If only life was organized like the Dewey decimal system. Sigh.
I've been feeling insecure lately about how varied my blog posts are. I worry that focusing all my attention on one topic would make for better reading material. This is worrisome because I rarely have one topic on my mind.
I haven't limited myself to a single theme while blogging. My scope includes the books I read, trips I take, Alzheimer's, weight loss, running, faith, marriage, craft projects, childhood memories, etc. Maybe that's why I like the memoir genre so much; the only criteria for relevancy is "human experience."
This blog is not a chronological narrative of my life (thank goodness. My day job's not that riveting). Instead, it's a greenhouse for all the idea seedlings in my brain.
I want to write a book. I don't know how to narrow down the focus or choose a universal theme, but I'm guessing no publisher would be interested in printing 22 years' worth of journal entries. So until I figure out which parts of my life warrant narration and mass production (ha ha), my writing happens here.
Thank you for reading. You, my online audience, make all the difference. Your comments and reactions give me valuable feedback on what kind of storytelling is of interest.
Some of my favorite posts (the ones I felt most proud to share) have been the hardest to write. I've often received more comments on posts that had me hesitating to click "publish." Vulnerability in an author is what makes me interested as a reader, so I try to remember that as I write. But I also don't want my blog to be a place to wallow in emotions I can't easily deal with in real life. It's tempting to indulge the drama queen in me by describing all my mental hand-wringing and emotional distress. But that's not authentic either.
In my experience, life is rarely compartmentalized or predictable. One minute you're minding your own business at work, and BAM. Someone tells you your mom has gone missing. Or you're dreading a whole day spent with nerds just because your husband wants to buy a new graphic novel, and BAM. You have the time of your life at ComiCon. Or you are sick and tired of yourself and destructive habits and BAM. You meet someone (or a group of someones) who changes your life.
I'm going to do some reorganizing around here by labeling my posts more accurately. If you're interested in some topics more than others (like I am), I hope the topical list is useful.
I know this post will be read by at least a few strangers (and friends) online. Then it may never see the light of day until I'm editing a book and need one more goofy anecdote. And I'm OK with that.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Still thriving
One of the ironic things about Alzheimer's disease is something known as "failure to thrive." When a person's body is so overwrought with dementia that it shuts down, that's the medical euphemism used to describe what's happening.
I find this ironic, because I'm pretty sure that's a straight up challenge to my mother. She is a professional thriver. She taught me the phrase "bloom where you're planted," and she still embodies this concept.
thrive
VERB
1. grow well: to grow vigorously and healthily
2. do well: to be successful and often profitable
Synonyms: grow well, be healthy, flourish, bloom, blossom, prosper, succeed, increase
My whole life I've seen her thrive as an artist, a gardener, a seamstress, a teacher, a reader, a writer, a friend, a daughter, a sister, a pastor's wife, and a homeschooling Mom of five kids.
Even now, I think she wakes up every morning with this mantra: "C'mon world, dare me to thrive."
Hers is an unquenchable spirit.
I find this ironic, because I'm pretty sure that's a straight up challenge to my mother. She is a professional thriver. She taught me the phrase "bloom where you're planted," and she still embodies this concept.
thrive
VERB
1. grow well: to grow vigorously and healthily
2. do well: to be successful and often profitable
Synonyms: grow well, be healthy, flourish, bloom, blossom, prosper, succeed, increase
My whole life I've seen her thrive as an artist, a gardener, a seamstress, a teacher, a reader, a writer, a friend, a daughter, a sister, a pastor's wife, and a homeschooling Mom of five kids.
Even now, I think she wakes up every morning with this mantra: "C'mon world, dare me to thrive."
Hers is an unquenchable spirit.
 |
| Mom and future grandson Mother's Day 2012 |
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Run Recap in Technicolor
Here's how it went on Sunday.
6:18 am
My brother Alex and his buddy Nate picked me up (I spent Saturday night at a friends in Seattle. Thanks Wendy!). It was a BEAUTIFUL morning. You may detect my level of excitement from the photo. Alex and Nate were excited too, but they were operating on much less sleep.
6:28
Arrived at Seattle Center. We found free parking less than 1 block from the starting line. We saw a few other Color Run T shirts and the set-up crew, but it was pretty quiet.
6:30
We realized the run didn't begin for two more hours. Good thing we're so photogenic. Took lots of "before" pictures.
Woo hoo!
Thank you Alex, for sharing your photos.
6:18 am
My brother Alex and his buddy Nate picked me up (I spent Saturday night at a friends in Seattle. Thanks Wendy!). It was a BEAUTIFUL morning. You may detect my level of excitement from the photo. Alex and Nate were excited too, but they were operating on much less sleep.
6:28
Arrived at Seattle Center. We found free parking less than 1 block from the starting line. We saw a few other Color Run T shirts and the set-up crew, but it was pretty quiet.
6:30
We realized the run didn't begin for two more hours. Good thing we're so photogenic. Took lots of "before" pictures.
