Words Cubed

Kudos to the Soul

2011-10-01T07:34:00.001-05:00

I recently moved to China, and blogs are not exactly accessible.Neither is Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, Hulu, or any other fun websites. Googleand Gmail also do not play well with China.

I was slightly panicked that I would not figure out how toaccess any of my blogs. How would people know how many miles I’ve run on mythousand-mile journey? How would my friends know what is happening in China?One small part of my brain was hoping that I would not figure out a method. Whoreally cares what I do, anyway? No one reads these things. I would be off thehook! I wouldn’t have to write.

However, a larger part of my brain knew better. Oh, and mysoul also knew better. I slothed through internet jibberish to figure somethings out. You are reading this entry, so I succeeded. Let’s justsay that I know much, much more about VPNs now.

Thank you, Soul, for knowing me well enough to make mefigure it out. I should listen to you more often.

Next Blog, Next Story, Please

2011-10-01T07:28:00.003-05:00

When I should be writing my own stuff, I find myselfperusing other people’s blogs. I keep clicking “Next Blog” to see what pops up.What else is out there?

Some stuff is just crap. I’m not kidding. I make my share ofmistakes, but I at least try to put outa good piece. If you can’t put together a few complete sentences, WHY ARE YOUBLOGGING? Don’t embarrass yourself! I’m quite judgmental, but Microsoft Wordcreated spell checks and grammar checks for a reason. If you decide to breakgrammar rules, it better be for a reason, and it better be effective!

The God blogs abound! So many people feel God is workingmiraculously in their lives. I respect this, I do, but those religious folksare DED-I-CAT-ED! They actually keep on their posts, which just irks me. Strikeone! They are also grammatically correct. Strike two! I’m completely jealousthat God or Allah or Yahwey is on their side. Strike three! I can’t click “NextBlog” quickly enough. I’m certain eternal damnation awaits me.

Family blogs are just as popular as those God blogs. I know waytoo much about families that I don’t know.Nancy from Ohio, why do I know the names and birthdays of all four yourchildren? Don’t pedophiles seek out this information for bad reasons? After severalhappy-family entries, one woman revealed her and her husband’s decision todivorce. The post was written after they talked with their dark-eyed, dark-haired adorable four children, ofcourse. The kids should know before strangers like myself, right? I felt like avoyeur into very personal matters, but I did read the entire entry. Yikes! Whatdoes this say about me?

Now imagine this – religious family blogs! Ahhh!

I know. I’m full of mockery for others’ blogs. I’m notnaïve; very few actually people read my blogs, and yet I write them anyway.

Occasionally, I do come across a blog or two that I reallyenjoy. I keep clicking through entries, one by one. Some are witty and funny.Others make me pause and think. Some make absolutely no sense, but I want toknow more. Once in awhile, I even read all the way through a religious entrywithout cringing or clicking “Next Blog.”

Why?

I am wrapped up the story. Good writers tell stories, good stories. They capture an experiencein words. They immerse me in their thoughts, tricking me into thinking thesethoughts are my own. They tell stories about themselves and everyone and noone. They share pieces of their lives that are bigger than and smaller thanthemselves. Somewhere in these stories, I find slivers of myself. I want toread to the end, and I am saddened by the last sentence. The story is over.

As I read these intriguing blogs, I am really trying toglean the author’s methods. What did she do that hooked me? How do I replicatethat?

As I write, I strive to tell my stories, which should beyour stories. Why should you care about my life? If you ask that question whilereading my words, I’ve failed! Send me back to the drawing board!

Have you made it to my last sentence? Maybe this time Isucceeded. Maybe not.

I’m Disappointed in My Boobs

2011-07-30T22:16:00.002-05:00

I’m an artist. The pièce de résistance of a good artist is the ability to draw the human form.

Let me tell you something … the male form simply is not pretty, at all. There are reasons why artists drew, painted and carved the female form – not the male form -- for millennia. Yes, we have Michelangelo’s David, but have you ever seen a real man look like that?

