Moments

I'm sitting here at the computer, finally ready to revisit my blog and continue the story I started almost a year ago. I also want to encourage you to pray about joining MASH this season if you are at all interested in supporting MMI and meeting some seemingly impossible personal goals. There have been so many moments...emotionally, spiritually, mentally, and yes, physically...that can't adequately be described in words. And I can't come into the new training season without encouraging others to make the commitment...and start experiencing life changing moments of their own.

I remember a run I had last summer. It was late afternoon and I had dropped the girls off at my mom's house in order to get in a workout. Woodward is just a short walk away from my parent's house so I jogged over the overpass and hit the road that winds its way around the park. I think it was July or August; needless to say, it was scorchingly hot. Probably around 100 or thereabouts. And although I had been training for a few months I felt the effects of the heat and the hills almost immediately. There were few other people out on such a hot day and I remember having to mentally push myself to go on...because, without a cell phone, I really had no other choice.

The hills were the worst. I don't remember exactly where I was...probably the dirt track that winds its way around the outer perimeter...but I do remember the hills. "Just one more hill," I'd think to myself. "And you're almost there." But no. After that hill, there was another. And another. It seemed endless, the slow pace up the hill, the slightly easier trek down. I was so thirsty and wanted nothing more than to get back to my mom's house for some ice water. And I didn't want to slow down and walk...doing so would only get me back that much later...so I kept up my pace and kept going.

That's how it is with training for a half marathon, or marathon...there are so many hills to climb but somehow, someway, you push through. You pray, you sing, you encourage other MASHers on Facebook, you buy a water bottle belt and some good shoes and you keep running. The heat, the freezing cold Saturday mornings, the aching shins, the sore feet. The injuries...although I was blessed to be injury free through my training, others didn't escape the shin splints, the pulled tendon, or the other several injuries runners can be prone to. But everyone I knew that suffered an injury kept going. They took a break, then hit the trail again. They overcame.

Then there is the other side of the hill-the moment you reach the top and begin to descend. These are the moments that made it almost easy to continue training. Watching the sun rise through pink tinged clouds, looking over the bluff on the Eaton Trail on my very first five mile run, keeping pace with Heather while dodging semi-trucks, running in fog so thick droplets of dew clung to my arms. Praying, singing, thanking God for the ability to run. Thinking of the people we were helping, because it really came down to that...packing supplies at the Clovis warehouse and knowing what you were doing was making a difference.

And one of the best parts of joining MASH-meeting the people who would ultimately change my life in a myriad of small ways. Jeff and Mike, the ever so patient MASH trainers. Mike was the one who said I should run with a helium balloon tied to my hat so they could track me easier if and when I got lost on a long run. Kelly, another amazing MASH trainer who does 26 mile TRAINING runs and who might get a spot on next season's "Wipeout" (am I right Kelly? Any updates on that?) Roland, a mentor who led the Thursday evening trainings at Rio Vista...I cheered silently when I saw his time in the Two Cities race report...his name was REALLY high on the list. Danielle, Heather, and of course Kim and Pennie, fellow PCers. Pennie sings in the choir and I found out Kim is good friends with my sister in law. Would I have ever met these beautiful people if I hadn't done this?

Who would I be today if I hadn't had the courage to join MASH? I am now stronger, physically...and spiritually, because God has been with me on every run. And when it comes down to it, He is the reason I run. He is the reason I am able to run. Running is a gift-an activity not necessary to our modern lives. It's almost a luxury. The ability to get on my shoes and go out for a run is something I thank God for. For "all good things come from above" and I can't enumerate all of the good that has come from this. I am a runner, and will continue to run as long as I am able. And I will continue to thank Him for the runs he has given me and the moments I have experienced on this journey.

So pray about joining MASH...not just supporting the ministry, but by signing up and running...because who knows where God will lead you? Who knows what moments are going to change your life?

Music Soothes the Savage Beast

According to Runner's World, there is a lot of controversy in the running community about the use of personal music devices.  There are those that think running with an ipod or similar device poses risks to the runner, and to others who share the road with them.  Loud music distracts the listener from her surroundings and increases the chance of a runner vs. bike or runner vs. car scenario.  Or so the critics say.  Proponents of the practice cite increased motivation and decreased boredom while on the road.  Personally, I'm a music junkie.  I love working out to music, even if it's the blaring, distorted hip hop or wailing alternative my local gym enjoys cranking out of tinny speakers.  There are aspects of silent running I enjoy, however...the way my thoughts can float through my mind in a free fall of consciousness.  I believe, though, that there is nothing like running along a trail on a cool, misty morning with your favorite music swirling in your head.

As with most people, music tends to mark specific times in life.  Of course there's the pop culture tunes that most of us grow up listening to.  In my case, along with U2, it was Paula Abdul, Sting, Bon Jovi, Madonna, and various soundtracks.  I can remember the song I danced my first slow dance to, or the song they played for years on network TV during April and May, at the height of high school graduation..."This is the tiiiime to remember, 'cause it will not last forever."

Music, for me, helps me move my feet.  Although I do enjoy the occasional jaunt without my ipod, for the most part I'm always listening to something.  On one of my gym workouts last month I geared myself up for a long (for me) run.  I changed, made sure I had water bottle, wallet, and hair tie, dropped off the girls at grandma's, drove to the gym, and climbed on the treadmill.  But when I pushed the play button on the ipod strapped to my arm...nothing.  Battery dead.  Completely dead.  I think I stood there for about thirty seconds wondering what to do, and even considered asking someone if I could borrow theirs for a short while (I know, preposterous, but I was almost desperate.)  I ended up doing the run anyway, listening to the distorted hip hop blaring from the tinny speakers overhead.  I ended up running to several worship songs playing in my head.  I help lead worship at our Wednesday evening service so I'm able to keep up with a lot of the Christian music trends.  It helped.  But it wasn't the same.