6:40
Visited the sponsor's tables as they set up. Alex and Nate had 5 Hour Energy (I was already pretty amped up; didn't want to make myself sick). We people-watched as Seattle Center started filling up. Lots of people wore costumes (white suit coats, white bathrobe and towel, white tutu, wigs, etc.). Everybody was happy.
8:00
We walked to the starting line. Right up to it, in fact.
8:15
Looking down the course, I had a terrible thought. "I'm not a fast runner. What if all these twenty-somethings who are pawing the ground and chomping at the bit overtake me in the first few feet and I get trampled?" Oh well, what a way to go, I decided. I hoped I would at least make it to the first color station.
Photographers and videographers scurried around the crowd. The energy level was HIGH. Loud music played and the crowd of 7,000 + runners was antsy from all the free caffeine; the anticipation was invigorating.
8:30
The yellow tape was taken down, and we all counted down from 10.
"...Three, two, ONE!" The crowd lurched forward. I didn't get trampled.
I looked over my shoulder,back up the slight incline of the starting line. It was really cool to watch the sea of white T shirts come pouring down behind, around, and ahead of us. It was a little like being in the middle of a slow moving avalanche since we were all caught up in the momentum. A smiling, whooping, laughing avalanche.
I looked over my shoulder,back up the slight incline of the starting line. It was really cool to watch the sea of white T shirts come pouring down behind, around, and ahead of us. It was a little like being in the middle of a slow moving avalanche since we were all caught up in the momentum. A smiling, whooping, laughing avalanche.
I carried my mp3 player in case I needed my playlist to keep me moving, but I never used it. The crowd's energy was plenty.
Alex, Nate and I ran at a slow pace (thankfully). I smiled at the stalled traffic in the remaining open lane as we ran past them. Pedestrians on the sidewalk gave us quizzical looks.
As we neared the first kilometer marker, right before turning onto Second Avenue in downtown Seattle, we saw a blue cloud of dust. Cheers erupted.
As we ran through the color gauntlet, volunteers shot us with colored cornstarch from plastic containers that looked like condiment bottles. The chalky texture felt cool on my skin and stuck to everything it touched: my arm, my shirt, my shorts. One volunteer aimed for Alex's torso, but he ducked into it for full coverage.
As we ran through the color gauntlet, volunteers shot us with colored cornstarch from plastic containers that looked like condiment bottles. The chalky texture felt cool on my skin and stuck to everything it touched: my arm, my shirt, my shorts. One volunteer aimed for Alex's torso, but he ducked into it for full coverage.
At the turnaround point, runners rounded the divider in the middle lane, and ran the other direction on 2nd Ave. Before we reached the halfway mark, the fastest runners startled us by being on the return trip already. They shouted encouragement to us and gave high fives. Then we made the turn, and saw how many thousands of people were all on the same street.
9:15 (approximately)
We ran back to Seattle Center and saw the finish line a few blocks ahead. There were a lot of spectators on either side of the street, cheering us on. As the crowd of runners thinned out (either racing ahead of us or stuck on the hill behind us) we ran as a trio, feeling pretty triumphant. At least until two girls sped past us, one on either side.
That didn't stop someone in the crowd from pointing at Alex's completely covered face and shouting "YEAHHH!"
The rest of the morning was spent with the crowd throwing colors in the air. It was more fun that it sounds.
Woo hoo!
Thank you Alex, for sharing your photos.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Color Run - Seattle
Remember that scene in Mary Poppins where Mary and Burt jump into sidewalk chalk art? Ever wonder what that would be like? Tomorrow, I'll find out.
Stay tuned.
Stay tuned.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Happy Mother's Day, Alzheimer's and all
Mother's Day used to mean driving to Seattle and spending Sunday with Mom and Grandma (a little like we did last year), or buying annuals and planting hanging baskets for the patio. The rhododendron under my old bedroom window and the flowering snowball tree in the backyard were both Mother's Day gifts to Mom from my dad. Gift giving, gardening, handmade cards and coupons for chores all come to mind. But this year will be different.
This is the first spring Mom has been in a nursing home. I don't think days of the week, months, or even years register for her anymore. I suspect her sense of time is very immediate. That's a blessing and a curse. She's always happy to visit with family members. But within an hour, she's forgotten who was with her and what was said. As a result, spending time with her feels holy. Those moments spent together exist for her as they happen, not in anticipation and not in memories. Just in the moment. It's beautiful and crushing at the same time.
I visited Mom on Sunday. I've got a routine. At the front reception area of the nursing home, I sign in (Name, Who I am Visiting, Time In, Time Out). It's 84 steps to her wing (I counted). Down the long main hall, there are lots of open bedroom doors with TVs blaring inside. At the nurse's station I usually see a couple of employees busy at computers or visiting. A few residents in wheel chairs park along the hallway and watch everyone's coming and going. There's always beeping, like loud alarm clocks that everyone else has tuned out. It's nerve wracking. At the 84th step, I reach the Special Care Unit, specifically for Alzheimer's and dementia care. I press a button to disarm the door and enter (quickly; if the door is left open too long, it sets off an alarm that sounds like a bank's been robbed).