When creating, we draw from our own experiences and our own references. I understand how the female body connects because I have one. In drawing sessions with nude female models, I figure out the proper proportion of torso to hip by thinking how my own body works and moves.

However, my boobs fail me. When it comes to my drawings, I better use the model’s chest. My boobs don’t help me one bit because I often cannot find mine. Curse my genes!

My boob disappointment resurfaced on a recent run. This short story starts with a dead iPod Shuffle. I fried the poor thing in my car during a 100-degree-plus day. After two runs with crappy gym music, I remembered I had a Coby MP3 player stashed away. I never heard this Coby company, either, but I was desperate. I went ahead and named this player … ta-da … Coby.

Now, Coby does not have a clip like the golden iPod (RIP), so I carried him (note Coby’s gender) with my hand. After a few miles, I was annoyed with this whole carrying thing, so I stuck Coby in my sports bra. Women store things in their bras all the time. It seems to work for them. I thought I was brilliant. Now my hands were free! Coby stayed in place for a bit, in the imaginary place where my cleavage would exist, if I had such cleavage.

After a few minutes, I realized Coby was sliding down my tummy. He soon popped out from under my t-shirt, all smug and cocky, happy to be hanging free from his headphone cord. Damn boobs. Damn cleavage-less cleavage. Damn ineffective sports bras. Where was she as this was happening? Damn sweat. Worse yet, Coby was all sweaty as if he actually went on a trip himself.

I was humorously disappointed in Coby and my chest.

I’m getting a new player with a clip. There’s no need to remind myself of this experience … until the next time I’m in a drawing class.

Just Walk the Rabbit

2011-06-25T21:28:00.004-05:00

My mom was so bored that she took my brother’s pet rabbit for a walk … as in collar-and-leash walk … with a rabbit. And yes, Carrotina is a white rabbit. Alice would be intrigued.

Oddly enough, walking a rabbit is more like walking a dog. I thought it would be more like walking a cat, with the cat pulling against the leash, flopping onto one side, and dragging behind in the grass. I guess a rabbit takes well to the leash, reveling in new-found freedom from a cage, jumping and flipping around in the air just like a young bunny.

Mom is supposed to be healing her back. She does not know what to do with herself, and she does not know how to not work. Most people dream of days of having nothing to do, myself included. I do love a “nothing day,” but after awhile, I’m irritated with myself and the world. I don’t know what do with myself, and I have plenty to write or paper oak leaves to cut. I can understand her frustration at not being productive.

Productivity and accomplishment are a Western ideal. Sock money away for retirement funds, because life begins at retirement, right? Follow this path, and you will get exactly what you want, as long as your wants come from this specific list approved by the masses. If you want to be “different,” here’s a list of acceptable ideas for that. You really only have to worry about yourself and your family; this whole global connectedness thing is overrated. Compassion should be limited to abstraction and not action. Yes, I am feeling some angst over here … I envy Carrotina for being to able flip around in the June grass.

I never would have thought of walking the pet rabbit. My mom gets big kudos for creativity. Creativity is extremely undervalued. I see many people watching budget lines, cutting programs to meet budgets, reacting out of fear. I’m done with this mentality. There has to be something more. Maybe it can be found in walking the rabbit.

Forgotten Memory

2011-04-14T09:24:00.003-05:00

“That’s stupid.”

Silence. The jaw dropping kind.

Tension slides out of my chest, pooling in my belly, deep and low and round, drowning my ovaries in its heaviness.

Dread, mixed with Knowing, now take residence in my chest.

Time really can stop. And, Dread and Knowing are a calming combination. Who knew?

I take a deep breath, trying to create space around Dread, Knowing, and Tension to create space for clear thoughts.

“No, this is not stupid. What I want out of life is not stupid.”

I stare back. This is a battle moment. I will not break the gaze. I am staking my claim, taking my stand. I’m sitting, but my spine roots itself to the wooden bar stool.