My half marathon anthem is "I'm Gonna Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight".  Don't let the title mislead you.  It's an up tempo declaration of persistence, of encouragement.  It's an artistic melody of change.  

"It's not a hill, it's a mountain, as you start out the climb.  Listen for me I'll be shouting...but we're gonna make it all the way to the light..." or in my case, "line", as in finish line.  Although I still have my doubts about that.  Because in the end, I know it'll be me WITHOUT my ipod, as I believe they're "illegal" in the Two Cities race.  I'll puff through the race in the cool mist of the early morning, and my music will still be swirling around in my head.  After all, it's really a "mental game", isn't it?  And the music in my head will help me as much as the music in my ears.  

Music can soothe the savage beast, praise God, and keep the tired runner from falling.  

In my case, it will help get me through. And I know I'll need all the help I can get.

The Long Run

Two months ago I had never run longer than three miles in my life.  When I signed up for this crazy thing called M*A*S*H the realization never really became concrete that I would be training to run 13.1 miles.  Somehow, I thought I'd do a couple of nice workouts a week, ask the trainers about an achy knee or a stiff muscle, then jog the 13.1 miles with energy in my legs and a smile in my heart.  Little did I know.

This journey has been a bit like uncovering a treasure.  I'm digging it up shovelful by shovelful, piece by piece.  Sometimes I'll uncover a truly precious gem...the one minute it took  Roland to explain to me about having your footfalls land in a line, rather than far apart from each other, is one of those gems.  Since adjusting my form my strides have become easier and, dare I say, a bit faster.  Another treasure I discovered is the advice I gleaned from "Jogging and Running for Idiots", (my cousin really snickered at me when I bought that one at a used bookstore in San Francisco...thanks for the support, Bach) which explained that those who are running a half or full marathon should not waste time with intervals shorter than 400m.  200m intervals are fine for those running 5ks, but longer intervals are more suited to longer distances.  When I started doing fast 400m intervals with 200m recoveries, I felt stronger and faster at the next long run.   A lightbulb moment.

One time, however, I uncovered something I didn't like.  I was browsing through the MASH website when I stumbled upon the training schedule.  I skimmed the Saturday runs and saw the plan...four miles, five, seven, ten...ten miles?!  Ten miles for a training run?  How on earth was I ever going to do that? 

My first long run was a four miler.  At the time I had no idea how far I was going.  I didn't even know where I was half the time.  Once around the river bottom, then to the first bridge and back.  I remember trying to keep another runner in sight for fear of getting lost.  I remember being warm and sweaty, and gratefully downing the water offered back up at the Eaton Trail.  Then Mike directed me to go "to the first bridge and back" to finish out the run.  I remember plodding along, thinking, "Where on earth is this gosh forsaken bridge?!"  Needless to say, I survived.

On the five mile run we had to run along the Eaton Trail to the gazebo and back.  I had such an irrational sense of exhilaration, and even joy, as I stood at the gazebo looking out over the bluff.  It was a first for me.  Five miles.  I was getting through.

Six miles was on the Old Clovis Trail.  Starting at the Medical Ministries warehouse, the trail took us along a shady path and across parking lots to where Jeff and Mike stood.  It's always nice to see them on a run-they either represent water or a turnaround point.  And a nice dose of encouragement.  I turned and ran fairly strongly back to the warehouse...then helped pack some medical supplies for shipment along with the other MASHers.  We learned more about MMI and came away with a deeper understanding of why we were running.  It was a real eye opener.

Seven miles was two days ago.  I was so freaked out about going seven miles I was singing gospel songs to myself as I was getting ready (as you FB people already know.)  Eaton Trail, left down the path to the road, then along the road to the Holloway (?) House.  I started fairly strong, but slow, and jogged most of the way with a friend, Heather, who was back after nursing an injury.  She walked most of the way while I jogged, which tells you a little about our respective speeds, although in my defense she's taller than me with longer legs.  It was hot, I was hot, I needed water, and my breathing and heart rate were fine but by the end of the run my legs were giving out on me.  If not for Kelly, who ran nine and a half miles then turned back to run the rest of the way with us, I probably would have walked my way in.  Instead, I picked up the pace and finished strong.  Then I gulped my water, drove home, showered, and fell in bed for a nap.  

So I have quite a few more to go.  Next month I think we're going to be up to ten miles.  Ten miles.  That's like from my house to People's Church.  That's going around a track forty times.  That's, for me, about two hours of running, about a thousand calories burned.  

As I'm sitting here in a cool house typing this, at least a month away from attempting ten miles, I say, "bring it on."  But check back with me three and a half weeks from now...I may be starting a whole new set of gospel songs to get me through.

"Pass me not, O gentle Savior..."

That's a good one.  I don't need anyone else passing me.  I'm slow enough as it is.

Until the next run...

Adidas vs. Brooks: Finding the Perfect Shoe, part 1

Remember back in the 90s when the Nike Air Jordans first hit the stores?  Finally, the answer to many young basketball player's prayers...the perfect shoe.  The formula was simple-beg your parents, find the store, find the size, drop the $100 plus dollars and hit the playground with a new swagger in your step.  With these shoes, a player could jump higher, run faster, and hit the basket with a one handed dunk, tongue out, spectators cheering.  Of course, many of these dreams were not realized on the court, but having the perfect basketball shoe went a long way in upping your cool status.  

Finding the perfect running shoe is a bit harder, and much more important, to an amateur runner training for an event.  The right shoes absorb the shock with each footfall (up to three times your body weight!) allow plenty of room for toes in the toe box, and last for miles without losing too much support.  Being a voracious reader, I had researched shoes when I first started jogging.  I learned about pronation, supination, and motion control.  I loved the Runner's World spring and fall shoe reviews.  I compared different models on the internet and browsed the aisles at Sports Authority.  But, due to expense and the fact that I was more of a recreational jogger than a "real" runner, I had never gone to a specialty running store to get fitted, which is the most recommended way of buying your first good pair of training shoes.