The Special Care Unit is always a few degrees warmer than the rest of the building. It smells ripe like slept-in bedding and unwashed clothes. There is art on the wall in the hallway and photos of the residents outside their doors. There are two and three-person rooms on either side. I usually find Mom in either the activity room or the "quiet" room set up for visiting families.
She was finishing her lunch when I arrived on Sunday. In the small dining room at the end of the hall, the other residents looked like white haired, passive zombies. They shifted their weight awkwardly in their seats and stared. I heard guttural noises and saw pale limbs exposed by ill-fitting sweat pants and hospital robes. I smiled big and waited for Mom to see me. She giggled and fidgeted with her long terry cloth bib. As I sat down next to her, she carefully maneuvered her large-handled spoon from the plastic dish to her mouth. The nurse assigned to meal duty handed her a sippy cup of milk and Mom drank thirstily.
Vegetables (cooked so soft that they barely held together) tumbled off the spoon into her lap. I ignored them and watched Mom take another bite. She enjoyed every mouthful with lots of satisfied sighing and "Mm!"s, but she seemed self conscious and said I should eat something, too. I smiled but declined and praised her on the good job cleaning her plate. The nurse said, "Vicki's my good eater."
Without missing a beat Mom added, "You know me!"
She slurped the last of the milk from her sippy cup, laughed at herself and apologized.
I helped her out of her chair so we could take a walk. It took twice as many steps for me to lead her out of the special care unit and back to the front entrance due to her tiny steps and slow pace. I bantered with her the whole way. She was in good spirits (as usual) and laughed a lot.
We sat on a bench near the front entrance in the sunshine. We admired the garden (azaleas, tulips, blue bells all in full bloom) and the fountain alongside the parking lot. The fresh air was sweet, especially after the "lived in" smell of the nursing home. I loaned Mom my sunglasses and put my arm around her. She leaned into me for a nuzzle. I quietly sang a few songs and she hummed along with me, instinctively remembering every note.
"I love you," I said, and kissed her forehead.
"I love you, too."
Those words mean more to me than I could ever express with flowers, jewelry, chocolate, or Hallmark cards.
This Mother's Day will be different than all the rest, but the love and appreciation directed toward Mom hasn't changed. If anything, it's been distilled and purified.
To all the mothers in my life, you are treasured.
This is the first spring Mom has been in a nursing home. I don't think days of the week, months, or even years register for her anymore. I suspect her sense of time is very immediate. That's a blessing and a curse. She's always happy to visit with family members. But within an hour, she's forgotten who was with her and what was said. As a result, spending time with her feels holy. Those moments spent together exist for her as they happen, not in anticipation and not in memories. Just in the moment. It's beautiful and crushing at the same time.
I visited Mom on Sunday. I've got a routine. At the front reception area of the nursing home, I sign in (Name, Who I am Visiting, Time In, Time Out). It's 84 steps to her wing (I counted). Down the long main hall, there are lots of open bedroom doors with TVs blaring inside. At the nurse's station I usually see a couple of employees busy at computers or visiting. A few residents in wheel chairs park along the hallway and watch everyone's coming and going. There's always beeping, like loud alarm clocks that everyone else has tuned out. It's nerve wracking. At the 84th step, I reach the Special Care Unit, specifically for Alzheimer's and dementia care. I press a button to disarm the door and enter (quickly; if the door is left open too long, it sets off an alarm that sounds like a bank's been robbed).
The Special Care Unit is always a few degrees warmer than the rest of the building. It smells ripe like slept-in bedding and unwashed clothes. There is art on the wall in the hallway and photos of the residents outside their doors. There are two and three-person rooms on either side. I usually find Mom in either the activity room or the "quiet" room set up for visiting families.
She was finishing her lunch when I arrived on Sunday. In the small dining room at the end of the hall, the other residents looked like white haired, passive zombies. They shifted their weight awkwardly in their seats and stared. I heard guttural noises and saw pale limbs exposed by ill-fitting sweat pants and hospital robes. I smiled big and waited for Mom to see me. She giggled and fidgeted with her long terry cloth bib. As I sat down next to her, she carefully maneuvered her large-handled spoon from the plastic dish to her mouth. The nurse assigned to meal duty handed her a sippy cup of milk and Mom drank thirstily.
Vegetables (cooked so soft that they barely held together) tumbled off the spoon into her lap. I ignored them and watched Mom take another bite. She enjoyed every mouthful with lots of satisfied sighing and "Mm!"s, but she seemed self conscious and said I should eat something, too. I smiled but declined and praised her on the good job cleaning her plate. The nurse said, "Vicki's my good eater."