The gaze is broken, but not by me.

Dread and Knowing tell me I’ve won, but this victory means the end. This is the kind of win you hold over your head but then muddy up with hiking boots. It’s dirty and messy.

I’d forgotten this exchange. I’m sorry I have remembered, but this memory, laced with the blackness that results from window shades dropping and cracking against the windowsill, is the same memory that opened the door.

Doors are easier to pass through than windows.

Storm Season

2011-04-14T09:08:00.001-05:00

The chopper box is flipped upside down, on the barn room – but the roof is gone – and the haymow is gone, too. This is not normal, not normal at all. This is what my parents didn’t want me to see? Ok. Yeah, this is scary. And it’s raining.

It’s more scary to see Dad cry, to run the front door and into the bedroom.

“It took the whole damn thing,” he said. THAT’S scary.

Dark nights pushing thunderstorms around that suddenly fall silent. That’s still scary.

“It.” “It” took the whole damn thing. I’m five. What is “it?” Candles burn. It’s dark outside. A fire truck backs up the driveway, the driver leaning out the door, in his tan firefighter jacket, trying to maneuver the truck backwards.

Now, I would ask, “Who drives a fire truck backwards?”

I’m certain the tan firefighter jacket is fabricated, the part of the memory that I’ve recreated to patch the gaps, so the memory makes sense, so that it all makes sense.

Back to “it,” this “it” that makes Dad cry. This “it” that brings a fire truck, red light flashing, to our driveway, in the night.

We sit on the floor, my three-year-old brother and I, huddled in blankets. It’s weird to be in blankets in the dark, on the floor, especially on this spot of the floor. “It” has us here.

1984. June. June 4 … or maybe 6 or 8, the beginning of my five-year-old summer, just before kindergarten, only I don’t know what kindergarten really is yet. By the end of that summer, I would board the bus by myself, Grandma watching, as Mom and Dad can’t be there.

All thanks to “it,” this “it” that I don’t understand yet, still wrapped in blankets. No one is explaining anything to us, even as the fire truck rolls backwards passed our dining room window, then passed the kitchen window.

At the time, Dad was 31 or 32, my age or younger. I now understand the fear, the need to cry and run into the bedroom, that split second where tragedy either topples you or you topple it.

For a few seconds, my dad toppled. “It” took him down.

I still don’t know why the fire truck arrived. There was rain, no fire. But what do you do when something like this happens? You call 911. In the country, you then wait, and a fire truck comes … for “it.”

Who was more scared that night, Dad or me? My fear was ignorant. I didn’t know what to be afraid of, but the instinct of fear settled into me, the first time my fiver-year-old chest realized fear in its unbridled, threatening form … the kind of fear that can hurt you.

Dad’s fear was reality-based fear, gained from seeing the hard facts – destroyed barn, farm machinery in the form of a chopper box now propped upside down on hay bales once covered by the barn roof. Destroyed tin shed crumpled like sheets of paper tossed around the lawn. The silo now stumped to ten feet, the other forty feet of former height swirled around the pasture. Dad’s fear was rooted in BIG CHANGE, that unexpected kind of change you never imagine because you don’t know it’s possible. Then it’s thrust upon you. He couldn’t say yes or no. “It” didn’t give him a choice.

That night, neither of us knew what would come after “it.”

Food For Thought

2011-04-01T21:30:00.000-05:00

In the grocery store today, I thought a lot about what I put into my body. I came armed with a list and a cookbook for ideas. For the most part, I only shopped the perimeter of the store, collecting fresh food in its various forms, and I have my reasons for this.

I’m training for a marathon. I’m also learning to cook. This combination allows me to be very intentional about what I eat and how I eat. Grocery store aisles cause can cause mental strife as I ponder every food’s value. Because I run a lot right now, I want quality food in my body for energy, along with food that lasts awhile so I’m not hungry all the time. Food is quite an investment, in more ways than one.

