Wish You Were Here

Why is it that "absence makes the heart grow fonder"? Is it the lack of our partner's snoring or the way he leaves the sponge full of water in the kitchen sink, that allows us to focus only on our favorite parts? The way his eyes smile, the way he smells, the sweetness of his words and touch? 

I woke to the sound of waves crashing on the beach and peered out my window beyond the lit sand path and into the darkness. I laid back in bed and listened to the waves, just audible over the whir of the air conditioning unit, and felt a sense of having dreamed this moment and place before. 

I prepared a cup of coffee as light started to filter onto the water and the cicadas began to overpower all other sounds. I sprayed myself down with citronella and walked barefoot onto the wooden porch with my coffee cup and saucer, and sat listening to the cicadas and the waves in the warm, damp air. I took my second cup down to the water's edge, just steps from my bungalow, and took photos as the sun struggled to peek out from behind storm clouds. Stray dogs and people sauntered by while several swimmers played in the water in front of anchored fishing boats.

It's something to have someone back home that makes you excited to leave paradise and return to his waiting arms. 

I dropped off my empty cup in my bungalow and walked along the beach looking for a better vantage point for my photos. I stepped off the sandy beach and onto the rocky shoreline that looped around the island. A crab scurried across a rock and reminded me of the book "Beachcombing at Miramar". A young man with a fishing pole joined me on the rocks. 

It started to rain, so I slowly made my way back to my private bungalow where my brightly colored swimsuit stood out on the wood decking, drying from yesterday's snorkel. The cool air felt soothing as I stepped into my room and sat on my bed, looking out the sliding doors to the ocean. My phone displayed 22 new messages and I responded to the only one that mattered. 

"It would be awesome if you were here."

"As long as I was with you."

2 am and beyond...

2 am is no friend of mine, but we've been seeing a lot of each other lately. My neighbor's ceiling fan has finally stopped sending pulsed humming noises into my bedroom, which I've been laying awake listening to for days. It has also stopped raining, which I laid awake listening to for two days. I don't remember if the rain coincided with the ceiling fan.

I'm pretty sure my neighbor has tuberculosis. His cough is terrible and it's been going on at least since he moved in a couple months ago. My mind drifts to any and all circulation vents in my apartment. I decide I'm closed off from his apartment, and let it go. Him and his wife also have a child. A small baby. One with high pitched shrieks that they endlessly coo to in an effort to silence it.

My neighbor snores. I'm jealous that's he's asleep.

A friend said "Text me if you're awake at 2 am, I probably will be too." But I don't. I don't because as I lay in bed awake at 2 am, I think about whether or not I could make it to the gym, and still get cleaned up in time for my doctor's appointment that would precede the class I'm teaching, which I don't have the homework graded for.... or actually the quizzes either, and all of that needs to be done before noon, and holy shit I need to get stuff done for my internship as my performance has been drastically sliding. I have to study for my oral quiz tomorrow in Japanese class, and I start doing calculations... and I start panicking, and I start crying. And I could text him and ask if he's awake and I could tell him that my stress level is so high that I'm crying and I don't know if I'm going to make it, and I picture his response "Don't worry, it's going to be ok."

And that is exactly what I cannot bear to hear right now. Telling someone who feels like things are definitely not ok, that things are going to be ok, is like telling a burning person that their feet are not on fire.

Well I don't know if it's exactly like that.

People with "real" anxiety tell me not to stress about it. It's not worth it. "Just let it go". And I wonder where in my life I went wrong that people assume that I should always be ok. That I can just decide to turn off my stress and anxiety.

My advisor is returning tomorrow night and I've done exactly zero with my thesis since he left. I'm editing a paper for a visiting foreign professor and I'm a page and a half into eight pages, and hoping two of those pages are references.

I think about going for a swim, but it's cold here and the pools are outdoor. The indoor pool a block from my apartment doesn't open until 8 am. I think about the indoor pool at 24 Hour Fitness in San Diego and how I could roll out of bed right now, step onto the warm pool deck in my bare feet, air thick with chlorine and high humidity, let my body be wrapped in the tepid water, and listen to the sloshing in my ears. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, flip at the wall, brief silence, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.....