Without missing a beat Mom added, "You know me!"
She slurped the last of the milk from her sippy cup, laughed at herself and apologized.
I helped her out of her chair so we could take a walk. It took twice as many steps for me to lead her out of the special care unit and back to the front entrance due to her tiny steps and slow pace. I bantered with her the whole way. She was in good spirits (as usual) and laughed a lot.
We sat on a bench near the front entrance in the sunshine. We admired the garden (azaleas, tulips, blue bells all in full bloom) and the fountain alongside the parking lot. The fresh air was sweet, especially after the "lived in" smell of the nursing home. I loaned Mom my sunglasses and put my arm around her. She leaned into me for a nuzzle. I quietly sang a few songs and she hummed along with me, instinctively remembering every note.
"I love you," I said, and kissed her forehead.
"I love you, too."
Those words mean more to me than I could ever express with flowers, jewelry, chocolate, or Hallmark cards.
This Mother's Day will be different than all the rest, but the love and appreciation directed toward Mom hasn't changed. If anything, it's been distilled and purified.
To all the mothers in my life, you are treasured.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Running Discoveries
A subscription to Runner's World doesn't make me a runner.
Watching Chariots of Fire doesn't make me a runner.
A closet full of performance fabric and technical apparel doesn't make me a runner.
Running is what makes me a runner.
And guess what, folks? It's getting easier.
Three years ago today, I said this about myself as a runner:
Hubbins and I are in week four of our USA Fit program and continue to meet our pace group for a longer run on Saturday mornings. Our early morning start to the weekend makes Saturdays last SO much longer! Bonus. Last weekend we ran on a park trail I'd never been on before (in the town where I've lived most my life). I feel SO fortunate to live in this part of the country, nestled between the Cascade mountains and Puget Sound. Discovering new views of familiar sights is really rewarding.
During the week, I run before work and Hubbins runs on his lunch break. I used to walk every morning when I was in college, but I'd forgotten how peaceful the world is before there's traffic on the roads and the neighbors are still sleeping. Running by myself on weekday mornings gives me a totally different take on the day. I feel so much happier. Every day I don't run feels like PMS in comparison, despondent and bleak.
When I step out of the front door, it's light enough to see where I'm going, but the street lights are still on. I walk five minutes from the house, cross the main arterial, and begin running into the quiet neighborhood nearby. All the birds within earshot sing in perpetual crescendo. The sun comes over the mountains while I'm en route, and if it's clear, I can see Mt. Baker. Mist rises from a field of undeveloped land, protected from the sound of traffic by a narrow forest of evergreens.
I breathe heavy and concentrate on my pace. By the time I get back to the house, I'm red-faced and sweaty. A lukewarm shower never felt so good. Instead of dreading the day, I'm energized. I feel just like I did as a kid after several hours spent swimming in the wave pool: exhausted and content.
It's sinking in: I'm a runner.
Watching Chariots of Fire doesn't make me a runner.
A closet full of performance fabric and technical apparel doesn't make me a runner.
Running is what makes me a runner.
 |
| Out the door before 6am |
 |
| Cell phone self portrait |
And guess what, folks? It's getting easier.
Three years ago today, I said this about myself as a runner:
I stumble and shuffle and suddenly lose the ability to automatically put one foot in front of the other, like those dreams where you forget how to walk. Every footfall takes effort because it feels like I have cinder blocks on the ends of my legs.My feet don't feel like cinder blocks anymore. Instead, my legs feel like taut rubber bands, springing me forward. My calf muscles and ankles are weak, but I've noticed improvement recently.
Hubbins and I are in week four of our USA Fit program and continue to meet our pace group for a longer run on Saturday mornings. Our early morning start to the weekend makes Saturdays last SO much longer! Bonus. Last weekend we ran on a park trail I'd never been on before (in the town where I've lived most my life). I feel SO fortunate to live in this part of the country, nestled between the Cascade mountains and Puget Sound. Discovering new views of familiar sights is really rewarding.
During the week, I run before work and Hubbins runs on his lunch break. I used to walk every morning when I was in college, but I'd forgotten how peaceful the world is before there's traffic on the roads and the neighbors are still sleeping. Running by myself on weekday mornings gives me a totally different take on the day. I feel so much happier. Every day I don't run feels like PMS in comparison, despondent and bleak.
When I step out of the front door, it's light enough to see where I'm going, but the street lights are still on. I walk five minutes from the house, cross the main arterial, and begin running into the quiet neighborhood nearby. All the birds within earshot sing in perpetual crescendo. The sun comes over the mountains while I'm en route, and if it's clear, I can see Mt. Baker. Mist rises from a field of undeveloped land, protected from the sound of traffic by a narrow forest of evergreens.
I breathe heavy and concentrate on my pace. By the time I get back to the house, I'm red-faced and sweaty. A lukewarm shower never felt so good. Instead of dreading the day, I'm energized. I feel just like I did as a kid after several hours spent swimming in the wave pool: exhausted and content.