A while back, I decided I wouldn’t eat anything I couldn’t pronounce. I can probably thank Food, Inc and Omnivore’s Dilemma for my issues. Knowing exactly what is in my food became very important to me. I started reading labels and nutritional values. When realized I was pulling out my rudimentary high school chemistry to decode ingredients, I realized I shouldn’t eat those things. I don’t want chemistry lab products in my body. I want natural things.

As a result, I am becoming more and more of a food purist. I make what I eat from scratch, so nothing comes pre-made or from a box. It’s actually less expensive to cook with fresh vegetables and ingredients since I often have enough food for a few meals from one cooking. I don’t eat out much anymore because it’s more enjoyable to chop my garlic and sizzle the ginger myself, and I can do it in my comfy sweatpants.

I do still buy spaghetti sauce, though. That’s my easy go-to meal for lazy cooking nights. On fancy nights, I make my own sauce. Did you know that Alfredo sauce is deceptively easy?

That doesn’t mean I’m a saint. I still snatch up a candy bar and enjoy every last bite. At the store, I did break my perimeter rule and toss Easter M&Ms in the cart … and ate some right when I got home. I followed my M&Ms with a shrimp and tomato curry over rice, perfect comfort food for a cool, rainy April night.

See Me! Hear Me!

2011-03-14T21:28:00.001-05:00

I’m running a marathon in May!

There! I said it! Listen! Listen! Listen!

*******

People ask, “So, what’s new with you?” I pause. “Oh, not much. You know, same old, same old,” I say.

“NOT TRUE!” says my mind to myself.

Actually, I’m training for a marathon, a full one, 26.2 miles. I’m running … a lot … and I haven’t even fully amped up my miles yet.

But I don’t talk about it much. I don’t want to have to explain. Most people don’t understand my reasons. “Because I want to,” doesn’t seem to cut it. “Because I can,” stumps them even further.

But it really is that simple. I’m doing it JUST BECAUSE I want to, and it IS simply because I can. Does there have to be more behind these reasons?

A friend said that people give runners too much credit. I now agree. I’m not doing anything that spectacular. The only difference between me and a non-runner is that I don’t stop running when it gets hard. I’m not a great runner. I’m not fast but I am steady, and I am better at the long haul. All I do is put one foot in front of the other. That’s it. That’s the secret. It’s not even a great secret. People run marathons all the time. I’ll just be another one.

On the other hand, I AM doing something pretty spectacular. It’s TWENTY SIX POINT TWO MILES, and that point two counts. I’m going to run them all at once. I’m training a lot for one day, and it’s even fun. I am proud of what I'm working for, even if it is just a race. If it’s hard ... correction ... WHEN it’s hard … even really, really, really hard, it’s only going to be five hours of my life, but damn it, be impressed! I AM!

*******

I don’t want to explain, but I do want people to listen. I want the attention, and I don’t. I want someone to get excited with me, but not too much as to overwhelm me. I want people to be impressed, but I don’t need them to be so.

For me, such nuances matter.

If this makes sense to you, we should talk. I’m looking for you.

Why I Run

2011-03-13T21:48:00.001-05:00

A space … a gap … a pause … a moment of nothing and everything.

What happens in these places? Are they moments of emptiness? Or are they moments of fullness?

A lot can happen in a pause. Thoughts fire in the brain. They are collected and sorted, with one selected as the course of action. A pounding heart is felt. Breath is caught, air pulled back into the lungs to breathe fully again.

In a millisecond, with a gap of consciousness, the old brain is activated. It makes a decision. We react. We don’t actually THINK. Later, we feel, and then we rationalize.

Yet in those gaps there are sweet moments of blankness that calm me. Instinct may fire away in my old brain, but my new brain turns off. My always thinking, always processing, always pondering brain turns off.