So after a long Saturday run and an informative shoe clinic at Sierra Running Company I was finally ready to take the plunge.  I had discovered that my flat feet caused me to over pronate, which led to painful arches and shin splints, among other possible injuries.  And it was true!  After every run in my cheap Nike cross trainers my arches ached and throbbed.  My poor toes were cramped in the front of the shoe, and my discount store inserts did little to support my non existent arches.  

I was concerned, at first, that I might have been buying in to the snake oil and sleight of hand of the crafty salesman, but everything I had learned at the shoe clinic was affirmed in all of the research I had done previously.  So with bated breath and a budget, my husband and I dropped the girls off at grandma's and headed to Sierra Running Company.

The store was fairly busy for a Tuesday afternoon.  We were helped immediately, however, by a young woman with a pleasant demeanor.  I was asked to walk in my socks to the front of the store as she knelt and peered at my feet and ankles.  She stood almost immediately and announced that I had flat feet and was over pronating.  She then walked briskly into the back room and returned with two boxes of shoes.  I tried on at least six pairs...Adidas, Brooks, Saucony.  The only brand that was conspicuously absent was Nike.  What, no Air Jordans?  Not even a Nike Shox?  But these thoughts were chased out of my mind the moment I stood after lacing up the Brooks Ariel.  It felt like my knees popped out into a more comfortable position and my feet were now resting in their proper place.  They were made, as I read in a review later on, for "heavy runners with flat-as-a-pancake feet", which described me to a T!  The shoes felt great, and my mind soared with the possibilities of pain free running, shaving minutes off my mile time, and soaring past the finish line with tongue out (I'll probably be really thirsty) and spectators cheering.    

The Brooks, however, were not cheap.  Even with my 10% MASH discount they were the most expensive shoes I had ever looked at.  And to a...I'll not say "cheap", I'll say "thrifty" shopper like me, parting with the money wasn't easy.  But this was an investment.  Training to run 13.1 miles in the wrong shoe would only set me up for injury.  And what would I accomplish on the sidelines with shin splints and throbbing feet?  With a little prayer I handed over the money and took the box home.  

Now to put the shoes to the test.

Could I Possibly Be Any Slower?!

My husband liked to tease me when I first started "running".  He used to say that he could walk as fast as I ran.  And it was true, too, but at the time I would think, "So? At least I can keep it up for a while."  And I also thought that in time I would get fitter, stronger, and faster.  Fast forward seven years, and in the place of that runner stands a thin, wiry, fit woman who easily keeps up a nine minute per mile pace for four miles.

Er...not quite.

Before I go any farther in this musing, I would like to state three things: a)I KNOW it doesn't matter how fast I go, just as long as I get there. b) I KNOW I will become faster and stronger as long as I continue working hard. c) This is NOT a whiny showcase of low self-esteem.  You don't have to encourage me with a "No, you're doing great!" although those comments go a LONG WAY in helping me continue.  No, this is just a field note about where I am in this journey, and it will help me appreciate how far I've come when I get to my destination.

So back to the thin, wiry, fit woman.  I'll be the first to say I am neither thin (well rounded is how I like to describe myself,) wiry (more like stout,) and my "race pace" is a blistering twelve minutes per mile on a good run.  

I suppose it does bear saying that I had two long breaks in my seven year running career.  The first was when my daughter Mia was born in 2005.  I probably didn't get back into the rhythm of running for at least a year.  Then in 2007, when my second daughter Nikki was born, I quit running for another year.  In the summer of 2008 I joined a gym and started weight training, took a few group exercise classes, and around February of this year got on the treadmill and started slowly cranking up the speed.  And by "cranking up" I mean starting off at 4.0, then 4.5, then 5.0...two miles in 30 minutes, two miles in 28 minutes...I remember how much I worked to get my two miles down to 24 minutes or so.  I should add, however, that this was with a quarter mile or so of walking to warm up.  Then, in May of this year, I saw the little blurb in the People's Church bulletin..."Think you could never run a marathon?  Well, you can!"   That was all I needed, that and a little prayer to push me completely out of my running comfort zone and into the world of half marathon training.

It's both exhilarating and intimidating to train with a group.  A person finds out she's not the only runner in the world.  She also finds out she's not the fastest, or the slowest (if you include the walkers, God bless their souls,) the most fit, or the most out of shape.  But it certainly is an eye opener when you think you've been working hard and realize you are probably one of the slowest, if not THE slowest, runner in the group.  

I've been lapped several times by the trainers when out at the track.  Yes, these are the trainers, the "elite" of our little group.  But I've also watched in dismay during a Saturday run as an older lady with a bum knee slowly pulled away from me, then disappeared.  I was passed last week by just about everyone running the five miles, and some even doing the six, even though I turned back early out of concern for a friend.  I gasp on intervals at an 8mph pace.  I run out of gas so quickly on striders it's almost like someone pricked a balloon with a pin and *pffpfffffff*....aaand she's down!  

But I will continue on.  On my last run at the gym in my brand new shoes I did three miles in under 40 minutes, even though it felt like I had two concrete blocks strapped to my feet (more on that in the next post.)  So I am doing better.  I can go farther, if not all that much faster.  I can do the "warm ups"- although for me it's more of a workout-the skipping, high knee running, etc., with Roland fairly easily.  I can puff through a few 200m intervals at, say, an 8:30 minute pace fairly well.  I think I'm getting faster on the Saturday runs, although it's nearly impossible to tell for sure how far I go.  

