I thought maybe he was scrambling after a cat or something. I looked out to see him standing there, looking a bit bewildered down at the porch and steps. Covered with ice. He had fallen and scrambled back up and was now wondering what the heck he was supposed to do to navigate this stuff.
I called him back in and suited up for a walk. It was raining and 24 degrees out. The back deck was covered with a sheet of ice, and the sidewalks glistened with it. We had to walk on people's lawns and on the terraces to keep from falling over! Poor Scrappy did a funky dog shuffle several times when he ventured off the grass and onto the sidewalk. Good thing he's young and limber!
It should clear up by noon, as the temperature rises. So, not a complete snow day for me, but something is better than nothing. I've so far spent a solid hour writing--in my journal, on a piece I'm working on for possible publication, and now on this. Two cups of coffee and a banana muffin, and I'd say it's starting out to be a pretty darn good day!
***
Later day update: No school all day! Double yippee! Counting on the rain and freezing temeratures to continue on through tomorrow...please...although, of course, keep all travelers safe, but CLOSE THE SCHOOLS!
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Friday, December 23, 2005
Running Sans Scrappy
Away from home, the dog is in the kennel. I used to feel bad about kenneling the dog when we went away, but Scrappy actually seems to like it. I think it really is like doggy camp for him. He gets to hang around other dogs, pee in lots of new spots. Maybe it's reminiscent of his former life, the one where he gnawed off all his front teeth bored to tears locked away all day... Although I don't think he gnaws anymore, so he's at least gotten past that part of it. I guess just imagining he's having an okay time makes it easier for me to leave him there and go on and enjoy some time away from him. Is this like having a child?
I woke up at exactly 6:00am, and by 6:30 was out of bed and getting suited up for my run. I know now that I have crossed that line of making myself run to needing to run. No dog. On vacation. I still wake up and WANT to run. It was even raining this morning, and I heard myself making excuses why to run instead of why not to run: It's not raining that hard. It will be raining harder later if I don't go now. It's at least warm enough out to rain, so it will be warmer to run. Etc. It was at that moment I knew I was in the need to run zone.
I didn't run for long. Only about 25 minutes. I slipped several times, but never fell on my butt. That was the guidepost: if I slipped and fell on my butt, I was going to call it quits. But I never fell. It became my challenge of the morning, to stay alert of the ice patches forming under the rain, yet relaxed enough to enjoy the run. Tense enough to keep upright, yet loose enough to do the same. I found my center, just below the navel, breathed into it, loosened my shoulders, loosened my neck, then my right leg shot out from under me and I did some kind of hillbilly pirouette on my left foot while violently jerking my torso first to the left, overcompensating, slipping further, then jerking to the right. Taa-daa! A perfect 10 point moron out running on the ice in the rain. I would like to blame the dog for this, but clearly, I'm on my own.
I woke up at exactly 6:00am, and by 6:30 was out of bed and getting suited up for my run. I know now that I have crossed that line of making myself run to needing to run. No dog. On vacation. I still wake up and WANT to run. It was even raining this morning, and I heard myself making excuses why to run instead of why not to run: It's not raining that hard. It will be raining harder later if I don't go now. It's at least warm enough out to rain, so it will be warmer to run. Etc. It was at that moment I knew I was in the need to run zone.
I didn't run for long. Only about 25 minutes. I slipped several times, but never fell on my butt. That was the guidepost: if I slipped and fell on my butt, I was going to call it quits. But I never fell. It became my challenge of the morning, to stay alert of the ice patches forming under the rain, yet relaxed enough to enjoy the run. Tense enough to keep upright, yet loose enough to do the same. I found my center, just below the navel, breathed into it, loosened my shoulders, loosened my neck, then my right leg shot out from under me and I did some kind of hillbilly pirouette on my left foot while violently jerking my torso first to the left, overcompensating, slipping further, then jerking to the right. Taa-daa! A perfect 10 point moron out running on the ice in the rain. I would like to blame the dog for this, but clearly, I'm on my own.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Home for the Holidays
Going "home" for the holidays. I say it that way, because I guess I have finally gotten to an age in my life where "home" is actually where I live, and going to my parents' home is just that - it's their home, the home where I grew up, the home I go to visit but not where I live.