Ok, so then can you make it to the gym? But I don't want to go to the gym and it doesn't open until 5 am. You can clean the bathroom, that'll give you a dose of chlorine and check one more thing off your massive list.

I refuse to clean my bathroom at 3 am. I get up and take two Tylenol.

I could continue grading. I could work on my code for my internship. Maybe I could even do something wild and crazy like work on my thesis.

I roll over and put my arms over my face. What I really want is to sleep. I am exhausted. I am annoyed by the people who suggest that I just turn off my stress, my panic, my anxiety.

What are you going to do with that spinach you bought? You were going to scramble it with eggs, but you boiled the eggs, and you didn't get any other vegetables for salad. It's just going to sit in the refrigerator and go bad. Really. I'm stressing about spinach now. Please just go to sleep.

It's now approaching 4 am. At 4:45, my coffee pot will click on and start gurgling and dripping. Coffee aroma will drift into my room and I will consider getting up. I will instead doze off. My alarm will go off at 5:30 am and I will be jolted into blurry confusion.

I consider telling my doctor I can't sleep. The last time I saw my doctor she suggested I cut back on, and possibly completely stop, caffeine. For a not very good reason that I won't get in to. I can only imagine her stance on the topic if I told her I'm not sleeping between 2 and 5 am. How do you tell an insomniac not to drink coffee in the morning? I generally do not drink caffeine after 3 pm and I'm at about 3 cups a day, so I don't think coffee is the problem.

I stare up at the ceiling in the darkness and brainstorm about what makes me feel sleepy. All of this. Feeling sleepy is not the problem. I'm sleepy, I'm tired, I'm exhausted. My rapid heart rate, racing thoughts, and overall feeling of distress, is the problem. Just let it go. It's going to be ok. My agitation is the problem. My brain is the problem.

And now I'm staring at a computer screen (with computer glasses on, thank you) at 4 am on a Tuesday, and this week is just going to have its way with me.

Trail of tears

Last year, a fellow grad student suggested I print out a one year calendar (all on one page) and cross off each day I worked on my thesis. She got the idea from a website on accomplishing goals. So over the summer, I did just that. I did fairly well over the summer. When school started back up again, I was too overwhelmed with classes and work to get anything done on my thesis.

I printed out a new 2017 calendar. January was sporadic. There are no X's in February. 

After a merciless week, I have finally sat down at my desk on campus to work on my thesis (after hearing for the last couple weeks from my advisor that I'm lagging behind). 

I think I'm going to go ahead and mark on my calendar the days that I have sat down in front of my data, cried, and put it away. I think shedding tears over your thesis should count as productive days. 

I started out on Elle King Radio on Pandora. After having far too much bitter coffee from Peet's downstairs, the upbeat, sassy nature of the station was too much to handle. I switched to Ray LaMontagne Radio. Shawn Mendes was whining for mercy. Thumbs down. The rain pattered against the window and all 173 issues with my thesis came crashing down on me.

"As I'm Leaving" (David Grey) came on. If anyone has seen Ladder 49, that's where they're having the funeral for John Travolta's character and it's raining, his wife is grieving, it's just really sad. But the song is actually beautiful. 

I grieved for John Travolta for a couple minutes until my advisor showed up and took the rest of my scotch for his meeting with the dean. 

Zero progress on my thesis. But plenty of tears shed. 

My notes are spread out across my desk. I have no idea what to focus on. 

Sacramento is not showing northeast wind events. I can hardly remember why it is I'm supposed to care. I don't even know how to Google what it is I'm supposed to do to fix my plots that a visiting professor said were "meaningless". You have to rotate the axis into the winds... 

Maybe I shall make a flow chart of how to progress with my thesis. A road map if you will.

Or Google a new scotch to try.

If Something Should Ever Happen...

I just got back from Japan... and came home to chaos. Chaos that I knew was coming. Maybe I'll post more on Japan later. I got so busy trying to see so much in such little time, that I didn't have time to write about it.

I went to Japan because I felt the US plummeting. I needed to see the temples that gave birth to the Buddhist temples here. My temple.