So I'm not going to quit.  I'm not going to quit, and I'm going to continue trying to up my speed.  I may not be fast in my legs, but I'm fast in my mind.  And someday, the two just might meet up.  The fastest I've ever run a mile was in junior high when I was on the volleyball team.  A monumental 9:27 minute mile.  It was such an accomplishment I remember the time to this day.  And if I can ever do that again, I'm sure the time will be locked into my brain with all of my other hard earned accomplishments, large or small.

I was on Runner'sworld.com the other day and was reading John "The Penguin" Bingham's blog about running for no one else but yourself.  He'd said he was finishing a half marathon and was nearing the finish line when the crowd started cheering.  "What!" he thought.  "Are they cheering for me?" Then he realized the leader of the marathon runners was about to cross the finish line ahead of him.  But John didn't let this bother him.  He realized his accomplishment of finishing the half was just as remarkable as the other man's winning the marathon.  After all, he stated, "The miracle wasn't that I finished.  The miracle was that I had the courage to start."

Until the next run...

Coming soon..."Adidas vs. Brooks: Finding the Perfect Shoe"

Sunrise, Sunset

I have a love/hate relationship with Saturday mornings now.  First day of the weekend, Tony's off work, meeting the other MASHers for a nice long run.  What's not to love?  On the other hand, getting up at 5:45am, driving twenty minutes, meeting the other MASHers for a nice long run.  

When I was in school I hated getting up in the mornings.  Anything before ten o' clock was too early, and I would habitually stay in bed until the very last minute before throwing back the covers, washing up, eating, and running out the door to the carpool/bus stop/car.  It got to the point where, if I didn't get at least seven hours of sleep (preferably nine) I would be bleary eyed for most of the morning and have uncomfortable knots in my stomach until I got to take a nap after school.

So voluntarily waking BEFORE six in the morning was inconceivable to me just a few short weeks ago!  Oh, I would wake early for college classes, and later, for work as a teacher at an elementary school, but neither commitment got me out of bed before six-thirty.  I would schedule most college classes for mid-morning and was blessed with only a ten to fifteen minute commute to work, thus allowing me to continue the stay-in-bed-until-the-last-possible-minute routine.

I must admit I found out about the 6:30am Saturday morning long runs only AFTER I had signed up with MASH.  But, surprisingly, there was only a moment of "What have I done?"  I consoled myself by remembering that I could nap later in the day, or even in mid-morning, since Tony would be able to watch the girls.  

I never realized before just how beautiful sunrises are.  I've seen countless sunsets; those in my parent's neighborhood as the sun set over the empty bluffs were amazing.  I've seen the sun set on the California coast and off the shores of Hawaii, where a dazzling white line skims the top of the sun as it sinks seemingly into the water.  But I may have seen one, maybe two sunrises, and these I don't remember.  

There seems to be a different look to a sunrise as compared to a sunset.  Sunrises are brighter, with more whites and pinks and grays reflecting off of the clouds, if any.  Sunsets are more orange and red and yellow and fade quickly into the dark that follows on its heels.  Both are beautiful, both stir something in the soul, both remind me of God's presence in the world.  

When I drive eastward towards the sunrise I am struck with the realization of how many things a person can miss when the box we have carved in the world stays closed.  What passes us by when we make no effort to change, to try, to succeed.  When I step out of my car into the chilly dawn air I realize that yes, I did wake before six in the morning, and yes, I have survived.   And then I wonder, what other things am I capable of?

Coming soon..."Could I Possibly Be Any Slower?!"

And So It Begins...

So I just got back from my first Thursday training run for the Two Cities Half Marathon.  I'm running with MASH-I don't remember what it stands for and am too lazy right now to check-but they (we, I suppose) are a group that is raising funds for Medical Ministries International.  This organization provides medical supplies and basic medical care to nations around the globe.  

The team meets on Saturdays for a long run, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays for training runs.  The Saturday run is the more important of the three, as this is where distance training takes place.  Tonight we did intervals, which is slow runs interspersed with sprinting.

I arrived at Rio Vista school at about 6:50pm, elated that the location was so close to where we live.  I'm used to getting in the car and driving for at least 20 minutes when attending church events or visiting friends.  This was a five minute drive!  Yay!  There were about four or five people milling in front of the bleachers that faced the track.  I walked over and introduced myself.

Now, let me be clear that I have never, ever, run a race before.  Not a 5k, 10k, not even a two mile walk/run.  I pray it was the Holy Spirit that possessed me to sign up for this.  The Spirit, and the opportunity of getting to wear a team t-shirt and experiencing the bond that comes with reaching a difficult goal.  

Everyone was very nice.  Most were beginning runners, one was a walker; one girl was young and relatively small (relative to me...I consider myself big bone-ded) and looked fast.  I talked to a few as we waited for the coaches.  

It was pleasant to see a familiar face come towards us...Shane H.  I had gone to junior high and high school with him, and later ran into him occasionally at People's.  He is now a pastor at Northpoint, and has as much energy now as he did then, according to one of the others.

So we began.  We walked, we ran, we jogged, we slogged.  I walked a bit in the beginning, then broke into a jog and tried to do a few intervals.  I have to say, the first mile or so was tough.  I think I started out too quickly and didn't warm up enough.  My breath was coming too fast and I felt like stopping after three laps.  Then I hit my stride and was able to run fairly well, with two or so walking breaks.  I was slow, but steady.  I quit with the intervals halfway through, because I wasn't going very fast on them anyway.  My legs were already tired from a hard run the day before, and refused to sprint.  I gladly complied.

But it was a great run.  I love it when it feels like my legs can go on running forever, even if pace is just a notch above walking.  I love the sweat, the effort.  I like the idea that I will be fitter, faster, and hopefully thinner next week, next month...and I wonder how my running will be in six months.  Will I be able to break an 11 minute per mile pace?  I didn't even know how fast I was running because I lost count of my laps after the third time around.  Will I be able to even finish 13.1 miles?  I've never gone more than 3.5 in my life.  Will I be able to even wake up early enough for the 6:30am (gasp!) Saturday runs?  