It's sinking in: I'm a runner.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Female protagonists defeating all odds: spring reading reivew
I have been reading up a storm since February. Every book has been a page-turner and hard to put down even after reading the last chapter. This sample is a pretty good representation of my reading habits: 60% memoir, 20% self-help/spirituality, and 20% fiction. I find it interesting that all five of these titles are by women addressing identity, faith, sexuality, and values (a trend I didn't recognize until I started this post).
Higher Ground by Carolyn Briggs
The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown
I've already raved about I Thought it Was Just Me, but I enjoyed Brene Brown's second book even more. The Gifts of Imperfection was written after she realized that her research about shame pointed to several of the things that get in the way of love, belonging and a sense of worthiness. She discovered that they were things she herself was struggling with. She writes about the process of coming to terms with these roadblocks, and what helped her through her own breakdown-turned-spiritual-awakening.
I liked this book because the chapters were short and easy to read, each one about a "guidepost" for wholehearted living (topics like authenticity, self-compassion, resiliency, and creativity). I wrote in the margins of most pages, and plan to re-read this book multiple times. It's a good deep-breath, re-focus, get-the-priorities-straight kind of book.
I liked this book because the chapters were short and easy to read, each one about a "guidepost" for wholehearted living (topics like authenticity, self-compassion, resiliency, and creativity). I wrote in the margins of most pages, and plan to re-read this book multiple times. It's a good deep-breath, re-focus, get-the-priorities-straight kind of book.
The Chronology of Water by Lidia Yuknavitch
Back story: remember when I said I was attending a workshop about metaphors? It was great. I was one of two dozen women who attended. We spent a lot of time writing during the session and reading our brand new metaphor creations aloud to each other. The workshop was taught by Lidia Yuknavitch, who mentioned that her newly published memoir was all based on metaphor. She was so engaging, self-deprecating, encouraging, and quirky, that I bought her book the very next day.
It's a gut-wrenching, raw, and irreverent look at relationships, abuse, connection, love, and forgiveness. It's not for the faint-of-heart (I blushed more than once while reading), but I could appreciate the significance of Lidia's vulnerability in describing her love-starved childhood and self-destructive young adulthood, having just met her the day before.
Back story: remember when I said I was attending a workshop about metaphors? It was great. I was one of two dozen women who attended. We spent a lot of time writing during the session and reading our brand new metaphor creations aloud to each other. The workshop was taught by Lidia Yuknavitch, who mentioned that her newly published memoir was all based on metaphor. She was so engaging, self-deprecating, encouraging, and quirky, that I bought her book the very next day.
It's a gut-wrenching, raw, and irreverent look at relationships, abuse, connection, love, and forgiveness. It's not for the faint-of-heart (I blushed more than once while reading), but I could appreciate the significance of Lidia's vulnerability in describing her love-starved childhood and self-destructive young adulthood, having just met her the day before.
Higher Ground by Carolyn Briggs
While in the UW hospital with Mom and Dad two months ago, Dad read an excerpt from an article by Carolyn Briggs. The article was a Valentine's Day message to the church she left (it's really beautiful, I hope you read it). Her honesty caught my attention and I bought her memoir a few weeks later. It affected me deeply. The day after I finished reading, I wrote her a letter. Here is an excerpt.
Wild by Cheryl Strayed
I finished reading Higher Ground last night. It was gripping. I am the oldest of five kids and grew up in a Fundamentalist household a little like yours. So many things brought back memories. I appreciate the way you handled each element: frugal living, patriarchy, church, family, doubt. I have a better understanding of my own history after reading about yours. I want the conversation to continue; I want to know what of your faith remains. How did you let your questions form you instead of overwhelm you?The conversation did continue. She responded the next day with an email full of empathy and recommended reading. She writes for Religion Dispatches, and you can find more of her there.
Wild by Cheryl Strayed
I came across this title on a blog about memoirs. The review I read (which I can't find now) caught my eye because it mentioned the Pacific Crest Trail (where the majority of Wild takes place). A few days prior, Hubbins and I were in line at Costco and overheard the couple ahead of us explain to the cashier that they were stocking up for a trek on the PCT (hence the pallet-loads of protein bars and industrial-sized boxes of skittles). They were planning to mail food to themselves in advance, at landmarks along the way.
When I read the name of the trail mentioned again in that blog and learned that someone named Cheryl Strayed hiked over a thousand miles by herself, my curiosity was piqued. A few days after that, while flipping through magazines at the salon (chatting with my favorite stylist), I came across an excerpt from the book in Vogue magazine. I read it aloud while getting my hair cut. After that, I couldn't get my hands on a copy of the book fast enough.