It's actually getting harder and harder for me to be away from home. My home, I mean. It's just that, when I have time to not be at work and not have to be at a certain place at a certain time, I do like to spend time in my own space, doing my own things, be it sitting on the sofa reading a book, at the table in the morning writing, or in the basement cleaning out boxes from moving or doing laundry. I like my home. I like my home life. I like being able to just do what I want to do when I want to do it. I like not having to be "on" - since I spend so much of my time around other people all day every day. Even when I'm not in class, I'm "on" - at any moment a colleague or student will come to me. I am surrounded by people. At home, I like not having to be ready to be "on".
It's not that I don't like to go away from time to time and visit and do other things. I do. Summer is the best time for me to do this. I feel much less pressure that the time away will be the only time I have, and that as soon as I get back, I have to be "on" again. Weekends away are harder. I have to be "on" as soon as I get back, after just spending three days "on" wherever it is we have gone. No down time. My personality is one that is energized by being around other people, to the point of exhaustion, so down time is incredibly important to me. Down time. Think time. Write time. Read time. Intropsective time.
Holidays are also even more demanding in terms of all the people, all the energy, all the activity. I get electrified, and all the more reason why it's better for it to be a short time away with time afterward to recoup. As it is, we are going to be spending five days away, which is really pushing my limit. I will just have to be sure I get in some "off" time - time to go running, to read, to write, to enjoy a movie and some people watching. That should help to balance all the other activity that I look forward to, but know at the same time, will exhaust me. Sort of like how I feel after a looooong run - good, but ready to just sit still for a while.
It's actually getting harder and harder for me to be away from home. My home, I mean. It's just that, when I have time to not be at work and not have to be at a certain place at a certain time, I do like to spend time in my own space, doing my own things, be it sitting on the sofa reading a book, at the table in the morning writing, or in the basement cleaning out boxes from moving or doing laundry. I like my home. I like my home life. I like being able to just do what I want to do when I want to do it. I like not having to be "on" - since I spend so much of my time around other people all day every day. Even when I'm not in class, I'm "on" - at any moment a colleague or student will come to me. I am surrounded by people. At home, I like not having to be ready to be "on".
It's not that I don't like to go away from time to time and visit and do other things. I do. Summer is the best time for me to do this. I feel much less pressure that the time away will be the only time I have, and that as soon as I get back, I have to be "on" again. Weekends away are harder. I have to be "on" as soon as I get back, after just spending three days "on" wherever it is we have gone. No down time. My personality is one that is energized by being around other people, to the point of exhaustion, so down time is incredibly important to me. Down time. Think time. Write time. Read time. Intropsective time.
Holidays are also even more demanding in terms of all the people, all the energy, all the activity. I get electrified, and all the more reason why it's better for it to be a short time away with time afterward to recoup. As it is, we are going to be spending five days away, which is really pushing my limit. I will just have to be sure I get in some "off" time - time to go running, to read, to write, to enjoy a movie and some people watching. That should help to balance all the other activity that I look forward to, but know at the same time, will exhaust me. Sort of like how I feel after a looooong run - good, but ready to just sit still for a while.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
As Winter Nears
Winter solstice is approaching, and the official first day of winter, and it will be ushered in by the cold and snow that has preceded it, making some of us believe it is already, truly winter. Last night another foot of snow on top of the 2-3 feet we already got this week. Every morning shoveling new fallen drifts from the walks and drive.
Last week I woke to temperatures in the single digits - above freezing, mind you - but with wind chills well below. It's not been enough, however, to keep me inside before dawn lights the skies. Scrappy and I have been out each morning, snow or no snow, wind or no wind, running our usual morning route of about 2 miles. The one morning we got two feet of snow and the plows hadn't been around yet, I did cut it short - maybe a mile. It seemed it was much harder for me to run through it than for him - born with natural four-wheel drive. While I normally make him run beside me at a heel, I have begun to let him run ahead. Given the waist-attached, hands-off leash system I devised, it allows him to give me a little assistance when he pulls a bit, helping me to keep my forward momentum through the drifts. I know it may seem crazy, this running in ankle-deep drifts, but after the first block, I get so warmed up that every time, by the end of the run, regardless of temperature or wind chill, I'm sweating. What would I do without Scrappy? Okay, well, I'm sure I'd be curled up under the covers every morning, happily sleeping until at least 7:30. But, honestly, I'm so grateful to have him as my motivation to get up and work out every day. Even if we don't run, we at least walk one mile. And then again at night, after dinner, we go out and walk another mile.