I like to think I'll do okay.  With God, lots of water and new shoes, I'll slog through.  And just might make a new friend or two along the way.

Until the next run...

Fitness Foray

I hated running when I was young.  To be specific, I hated running when it was a forced, timed, results based event, i.e., the twice yearly mile run.  I was introduced to this dreadful event in  junior high.  Around the small eighth of a mile track we had to slog eight times.  In high school, the track got bigger, the lap number smaller.  Four times around a seemingly huge rubbery oval.  

I also can't do a pull up.  Never could.  In elementary school we had the choice of doing a pull up, a flexed arm hang, or, for those of us who could do neither, a laying pull up, which involved laying on your back with your hands clasping a bar, and pulling your chin up to meet it.  Not fun.  I could do, say, three or four before I would get either tired or bored and stop.

I didn't mind the sit-ups or the sit and reach.  Both were fairly easy and quick to accomplish.  Most everyone knows about the sit-up.  I could do, say, forty or so in a minute. And the sit and reach...sitting on your hiney and stretching your arms across a marked board that measured flexibility was my type of exercise.  

This wasn't to say I was completely out of shape or had no athletic prowess.  I enjoyed sports; being a tomboy, I played my share of basketball, flag football, softball, and volleyball.  I was on the basketball team in fifth grade (although my esteemed career ended with the season,) on the softball and volleyball teams in sixth grade, then made the volleyball team in the seventh grade.  I loved to play, loved to move, and loved to chase.

I guess I just didn't like being graded on my fitness (or lack of.)

Fast forward twelve or so years.  I'm married, teaching in an incredibly emotionally wrenching assignment, and have just moved into a house...a house surrounded by empty fields that borders a canal running east to west.  A packed earthen path meanders through the fields, just right for an overweight, over stressed woman and her new walking partner, Cheswick.  Cheswick the dog was a stray.  As a puppy I found him nosing his way among the student's leftover lunches at the school I taught at.  He was about three months old when I called my husband and told him about "this puppy with floppy ears and big brown eyes".  "Bring him home," he said, surprising me no end.  And thus started a relationship that opened my eyes to the pleasures of fitness...of goals, running highs, itchy shins, and hopefully, a 5k race or triathlon someday.  

And the pull up?  I'm weight training now, and up to 15 and 20 pound weights.  But I have not attempted to do a pull up in years.  I can do 10 "guy style" push-ups and carry both girls for a short distance.  But I still don't know if I can spear the white whale of my fitness journey.  We'll see.  Stay tuned...

Well, in defense of breaking my once a week resolution...I've actually written a few things on Facebook, and write at least twice a week to my Hawaiian (Hawaiian as a resident, not a native) cousin, Stephanie.  And my emails to Stephanie are quite lengthy.  I seem to purge the writing bug through that outlet.  Then when it comes time to write a post ideas flit in and out of my head like tiny homeless birds.

I've been thinking, though, that I would like to try to put into words how music has affected and shaped my life.  Talk about lofty aspirations...how hard is that?  How does a person attempt to describe emotion, revelation, change?  To discuss the merits of Huey Lewis vs. Sting vs. U2?  To make another understand how I felt when singing Mozart's "Requiem" in college or when leading worship in the present day?  To convey the frustration of having dozens of poems and lyrics at the ready but lack the understanding of theory and composition to finish them?  

Maybe...slowly but surely, I'll let the words find the way.  Perhaps in the midst of all of this sorting, shaping, and revelation...I'll figure out how to finish those songs.  Perhaps I'll find the music hidden somewhere, deep in the memories of my past or in the hope of the future.  

Perhaps all I have to do is to simply give everything to God and try again.

Silencing the Inner Critic

Today on my walk with Cheswick I saw a sign taped to a streetlight on which was messily scrawled-"garage" "sale".  Yes, both words were in quotes.  I had to laugh to myself.  The misuse of quotes was readily apparent, and yet there the sign hung, drooping sadly on itself. 

As we continued our walk I reflected on other times I had seen quotation marks misused-mostly as attention getting devices ("huge" sale!).  Then I was reminded of some recent comments I had read on Facebook...usually with one person stating a pet peeve ("I can't stand the misuse of there/their/they're!") and another person agreeing ("I know!  How hard is it?")

One ironic post was of someone complaining about the incorrect use of "its" and "it's".  The comment stated boldly, "How hard is it too learn?" or something to that effect.  Hilarious, and yet so irritating.  I saw myself in those comments, quick to judge and yet as imperfect a writer as you could find.  The only person I would vent to when I noticed the occasional misspelled sign or poorly written article, however, was my husband.  And I was always careful to read and edit anything I wrote for fear of a misspelled word or misplaced quotation mark.

Seeing and reflecting on the garage sale sign helped me realize just how imperfect I am when it comes to punctuation, grammar, and sentence structure.  After all, a typical junior high English teacher would probably run out of red ink correcting the misuse of parenthesis and quotation marks in this short rumination.  Nowadays I'm careful about criticizing that with which I struggle myself, especially in a public forum.  I also have ceased wasting energy noting and commenting on other people's mistakes.  Don't we all struggle with something when it comes to the written word?  Whether you're feeling "good"or "bad" (are you going to give to the poor or torment a cat, then?) or telling your child to lay on the rug and lying the book on the table (I'm still not sure which is correct) or asking who or whom this pair of pants belongs to.  

When I achieve perfection in all I write or say I might resume being irked by other's mistakes.

Until then, I think I'll keep my inner editor to myself.

May I Ask You a Question...?

Two of my favorite questions to ask people are the quintessential probes into one's being.  The answers might reveal an abundance of useful information including clues to a person's personality, past, childhood environment, and degree of risk taking.  These two questions are, in order, "What's your favorite food?" and "What's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?"