Here's the gist: following the death of her mother and the emotional explosion of her marriage, Cheryl Strayed decided to hike the Pacific Crest Trail in an effort to rediscover herself. This was no small undertaking. She was from Minnesota and had spent little time on the West Coast. She over packed and couldn't lift her backpack on the day she intended to start hiking. She had never been backpacking before, much less by herself. The misadventures continue, always accompanied by a probing lesson about ambition, connection, and self awareness. The descriptions of her mom, scattered throughout the story, all hit close to home. I bookmarked several paragraphs that capture the mother-daughter bond eloquently.
Ironically, this book about wilderness survival was my first experience using an e-reader (even speedy Amazon Prime wasn't quick enough; I had to start reading).
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
When I read the name of the trail mentioned again in that blog and learned that someone named Cheryl Strayed hiked over a thousand miles by herself, my curiosity was piqued. A few days after that, while flipping through magazines at the salon (chatting with my favorite stylist), I came across an excerpt from the book in Vogue magazine. I read it aloud while getting my hair cut. After that, I couldn't get my hands on a copy of the book fast enough.
Here's the gist: following the death of her mother and the emotional explosion of her marriage, Cheryl Strayed decided to hike the Pacific Crest Trail in an effort to rediscover herself. This was no small undertaking. She was from Minnesota and had spent little time on the West Coast. She over packed and couldn't lift her backpack on the day she intended to start hiking. She had never been backpacking before, much less by herself. The misadventures continue, always accompanied by a probing lesson about ambition, connection, and self awareness. The descriptions of her mom, scattered throughout the story, all hit close to home. I bookmarked several paragraphs that capture the mother-daughter bond eloquently.
Ironically, this book about wilderness survival was my first experience using an e-reader (even speedy Amazon Prime wasn't quick enough; I had to start reading).
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
I picked this one up out of boredom (nothing prompts me to scramble for reading material faster than televised sporting events. Sorry, Canucks). I read 77 pages in one sitting, and got so drawn into the story and attached to the characters that I finished the book in two days. I realize the series has been out for a couple of years and I've heard the title mentioned often since the movie came to theaters. The hype didn't interest me at all. By the end of chapter one however, I was a goner.
I know there are probably parents all over the place who are horrified by the idea of their child reading this series, what with the hand-to-hand combat and fight-to-the-death themes. The fact that the books are so wildly popular shows me that adolescents are more capable of dealing with adult subject matter than they're given credit for. I think what you get out of the story depends on what you bring to it. If scenes of violence already saturate a young reader's mind (via movies, games, comics), then yeah, the book is gruesome. The Hunger Games is rife with philosophical and political messages, dystopian commentary on modern life, and predictions of a future society. But I didn't pay any attention to that. I enjoyed the suspense, the kick-ass main characters, and the intensity of the story-telling.
I know there are probably parents all over the place who are horrified by the idea of their child reading this series, what with the hand-to-hand combat and fight-to-the-death themes. The fact that the books are so wildly popular shows me that adolescents are more capable of dealing with adult subject matter than they're given credit for. I think what you get out of the story depends on what you bring to it. If scenes of violence already saturate a young reader's mind (via movies, games, comics), then yeah, the book is gruesome. The Hunger Games is rife with philosophical and political messages, dystopian commentary on modern life, and predictions of a future society. But I didn't pay any attention to that. I enjoyed the suspense, the kick-ass main characters, and the intensity of the story-telling.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Nerds of Northwest Washington: Unite!
This weekend is Emerald City Comicon. I wrote about attending last year here (and described my anxiety beforehand here). Re-reading those posts makes me even more excited.
From the website's programming page, here are actual workshops (I swear I am not making this up):
Star Wars Craft Time
Chewbacca Sock Puppets. Wampa Washcloth Dolls. AT-AT Herb Gardens. Join author Bonnie Burton as she shows off some of her favorite crafts from her book The Star Wars Craft Book and demonstrates how to do them. Bonnie will show you how to bring the best of the galaxy far, far away right into your own homes.
I'm So Much Cooler Online: Maintaining Your Digital Profile
Maintaining your digital profile. What should you post? What should you NOT post? How do you become a broadcasted brand, and use that to promote and to get work? Join the writer/artist of Love and Capes, Thomas Zahler as he guides you through the perilous world of the internet.
Star Trek: State of the Franchise
How much longer will movie rumor, anniversary nostalgia and product news pass for an active Trek fandom? Is "Star Trek 2013" enough? Join author/historian/producer Larry Nemecek and a panel of experts for an eyes-wide look at the long-range scan.
I'll leave you with this helpful guide:
From the website's programming page, here are actual workshops (I swear I am not making this up):
Star Wars Craft Time
Chewbacca Sock Puppets. Wampa Washcloth Dolls. AT-AT Herb Gardens. Join author Bonnie Burton as she shows off some of her favorite crafts from her book The Star Wars Craft Book and demonstrates how to do them. Bonnie will show you how to bring the best of the galaxy far, far away right into your own homes.