On a run today, I popped off the path and took the railroad tracks. I must watch every step to ensure I place my feet down solidly on a wooden tie or a solid patch of rocks. I’m clumsy. Running the tracks is a great challenge for me to not stumble or trip to twist my angle. My mind is completely focused on what is right in front of me. I don't have time to think. I must just put down a foot. Yet I must be quick and agile to adjust with each step.

Jogging on a railroad bridge is a trip in itself. The space between ties is replaced literal space – and view of the water below. I slow my pace, but I am not afraid of this height and uneven surface. One misstep and my foot lands nowhere, and I fall. I must focus even more but these are all thoughts I realize after the run.

Time pauses. I am focused and do not realize time, or mileage, passing. In pause, I am with myself yet not with myself, not thinking and yet complete focused. In these spaces, I think nothing and yet something happens. It’s bliss.

This is why I run.

It's True ... Less IS More

2011-02-13T20:17:00.002-06:00

Over the last few years, I merged an entire household of my belongings into smaller and smaller spaces. Lots of belongings, things I once believed that I really needed, have moved onto new spaces, outside my own, now belonging to different people. Bob the Rubber Plant has a new window in a new home, sharing space with Fiona the Ficus. Fifteen plus boxes of books now live on other shelves and are read by new eyes.

I’ve traveled to Africa and China, to off-the-beaten-path places where the luxury of excess does not exist. In China, simplicity is a way of life. Families are sardined into tight quarters and money’s tight, necessitating fewer belongings. In Africa, simplicity’s not a choice. It’s a necessity. Even basic resources are scarce, and you’re lucky if you own one pair of shoes that match.

Coming back home, after both trips, was hard. Just stepping off the plane and into the airport is jarring. Lights blast at you, advertising McDonald’s hamburgers to grab on the run, those curved neck pillows to keep you comfortable, and glossy, shiny magazines for entertainment.

It doesn’t end when you leave the airport. The excess is overwhelming and frustrating. Simple choices become so complex because there are way too many options. The tyranny of choice lurks, drawing out each decision. Store shelves are lined with row, after row, after row, of choices.

How many red kidney beans are really necessary?

Is one shampoo really that much better than the other 27 options?

Do I really need four pairs of jogging shoes?

Four pillows ... three green sweaters, the same shade … ten empty notebooks … three kinds of color pencils for artwork … seven coffee travel mugs …

How much money have I wasted? How many resources? Why?

What really matters? It sure as hell isn’t the stuff I have. I don't even remember that I have half the stuff I own. The amount of space I occupy or what I own does not define me or tell me who I am. It does not define my success.

I know this. I believe it. I purged. I keep purging. There is still more to purge. Out, out, out … again and again. Each time I take a big breath and fill a new box, and as each box travels on, I do feel a bit freer.

Hell, I even feel a bit giddy, but I still own two of those green sweaters, and I still have three boxes of books that can’t part my presence. I’m still working on it.

To Marathon or Not to Marathon?

2011-02-06T15:27:00.000-06:00

I am considering running a full marathon this May. I have a few halves under my belt, so I have a solid grasp of what a full means … a lot more work and a lot more pain. I know my strengths, to some degree, but I know my weaknesses and slant toward running laziness better. I believe I can finish, but will I enjoy it? No one ever raves about how great mile 18 feels.

About the time I opt out of the full and decide I want to just have fun with this “running thing,” something sneaks back into my brain, percolating reasons why I should run the full 26.2 miles. Lately, it’s been the book Born To Run, by Christopher McDougall, about the Tarahumara people in Mexico. The Tarahumara run incredible distances in the Mexican desert with flaps of rubber for shoes and smiles on their faces the whole time.

The book also details stories of ultramathoners who run incredible distances and races, including the Leadville Trail 100 in the throes of Colorado mountains or the Badwater Ultramarathon in the Death Valley, where the highway asphalt melts shoe rubber. McDougall is an excellent storyteller, and I’m right with him and he details the craziness of these runs and the runners who run them. These runs take over 24 hours, one whole day, to complete. That’s on the fast side, and that’s IF the runner CAN finish, and that IF is a HUGE IF. And yet, people do, and they often return the next year to repeat this hell (that’s my interpretation) all over again. Clearly, these runners tap into something into human potential in a very different way than the masses.