I love these questions.  I love to ask them when in casual conversation with a person I've known for a while-after the superficial details of hobbies, tv shows, and books have been explored.  Usually the questions are met with a slight furrow of the brow but this quickly changes to thoughtfulness.  Then the answers are given with an enthusiasm bordering on passion...love, hate, nostalgia or even a detailed reminiscence of traveling in a foreign land.

What's your favorite food, and why?  What's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?  Some answer the first question with, "I don't know.  I don't have a favorite food." And I always wonder...is this because of the person's hesitance to make decisions?  Or does she just not know herself very well?  For me, food is such a deep-seated subject, rooted in the very fabric of our being.  It encompasses childhood comfort and sustenance, it gives us the very elements needed to survive.  But beyond that, our favorites and the risks we might take when trying new foods bring to light aspects of our personalities we might never know were there.

Have you ever had menudo?  For a lot of us "menudo" conjures up images of the teenybopper boy band of the eighties...five Latino adolescents with winged hair and fancy shirts that sold their brand of pop around the world.  But the REAL menudo...the classic Mexican tomato based soup of tripe, hominy and spices is one of my all time favorite soups.  Spicy, rich and complex, this dish defines a region of the world to me.  The chewy tripe, grainy hominy, and the classic accoutrements-cilantro, white onion, sometimes the bite and sharp heat of jalepenos.  I love the salty broth, the tender hominy.  

It would seem like an odd choice for an Americanized Asian woman.  But living in Fresno, one does not want for great Mexican food.  

And this brings another memory to mind.  One of tasting a spicy sauce so full of complex flavor that I couldn't get enough.  I was teaching in Madera Unified School District at a little school called Ripperdan.  The student population was predominantly Hispanic, and a majority of those were second language learners.  There were also several Hispanic teachers and aides who worked at the school, some for decades.  It was in this environment that I got my first taste of chicharrones, or fried pork skins, simmered in a dark red sauce.  I believe it was meant to be an accompaniment or a filling for a burrito but I found it to be so tasty I ate mostly chicharrones for the entire meal.

It's memories like these that make us who we are as humans who buy, create, cook and consume food.  Our favorite meals usually consist of great food and people, laughter and sometimes, tears.  Breakfasts of pancakes and sausage in the late morning light of a Saturday.  Eating turkey and stuffing off of fine china in a formal dining room or from a reinforced paper plate teetering on a lap.  Backyard bar-b-ques with sizzling German sausage and burgers mixed well with Lipton soup mix.  Rice porridge soup with soy sauce, white pepper and raw fish to be mixed into the steaming hot liquid.  The fish cooks as it sits in the soup and adds a delicate flavor.  Scrumptious.

So what's your favorite food, and what's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?  I can claim chicken feet, black fungus, and jellyfish as some stand outs.  And I've never even traveled off the continent, unless you count Hawaii, where I've sampled fish jerky and seaweed, shaved ice with red beans, poke and puu puu.

Think about what you eat, what you've eaten, and what you hope to eat next.  Be adventurous.  Try something you thought you never would, then see if it becomes a fixture in your life.  See if it makes a memory or becomes a family tradition.  See if it takes you somewhere you've never been and makes you constantly wanting to go back.

Ah, the memories.  Mmmm...the food.

Resolution

Hopefully posting the link on Facebook will encourage me to write more.  Once a day, once a week...I think the exercise will do me some good.  Of course, I'm only writing this now so I can have something posted for January.  I'm already one week behind!  But I am resolving to write once a week starting...NOW!

Poems-95

For Tony

There is nothing luscious as the sleep

all black and white surrounds

but for familiar darts of flash

and naked violet sounds

unless the stirring of the larks

sing praises in the sky

then nothing is as precious as

when tiny flutters fly

unless a looming stand of green

does bend in violent strain

then I'll not hope to see no more

of pine in winter rain

but what about my living love

he of transparent eye

the one who pleases while he's pleased

and gathers me to cry

I know I'll never more than want

himself so close to mine

much more than thousand roses red

or perfect rhyming line.

Spent in Silence

This was inspired by my American Literature class at CSUF around 1994.

I wonder why my voice sounds kind of crackly when I ask the guy waiting next to me about the Lit. class I missed last week.  It comes to me after I sit down at a desk in the darkened room.  I realize, a bit proudly, that I have spoken but five words the whole day.  Imagine that.  I think of my vocal chords sitting in the darkness of my throat, white and shiny, unmoving.  The rhythmic air of breath, and water, and potato have passed over them but still they stay, quiet.

A girl takes the seat next to me.  "What movie was it?" she asks.

"I'm not sure.  I was thinking maybe Il Postino."  I run the words through my head even as I speak them, counting them, hoping to break some sort of non existent record.  Fourteen.  Fourteen words in five hours.  

Mr. Y walks in then, a large stack of papers under his arm.  Hemley, I think.  I take to drawing on the Insight to pass the time he takes passing out the stories.  I give Professor Kapoor a hat for his head, Mahatma Ghandi, sunglasses.  They both look better, I think.

All the while Mr. Y is sprawled at the front of the room talking, drawling out his mesmerizing Mississippi accent.  A writing assignment, I think with excitement, then drop into the surface of disappointment when I find it's technical, not creative.

You want to write creative? I admonish myself.  Take his creative writing class.  I scratch in my journal some interesting Mississippi pronunciations.  "Tee-yews-dee" for Tuesday.  "Skyewl" for school.  Still, I do not speak.  I do not participate.

Have I ever spoken in this class?  I think.  Once, maybe twice, a while ago.  The first time I gave the definition of "alliteration".  Maybe only once.  I can't think of the other.