The other night, we got to walking through the neighborhoods well after dark (all of about 8pm here). It wasn't too cold, may 17 degrees, and no wind. The traffic had died down, and the streets seemed so quiet and peaceful. We began by walking our usual route, then, seeing a side street with pretty Christmas lights adorning several houses, I took a turn and headed that way. I was childishly thrilled at the sight of multicolored lights and electronic set of bells that chimed Christmas carols. We continued our walk, and I pressed on in my serendipitous journey, simply choosing my turns and route by whichever direction I saw the beacons of the season and followed them.
I turned and twisted down streets I knew well in the summer, but now didn't recognize as well without their foliage. I saw houses that I had only known as hedges before, yards now seemingly as wide as open fields without all their summer accoutrements of picnic tables, above-ground pools and patio furniture. I was mesmerized by this new winter world, and followed the lights, followed the lights, followed the lights. White lights woven through pine swags, windows decorated with figurines to resemble turn-of-the-century towns at Christmas, giant Santas and polar bears filled with air and lights bouncing gently on front lawns, and white light reindeer that would raise and lower their heads.
I crossed one street after another, and thought I knew where I was, when suddenly I found myself completely turned around. I had somehow gotten lost in my own neighborhood, had crossed my path and gone several blocks past where I thought I was. It was an oddly disorienting feeling, but at the same time, not the least bit unnerving. In fact, it was even somewhat exciting to know I had misplaced myself on this little adventure, but knew I would eventually find my way back. I was in no hurry. I wasn't cold. The dog seemed happy to keep walking. And so we did, our silhouettes passing among the terrace trees and leafless hedges, shuffling through the drifts of snow, stopping from time to time to admire the glow of holiday cheer.
Last week I woke to temperatures in the single digits - above freezing, mind you - but with wind chills well below. It's not been enough, however, to keep me inside before dawn lights the skies. Scrappy and I have been out each morning, snow or no snow, wind or no wind, running our usual morning route of about 2 miles. The one morning we got two feet of snow and the plows hadn't been around yet, I did cut it short - maybe a mile. It seemed it was much harder for me to run through it than for him - born with natural four-wheel drive. While I normally make him run beside me at a heel, I have begun to let him run ahead. Given the waist-attached, hands-off leash system I devised, it allows him to give me a little assistance when he pulls a bit, helping me to keep my forward momentum through the drifts. I know it may seem crazy, this running in ankle-deep drifts, but after the first block, I get so warmed up that every time, by the end of the run, regardless of temperature or wind chill, I'm sweating. What would I do without Scrappy? Okay, well, I'm sure I'd be curled up under the covers every morning, happily sleeping until at least 7:30. But, honestly, I'm so grateful to have him as my motivation to get up and work out every day. Even if we don't run, we at least walk one mile. And then again at night, after dinner, we go out and walk another mile.
The other night, we got to walking through the neighborhoods well after dark (all of about 8pm here). It wasn't too cold, may 17 degrees, and no wind. The traffic had died down, and the streets seemed so quiet and peaceful. We began by walking our usual route, then, seeing a side street with pretty Christmas lights adorning several houses, I took a turn and headed that way. I was childishly thrilled at the sight of multicolored lights and electronic set of bells that chimed Christmas carols. We continued our walk, and I pressed on in my serendipitous journey, simply choosing my turns and route by whichever direction I saw the beacons of the season and followed them.
I turned and twisted down streets I knew well in the summer, but now didn't recognize as well without their foliage. I saw houses that I had only known as hedges before, yards now seemingly as wide as open fields without all their summer accoutrements of picnic tables, above-ground pools and patio furniture. I was mesmerized by this new winter world, and followed the lights, followed the lights, followed the lights. White lights woven through pine swags, windows decorated with figurines to resemble turn-of-the-century towns at Christmas, giant Santas and polar bears filled with air and lights bouncing gently on front lawns, and white light reindeer that would raise and lower their heads.
I crossed one street after another, and thought I knew where I was, when suddenly I found myself completely turned around. I had somehow gotten lost in my own neighborhood, had crossed my path and gone several blocks past where I thought I was. It was an oddly disorienting feeling, but at the same time, not the least bit unnerving. In fact, it was even somewhat exciting to know I had misplaced myself on this little adventure, but knew I would eventually find my way back. I was in no hurry. I wasn't cold. The dog seemed happy to keep walking. And so we did, our silhouettes passing among the terrace trees and leafless hedges, shuffling through the drifts of snow, stopping from time to time to admire the glow of holiday cheer.
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