And I wonder if I can run 26.2 lousy miles. I’m running 1,000 miles this year (read more here), so why not chip off 26.2 in one shot? In the book, ultrarunner Ann Trason says she simply relaxes into her body into a cradle-rocking rhythm. Yesterday, bopping along on the treadmill and track, I thought about this rhythm, paying attention as my hips rocked, or so I imagined, back and forth, back and forth … maybe side to side is a better description. Today, jogging in a few inches of fresh snow, my rhythm was more choppy as I focused more on my footing. I can grasp as Trason’s concept, but I can’t fathom it being that simple to repeat that many miles over. McDougall writes Trason’s thoughts: “You have to listen closely to the sound of your own breathing … and ask yourself, honestly and often, exactly how you feel. What could be more sensual than paying exquisite attention to your own body?”

That does sound kind of romantic, in that sort of unachievable, this-will-never-happen-to-me romantic way. After my run yesterday, I rewarded myself with a good soak in the hot tub. I thought a lot about my hips. Something about the hot water bubbling around me seemed to move my muscles away from my bones, and I felt my hips and my pelvis with my hands. They felt exactly the way they would look on a skeleton. I know this sounds weird, but I’ve never really gripped my own hips before. I could feel the blades of the top of my pelvis between my thumbs and fingers. The bones felt so real and part of me, but it felt like we never fully met before. I use them all of the time, but I just expect them to function when prompted. I pictured them rocking, minus the muscles and skins above them, down the road in my tennis shoes, with the rest of me attached. I found this amusing in the way I amuse myself with my thoughts.

I can tune into my body while running, and understand where I am at, physically and emotionally. However, I take pleasure in the moments I disconnect from by mind and body. For me, that’s the joy of running, this escape from myself. I love when I get to a street corner and cannot remember how I got there, and yet if I think about it, I can pull the path out of my subconscious memory. One part of me is connected to what I’m doing, but another part goes somewhere else, a place of space and nothingness.

When I ponder a full marathon, I don’t know if this pleasure will maintain itself past mile 13. By then, my feet hurt, although my hips feel just fine. Maybe I need to listen to those hips more. My feet just seem to yell louder, and I sometimes choose to listen to them. I’m not quite sure why.

I’m do not know what I will decide about this particular marathon. I have some time. If not this one, there are others …

Are You My Drawing Table?

2011-01-31T21:17:00.003-06:00

I spy ... a drawing table underneath it all.

I have never drawn at my drawing table. It’s a treasured possession that has moved with me several times, and yet it’s never seen a drawing completed. As an artist, this must be sin.

I bought the table five or six years ago, part of a New Year’s resolution to do more art. I quickly pieced it together, but when I sat down to draw, I instead curled up on the end of the couch with a board, happily drawing away. Soon, the table became a storage space, buried in books, drawing notes, a cat collar, and a few plant pots and other random things. The table soon traveled to a new house, this time to a dedicated art room. It again accumulated odd and ends. It was cluttered. My life was also cluttered with things that were not nurturing me. I wasn’t doing much art at all.

I moved again, and the table again came with me. In this move, I lost a vital screw that kept the table tilted as a table. Instead, it was parallel to the wall. The table was empty because it had to be. It couldn’t even do its job as a table. I eventually bought a new screw, and the table returned. This time the table stayed clean and clear of everything … but dust. It was important to me that I the table clear, for that physical empty space kept a bit of mental space and sanity alive as I moved through the end of a marriage. Occasionally, I ran my fingers over the table, drawing wavy lines across in the dust. I still wasn’t creating much art. The table was a silent reminder of what I was not doing. I wondered why I kept it, but I knew not to get rid of it.