I'm So Much Cooler Online: Maintaining Your Digital Profile
Maintaining your digital profile. What should you post? What should you NOT post? How do you become a broadcasted brand, and use that to promote and to get work? Join the writer/artist of Love and Capes, Thomas Zahler as he guides you through the perilous world of the internet.
Star Trek: State of the Franchise
How much longer will movie rumor, anniversary nostalgia and product news pass for an active Trek fandom? Is "Star Trek 2013" enough? Join author/historian/producer Larry Nemecek and a panel of experts for an eyes-wide look at the long-range scan.
I'll leave you with this helpful guide:
 |
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Ode to Airports
I found this list of travel observations on my laptop, which I wrote in 2009 while flying to Florida to see a dear friend. I'm posting it now in honor of all the dramatic airline stories in the news this week. Re-reading it makes me want to take another trip.
I really enjoy traveling alone. It’s nice to be anonymous with no one to keep track of or keep up with. I like being able to operate on my own schedule and have the freedom to alternate between “rigid” and “helter-skelter."
I slept on the shuttle during the 2.5 hour trip here to the airport. I’m well rested, feeling sharp in a denim jacket and bright orange scarf and reliving my independent traveler days. I’m armed with a new book, my laptop, comfortable shoes, and cell phone. What more could a girl need? The world is my oyster.
Airports are like malls: lots of people-watching opportunities, a variety of shops (all over-priced), and plenty of nooks and crannies to disappear into. They contain a wonderful cross-section of humanity. And by wonderful I mean harrowing.
This place is a sociological gold mine of human behavior. Where else could you find this many people funneled through such a narrow opening of common experience? Maybe at Wal-Mart. Or the county fair.
Everyone here is consumed by timetables, departures and destinations. We travel for a variety of reasons but use a common mode of transportation. Most of us could do without the proximity to one another.
Airports are designed to be idiot-proof. You’d have to work really hard to miss all the signs, instructions, public service announcements and last calls. We are herded like cattle, instructed to remove our shoes in a public place and expose the contents of our pockets and purses. It all feels ridiculous, but we do it in the name of safety.
And I do feel safer.
Knowing that any potential crazies are subjected to the same treatment at least levels the playing field. If my flight ends badly, I can rest assured it won’t be because someone had any liquid in excess of three ounces, without a zip-lock bag to carry it in.
We’re all here temporarily. For some that translates to "take it in stride,” put up with the inconveniences and roll with the punches. For others, it means "treat strangers like dirt and demand preferential treatment whenever possible."
Like the guy at the ticket counter who got all pissy with the airline agent while trying to locate his luggage, after he told the agent his layover location rather than his final destination. His bags were long gone, presumably en route to the wrong city. The ticket agent tried to remain calm while several dozen people watched. He turned bright red and kept his voice as low and even as he could while describing a very simple progression of cause and effect: you screwed up, you deal with it. The angry passenger kept shifting his weight impatiently, shaking his head in disbelief, and even threw a ballpoint pen in disgust.
Or consider the woman in line in front of me who stood in one place, waiting for instructions, even though she had not checked in electronically nor received a boarding pass from the counter. She announced without irony that she was going to miss her flight yet stood still, waiting for some direction. Another man paced between computer terminals, eager to leave his luggage with someone in a uniform and go find his gate. Lots of frustrated facial expressions and darting eyes. Fascinating.
Wouldn’t an airport be an ideal context for a social experiment? Travelers are stressed, tired, uncomfortable, and possessive. With this many variables intersecting and so many desired outcomes, I can’t help but compare myself to a rat in a maze, looking for the biggest piece of cheese. Maybe they’ll serve some on my in-flight snack.
I love to see what people consider “travel clothes.” Some are clearly headed for the Outback, dressed like Crocodile Dundee, complete with a canteen on their utility belt and a walking stick (how’d they get that past security?). Others are dressed for success, announcing via their wardrobe “I belong in first class,” with power suits, ties, briefcases, and wing-tipped shoes (I wish I had the cojones to wear a sleeveless dress and heels on an airplane). And then there are those who opt for a super-casual travel experience with a pillow under each arm and a tote bag filled with snacks, dressed in PJs and flip-flops.
Okay, the guy sitting next to me is on his phone, updating his Mama on the status of a sick relative. Including bowel movements. I’m outta here.
Bon voyage.
I really enjoy traveling alone. It’s nice to be anonymous with no one to keep track of or keep up with. I like being able to operate on my own schedule and have the freedom to alternate between “rigid” and “helter-skelter."
I slept on the shuttle during the 2.5 hour trip here to the airport. I’m well rested, feeling sharp in a denim jacket and bright orange scarf and reliving my independent traveler days. I’m armed with a new book, my laptop, comfortable shoes, and cell phone. What more could a girl need? The world is my oyster.
Airports are like malls: lots of people-watching opportunities, a variety of shops (all over-priced), and plenty of nooks and crannies to disappear into. They contain a wonderful cross-section of humanity. And by wonderful I mean harrowing.