I listen with interest the first story Mr. Y reads, about furniture on a lawn in the dark.  I imagine the girl with wispy dark hair, big eyes.  The boy is younger, skinny and pale.  The man walks with a swagger, a determined swagger, bent with the weight of the bag.  He says his words with a measured air of "I don't care what happens.  Everything from this point on doesn't matter."

After the story I listen with half an ear to the discussion.  I really want to read Hemley but am not so rude as to flip through the pages.  I imagine my vocal chords again, bored at inactivity.  They are used to singing every day, strained and painful, but challenged.

What's not a short story? the discussion continues.  A narrative that is idea or subject driven.  There is no character development, it is not character driven.

My attention is pulled again when Mr. Y announces he is going to read one of his own short stories.  Finally.  The stories in the Norton Anthology are dead to me.  This will be a live story.  Mr. Y is asked if he's nervous.

"Not at all," he says.  "My throat's just dry.  It happens sometimes."

I listen as he reads, hearing for the first time in class a writer's own voice in his own story.  Soon I'm engrossed in the words.

A noise behind me startles me out of concentration.  I glance behind me, and there a man sits half asleep, head on chest, snores issuing from the nose.  Another snore, and I'm needlessly embarrassed as more kids turn their heads.  Their faces brighten at the recognition of the sound, at the sight of the man's head resting against the wall now, mouth half open, eyes closed.  They look from me to him, pleased amusement on their faces, as I were his sister or girlfriend and somehow connected with his sleep.

Mr. Y continues to read, either unaware or knowing and not caring.  I think of the irony of the situation.  Mr. Y would not be embarrassed.  He would make a joke, perhaps, and continue to read.  I think of all the words he's saying, all of the words he's said, all of the ones he will.  Hundreds, maybe even thousands.  I think of fourteen.  Fourteen.  I think of emotions without words.

I think, how many people can get through a school day without saying but fourteen words?  Not many.  Not many at all.  Especially not Mr. Y.

On Being a Mom

When you were born, our bodies melded to yours.  Our minds knew your thoughts, our hands discovered and remembered every fold, every wrinkle, every curve of your newborn belly.  Our lives changed, for the better, became far more difficult and yet indescribably joyful.  When you were born, we became Mom.

Now, in this season of newborn, toddler, preschooler, and big kid, our hearts, minds, and hands are still yours.  We wake in the night to nourish you, we forgo sleep to comfort you, we trek about our city to entertain you.  We anguish over decisions, some big, some seemingly inconsequential, and yet we seem to know that each decision made will have a lasting impression on these children we call our own.  

We work outside the home if we need to, we stay home and work if we want to, we scour friends and relatives for the perfect caretaker to care for the precious lives entrusted to us.  We cry as we leave, we laugh when we return, we cherish every moment we have together.

We nap (sometimes) but only when you nap.  We clean (begrudgingly) so that our homes will be fit for play.  We scrub, we sweep, we dust, we vacuum, we wipe, we chase bugs and spiders and scrape Play-Doh off the rug.  We labor, for love is not only the ease of cuddles and kisses. We work for the soundness of us.

We give our souls to God and hope and pray that you will do the same.  We teach, for the most part by example, and sometimes with words.  We repeat Bible verses and get you to church on time.  We grow in His love and in our love for each other.

And at times, when sickness falls and lays a veil of stress and worry over our usually peaceful homes, we rise to the occasion.  We take you to bed with us, diligently administer every drop of medicine prescribed, and offer fizzy drinks usually reserved for special times.  And sometime, someday, if one of you is called to heaven before us, a little piece of our hearts will break off and fly up to heaven with you, for we will always be your mom, wherever we are.

Now, as time passes and the shadows of "pre-teen" and "adolescence" grow larger in the sunshine of this season, we must remember to stop and watch.  Watch your baby walk, watch her chunky little feet pad on the rug as she chases the ball.  Watch your big girl, as she changes her clothes and washes her hair for the first time.  Watch as they struggle, watch as they play, for these times are made for memories.  It is impossible to keep every phase cemented in the recesses of your mind, every feeling of these moments locked in your heart.  So watch, and pray, and give thanks.

We are strong, we are tired, we love and are loved.  We forget, we remember, we live for others before ourselves.  Our arms grow tired from rocking, our feet grow tired from chasing.

And yet, we continue on.

We are Mom.  

Genesis (2005)

Like a brilliant sea of white

God brought forth the light

He cast the dark and shadows off

fleeing from His sight

and like a potter at the wheel

God brought forth a man

shaped and formed an image He

blessed it with His hand

and like the luster of a pearl

a helper, woman, Eve

beauty gentle, curved and new

her love his heart received

and like a serpent's tongue did he

taste the sweetness of the tree

and watched the fall-humanity

sprawl upon the earth

but like a servant king divine

He lived and loved, a Savior mine

upon the cross, the sacrifice

death and then-rebirth

Excerpts from "How Prince Eldridge Got His Own"

Ms. Eloise Jackson

My boy stands with a proud, straight back against the foul smell of indignity.

He likes to play saint.

He sings the song of a free man, the song full of chariots and shouts of "Lawd, Lawd!"

He paints pictures in the sky for his momma, pictures dripping with the lush colors of sweet air, earth, and time.

He sings, like I said, but as no one else on this living earth can sing: deep, magnificent, belting tones that fly into the air like the rush of rain under clouds and over dust-just as loud, just as wet.

My boy carries with him half of me and half of his daddy.  His daddy, a black man, as black as the thoughts some men will carry, (if not on their sleeves than in their elusive hearts) loved me as his own, loved me as in the Song of Songs.

"Your eyes are doves," he'd said to me, "my doves in the clefts of the rock."

And I loved him, oh yes, my man! I loved him as my own.

And my baby boy came to me through an etch of stained glass, like the light that warms a room, like the light that gathers dust, forever changed because of the color it pushes between.  But it is beautiful.  I would stare at the color, the warm tinge of his skin, the deep deathless eyes, the straight black pins that are eyelashes, and remember a perfect love, such as I had.