The table moved a third time into my tiny apartment. When I checked the place out, I mentally placed my drawing table in one corner. Everything else worked its way around it. The third move proved to be the charm. My desire to create returned full force, stronger than it's been in years. However, I always work on the floor, on the futon, on the kitchen counter ... anywhere but the table. However, this is all right, for the table houses current art project “pieces” … paper oak leaves waiting for stringing, rocks waiting to be wired, dictionary pages waiting for an idea, along with scissors, beads, string, tape, a hammer and other things waiting to be turned into other things.

I still don’t draw at the table, but it is now doing its job. It’s allowing me creative space, and it keeps projects in the forefront of my mind. I have abated my sin.

Nests

2011-01-23T20:53:00.001-06:00

“I want to write a poem,” says my mom, “about the empty nests in the bare trees.”

“You know they used to be little homes,” she continues. She pauses.

I think. I picture a little nest nestled in a haggard oak tree. I image a few pieces of silver garland from last year's Christmas tree weaved into the stems of dead quackgrass … oval blue eggs (it a robin’s nest) tucked in a trio … featherless baby birds with big closed, bluish eyes covering most of their little heads … small chirps as food of crushed worms arrives from above … an empty nest a few weeks into June … there’s a lot here for me to write her poem, but this is not my idea. It is hers. She should write it.

“Why not write the poem?” I ask. I think of my own uncompleted poem, the one about a red cardinal signing from the tip-top of another tree one cold January morning, a few winters ago.

"I don't have the words."

I greatly doubt this. While I firmly believe that anyone can create, I believe even more firmly that my mom’s creativity exists far beyond what she thinks she can do. Her creative streaks and ideas percolated constantly when I was kid. Just this past fall, she painted pumpkins with creative faces, and one pumpkin turned into a clown face. I call that creative.

“Why not just write the same thing you told me, this story, then see what words really pop out at you. Maybe those words will make your poem.” Huh. Maybe I should take my own advice.

The conversation moved onto other things. She didn’t say she was going to sit down and write her poem, but she also didn’t say she wasn’t.

It’s been a few weeks since we talked about her poem. I don’t know if she’s written it yet. I still haven’t finished mine. I understand, but in a few weeks, I will ask her when she's going to write it.

Don't Believe Everything You Think

2011-01-16T19:20:00.000-06:00

* Dear readers, if you follow my second blog (dana-onethousandmilesthisyear.blogspot.com) you may feel you are reading the same entry. This is actually a different writing spun off the other, if you read through to the end.

“Pick a subject,” Ricardo said. “Let’s not focus on our suffering.” Six miles into a seven-mile run, we were both tired.

Earlier in the run, we tackled some crazy hills, and the last one took a lot out of me. We were only half way through our distance. If Ricardo wasn’t ahead of me by fifty steps, I might’ve bailed and started walking or sat in the snow and started crying.

When I finally caught up to him around mile four, I was winded and tired. I scanned my body. From my neck down, I felt just fine. I realized I just THOUGHT I was winded and tired. My mind was tired.

I’ve learned to never underestimate the power of the mind. In running, my mind is often my worst enemy. It can convince me that I can’t finish this run or that the run is too hard for me. It also asks me why the hell I do this in the first place.

My mind convinces me of a lot of things, and not all of them are true. My favorite bumper sticker reads, “Don’t believe everything you think.” This phrase pops into my brain when I fall into a negative thinking pattern. In this case, with running, I have learned to not focus on my “suffering” because I’m not really suffering. I’m often just fine. I just think I’m not.

To finish the run and still enjoy it, I needed to shift my attitude – and FAST. Once I realized this, I reset myself, mentally. I had to make a very conscious decision to stop thinking ABOUT the run and how I THOUGHT I felt and focus my mind on something completely different. I started talking about the jicama I just bought at the grocery store, which led to him sharing what he knew about jicama, which led to a conversation about some soccer games, which led to talk about the timing of our run, and so on.