This place is a sociological gold mine of human behavior. Where else could you find this many people funneled through such a narrow opening of common experience? Maybe at Wal-Mart. Or the county fair.
Everyone here is consumed by timetables, departures and destinations. We travel for a variety of reasons but use a common mode of transportation. Most of us could do without the proximity to one another.
Airports are designed to be idiot-proof. You’d have to work really hard to miss all the signs, instructions, public service announcements and last calls. We are herded like cattle, instructed to remove our shoes in a public place and expose the contents of our pockets and purses. It all feels ridiculous, but we do it in the name of safety.
And I do feel safer.
Knowing that any potential crazies are subjected to the same treatment at least levels the playing field. If my flight ends badly, I can rest assured it won’t be because someone had any liquid in excess of three ounces, without a zip-lock bag to carry it in.
We’re all here temporarily. For some that translates to "take it in stride,” put up with the inconveniences and roll with the punches. For others, it means "treat strangers like dirt and demand preferential treatment whenever possible."
Like the guy at the ticket counter who got all pissy with the airline agent while trying to locate his luggage, after he told the agent his layover location rather than his final destination. His bags were long gone, presumably en route to the wrong city. The ticket agent tried to remain calm while several dozen people watched. He turned bright red and kept his voice as low and even as he could while describing a very simple progression of cause and effect: you screwed up, you deal with it. The angry passenger kept shifting his weight impatiently, shaking his head in disbelief, and even threw a ballpoint pen in disgust.
Or consider the woman in line in front of me who stood in one place, waiting for instructions, even though she had not checked in electronically nor received a boarding pass from the counter. She announced without irony that she was going to miss her flight yet stood still, waiting for some direction. Another man paced between computer terminals, eager to leave his luggage with someone in a uniform and go find his gate. Lots of frustrated facial expressions and darting eyes. Fascinating.
Wouldn’t an airport be an ideal context for a social experiment? Travelers are stressed, tired, uncomfortable, and possessive. With this many variables intersecting and so many desired outcomes, I can’t help but compare myself to a rat in a maze, looking for the biggest piece of cheese. Maybe they’ll serve some on my in-flight snack.
I love to see what people consider “travel clothes.” Some are clearly headed for the Outback, dressed like Crocodile Dundee, complete with a canteen on their utility belt and a walking stick (how’d they get that past security?). Others are dressed for success, announcing via their wardrobe “I belong in first class,” with power suits, ties, briefcases, and wing-tipped shoes (I wish I had the cojones to wear a sleeveless dress and heels on an airplane). And then there are those who opt for a super-casual travel experience with a pillow under each arm and a tote bag filled with snacks, dressed in PJs and flip-flops.
Okay, the guy sitting next to me is on his phone, updating his Mama on the status of a sick relative. Including bowel movements. I’m outta here.
Bon voyage.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Inaugural Run of 2012
Now that Daylight Savings has moved us across the threshold from darkness into light, the latent athlete in me is feeling antsy. She's sleepy after a winter of hibernation, but ready for Spring. Once again, the seasonally reoccurring day dreaming begins: this will be the year I become a real runner.
Starting March 31st, I'm moving beyond day dreams. I signed up for a six month training program to run a half marathon. Hubbins and I begin next week. I'm scared.
We ran tonight on our favorite trail, a 2.6 mile loop (full of hills) around a small lake. I wanted to see if I could still do it; this was my first run since mid December. We finished in just over 33 minutes; not a terrific time but I'm still proud, having not run at all for three months.
I thought of Cami, who ran a 50k last weekend (good gravy. That's 31 miles). She did it in the mud and snow, on trails that are exhausting to hike even in warm summer weather.
I thought of how much my running has improved since attending two six-week sessions of the Fit School's running program for women. My confidence is increasing and time spent whining is decreasing.
I thought of how excited I am to share this training with my husband. We each have a lot of hobbies, but few overlap and interest us both. Except for this. We're both on board.
I hope you'll keep reading over the next six months and see where this adventure takes us.
Starting March 31st, I'm moving beyond day dreams. I signed up for a six month training program to run a half marathon. Hubbins and I begin next week. I'm scared.
We ran tonight on our favorite trail, a 2.6 mile loop (full of hills) around a small lake. I wanted to see if I could still do it; this was my first run since mid December. We finished in just over 33 minutes; not a terrific time but I'm still proud, having not run at all for three months.
The last quarter mile felt like running upstream in a waist-deep river. But my lungs felt strong and there was a familiar burn in my quads that said, "We got this. Keep going."
 |
| One foot in front of the other. Small, quick steps like Carol taught me |
I thought of how much my running has improved since attending two six-week sessions of the Fit School's running program for women. My confidence is increasing and time spent whining is decreasing.
I thought of how excited I am to share this training with my husband. We each have a lot of hobbies, but few overlap and interest us both. Except for this. We're both on board.
 |
| Sorry ladies, he's spoken for. |
 |
| Made it! |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)