No, my boy can do no wrong.

My boy sits on the rocking stone, staring, hearing the rancor mouths around him, patiently gathering and dropping every slur, every laugh, every sting into a grave dug fresh every day.

He does not know I know.  He does not know I share it with him.

For the day I allowed young Theodore Howe to love me my skin darkened, too.  It struggles, too, through glass stained red, yellow, and blue, and yes, black; stained and swirling into a menagerie too bold to imagine.  Too bold to see.

Do you know this boy?  Do you know how I struggle with you?

My boy sits now on a stilled stone, staring at bars that don't break under the emotion of those within.  My boy, my boy, He knows, don't you see?  Are you holding to Him, like you held to me?  He knows, he forgives, and He sees...my boy.

Sing it like the free man you are.

"When Paul and Silas were bound in jail,

do thy a-self no harm

one did pray and the other did sing,

do thy a-self no harm..."

I sit with you, Leroy.  I sit with you, and I am dark, like you.  I am proud, like you, I sing well, like you; I swim in hope that's a tepid-still pond, like you.

No, my boy can do no wrong.

If he can see his momma as she sees him now, ignore the salt water that streaks this face, ignore the wringing of the towel under trembling hands.  My body is of no consequence.  My body bore yours, and this body would lie down for you.  This body would wail for you.

Boy, stand straight to the eyes of those who are looking in.  Make no judgement of them, make no judgement of yourself.  Let the Lord judge, He who is the only one who may judge.   Wait and hope for me, my boy, your tired old momma, your sad old momma, straw purse in one hand, white gloves in the other, brown hat on her head.

Your momma is coming soon, boy, wait for me on your tired feet.

Wait for me on your tired feet, boy, your momma is coming soon.

Poems-95

Awe

Cast away, prideful moon

her boastful beauty, plaintive

on the arm of night

her lip's breath halting and indulgent.

Turn deliberate away

from gallant sun, giver to us

the presence of bright,

where light touches and moves

silently mocking creation.

Sing praise then, of the Invisible

unlike his ashen movement

her glowing dullness.

Praise of what is felt but ungrasped

whose absence of material

speaks humbly volumes of greatness.

Do not entrust in dipped wisps of white

cluttering above both day and night

nor the one with heat consumes 

and while alive sustains life

(unlike death, which is the price of life)

but rather He who raises death

"come forth!"

sweeps its threat aside

and suffered us His suffering more

laid beside night,

awoke with the gallant sun

one times three times one

and saved us from ourselves.

A Better View

The Bible says “do not be conformed any longer to the patterns of the world,  but be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2).   Transform and renew.  Do not live in the world, the world of narcissism and conceit,  vanity and pride.  Live separately but cohesively.  Be a Samaritan in a world of Levites.

 A tall order for the likes of me.

 I do not consider myself a nonconformist in any sense of the label.   But perhaps it is something I aspire to be.  By this I mean true uniqueness.  Is it possible to live in a way that totally breaks the established mores, norms, and values of society?  To be a true and complete entity apart from the rest of humanity? Yes, there are people who eschew the morals and boundaries of society, there are those who wear green pants with red striped shirts, there are those that listen to obscure music and call themselves nonconformist.  But are they really? 

 In Japan, conformity is the rule.  Businessmen wear business suits,  girls and boys wear uniforms to school, grown women cover their mouths with their hands when they laugh.  Young women and men wear trendy clothes and chat or text on the ubiquitous cell phone.  But on Sunday,  in Tokyo, these same women and men, in the name of nonconformity,   make a statement about their identities and their existence in the safest and sanest possible way.  On Sundays,  on a busy downtown street,  there can be seen people dressed in the most outlandish garb.  Women in white bridal gowns and bright red lipstick.  Men with spiked green hair and leather dog collars circling their necks.  Cat costumes,  clowns, and those who prefer the all black scheme.  All this because of the suffocating, drowning, fading feeling of being a very small voice in an enormous choir.  It must feel as if no one can hear you no matter how loud you try to sing.  Better to sing off key than to blend in, unnoticed.

 

But this is not the type of nonconformist I strive to be.  I gladly wear the same clothes, watch the same TV shows, and eat the same (comparatively) food most of my family and friends do.  The nonconformity I strive for is nonconformity of the mind, the heart, the spirit.  Like Jesus at the well.  Martin Luther and his 98 Theses.  Plato and his theory of a “round earth”.  Martin Luther King on the steps of the Washington Monument.

 Now, this is not to say that I am comparing myself in any way to these who have shifted the paradigms of the world.  I am saying that “if I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants”.  I am the first to admit that I am an extremely small voice in a very big choir.  But perhaps by emulating those that came before me, I can find a way to make my voice a little louder, a little stronger.

 Perhaps someday I can even sing a solo.

Poems-1995

I wrote these in a frenzy in the spring semester of '95 when I was at CSU Fresno.  

Lightening lit his pallor

and thunder followed as scripted

line by line

and slowly

he lived his life as meant to be

Mr. Majors did not fly

only drove

passed all manors of distinction 

and lived his life as meant to be

His run slowed to shuffle

as blackbirds and rain

dented once a myriad 

of defenses

He depleted stores 

of normalcy

Mr. Wiggles pointed fun

and flaunted paper dolls

both whole and torn

but dolls nonetheless

He waggled and shook tail feathers

secure in the knowledge 

that he knew the all and everything

in his mind he made lightening cower

and thunder follow forked treble clefs

but never lived his life as

he meant his life to be

Mr. Majors met Mr. Wiggles

one day among ten million

and peaked curiosity 

circled each,

sniffing

both convinced he

of the vibrant bloom

or thick cocoon

lived the life of 

Calvary