This is when a running partner is a great asset. The company is great, and I’m less likely to give into my mind telling me that I can’t do this because the person next to me keeps moving. If he moves, I move. The partner helps keep motivation strong and movement forward.

Then we fell silent. That’s when Ricardo said, “Pick a subject. Let’s not focus on our suffering.” I was right with him, mentally. I had already overcome the mental challenge of this run. I knew I would finish and I would be fine. I was not letting my mind convince me otherwise. I picked another subject, and we continued to talk through the rest of the run.

When we rounded the final corner to my apartment, I felt strong, mentally and physically. I felt good for pushing my body and my mind. If I listened to my mind early on in the run, I might still be sitting in that snow!

Spiders as Roommates

2011-01-09T17:49:00.002-06:00

Spiders are nice roommates. They don’t take up much space, they are quiet, and they keep to themselves. They don’t ask for much, except an occasional rescue from the bathroom sink or bathtub. They are those non-threatening spiders, all legs and tiny bodies. They appear so fragile that I feel a need to protect them.

I share my small apartment with quite a few spiders. They come and go, often popping up overnight. I now know where to expect them, but one did surprise me in the kitchen sink, weaving a small web in a clean measuring cup in the sink. I kindly scooped her out, and I put her on the counter. I’m not sure where she moved.

I live in a garden-style apartment, fancy verbiage for a basement apartment. It’s not fully a basement as I do have full windows that start at ground level. From my chest up, the windows stand. From the chest down, I know there is dirt. When I moved in, I just figured I had a lot of spider visitors because I was partially living underground. I have no idea if there is any grain of truth to this belief. I wasn’t bothered by them because I am not afraid of them. I’m not even fazed. If they are somewhere dangerous to their own health, such as the bathtub when I’m about to take a shower, I cup them in my hand and put them somewhere safe.

As we enter January, I still find my spider visitors in my apartment. I figured they would slowly disappear as winter settled. The only thing I really notice is that they get smaller as the winter progresses. My measuring cup spider made her appearance just a week ago, and she was the size of a pencil eraser. Her fall predecessors topped the size of silver dollars. I assume this is due to less sustenance. I certainly don’t have a stash of flies or other insects for them.

We cohabit, living side-by-side, with respect and intent. I occasionally find bodies for those who have died or passed along to the next world, depending on how you phrase it. I know the natural cycle of life applies to everything, but I can’t help but feel a bit of sadness for them. I imagine that their offspring will show up soon.

Reviving “A Thing A Week”

2011-01-01T12:44:00.001-06:00

It’s time to pick up the writing reins again. Welcome to new newly revived A Thing A Week for 2011.

This past November, I joined National Novel Writing Month, committing to 50,000 words in 30 days. My goal veered a bit from NaNo’s intent, as I wrote personal essays, not fiction, for my stint, but some rules are meant to be broken. As long as I consider it a novel, say the rules, a novel I wrote. I knocked out my words, learning a lot about writing, the process, and my role in it. I felt pride in my accomplishment on many levels, levels that will likely be explained right here over the coming year.

I graciously gave myself December to create space in my mind. Believe me, that many words in one month is A LOT of words. My brain hurt. It needed a break. My brain never fully takes a break, though. While I wasn’t writing in the literal sense, my mind was writing text in thoughts and ideas as I pondered what to do next with my writing. I still don’t quite know, but one idea was to revive this blog. Why not? I realized that I enjoy the process of writing but I also want it to live beyond me. A blog allows this. Also, if I could write for an hour or two every day for a month, I surely can write one thing a week. I now know that I have no excuse and no shortage of ideas.

I am writing a second blog, as well, tracing my crazy decision to run 1,000 miles in 2011 (dana-onethousandmilesthisyear.blogspot.com). Between these two blogs, I will do a decent amount of writing that will keep me moving forward.

Welcome back!