I went to Hiroshima, to pay my respects and to learn. I have literally hundreds of pictures from Japan, but for this post, I'm going to only share a couple, because it's what's on my mind.

This photo:

With this explanation:

On September 11th, of 2001, I drove my dad to work in his jeep because my vehicle was in the shop. We listened to KGB on the radio, and heard the reports of the attacks. I asked my dad if it was for real. "Shh... let me hear this".

Campus let us out early that morning. America was under attack. It was a scary time. People left notes in New York trying to find each other... for days, weeks.

My dad and I discussed what we would do if something ever happened and we were separated. Phones wouldn't work and we'd have no way of getting in touch, no way of letting each other know we were alive.

We made a pact to meet at Bud Kearns, where I swam. Or to leave a note on the building.

As I stared at the photo of the Japanese writing in Hiroshima, I immediately thought of my dad and our promise to each other. To find each other.

I watch our country crumble now and think about what my dad would say.

When I was young... less than 10 years old I would guess, we sat in line at the Mexican border and I saw a couple guys scaling the border fence. Having only heard my mother's take on the issue, I said "Dad, do you see that?"

"They're just trying to make a better life for themselves, Carrie".

I am so thankful for the influence my dad had on me. How he chased out some of the ugliness my mother taught me. How he softened my heart a little. My dad, the science lover, the feminist (a topic for another post, maybe tomorrow), the humanist.

And as I travel the world and get ready to set out on another adventure, I know I am forever trying to find my dad. And I know I will never find him. Maybe that's not true. When I let go. When I stop trying and stop thinking and stop fighting, I realize he's right with me. In my heart, my thoughts, my mannerisms. He is the mold that made me.

Wild Creatures

Lucky for me, they cut one of my ribs out... just below the collar bone. And every once in awhile, my heart can squeeze out in the newly created space, like jail bars pried apart.

Sometimes at night, when I can't sleep, I lay on my left side and place my right hand under my left armpit. I can feel my heart quiver in its cage, and the first time I felt that, I thought there was something wrong with me. It's not a heartbeat I'm feeling, it's the actual contraction of the ventricles, then the atria, and somehow I can feel the whole thing. I guess it's normal. I place my hand under my ribs and feel it flutter as if it's living a life of its own. And maybe it is. Like a stranger living in my own body.

Maybe I should introduce myself. We could become friends.

That wild thing with wild ideas.

Far Away Places and Forgotten Times

It's Thursday night- not like the days of the week matter in between semesters- and I'm listening to Ray LaMontagne Radio on Pandora, drinking wine. It might as well be Friday, or Monday, or Wednesday. I try to stick to a routine as I do best while following a routine, but it's hard to get up at 5am when you know you don't really have to be somewhere at a certain time.

The rain has been keeping me up. And every time I'm lying awake listening to the rain, I think about Matchbox20's song, 3am- "She only sleeps when it's raining".. and I can only think.... she doesn't sleep when it's raining....

So I listen to the rain and toss and turn. It's a good thing California doesn't get much rain (don't quote me), otherwise I wouldn't sleep.

I got zero of my thesis done today. But sometimes that happens. And it sounds like my advisor has several back up plans in case I don't graduate this semester. I'm trying not to freak out when things don't go exactly to plan.

A song comes on and I'm reminded of eating fancy dinners at the Blackbird Cafe in Black Mountain, NC with Crystal. We were on a winter hotshot crew, earning summer wages during the winter, which was new to us Californians. So we lived it up. We ate at expensive restaurants and stayed in fancy hotels (at a government discount rate) when we needed a break from the crew. We got facials.

Another song comes on and I'm reminded of Ireland with Corey. And I would definitely go back. Soft days...nearly every day.

I was turned on to Ray LaMontagne while helping Gwen paint a mural of trees and owls on the guestroom wall. The songs make me calm and sad at the same time. I think maybe they made me feel in love when I indeed was actually in love. But being single, they mostly make me feel alone, though not in an incredibly bad way. More in the way of standing in a room, hanging photos or painting a wall- making life your own when it's only your own. 

Mostly my memories of far away places are alone, and I'm okay with that. I frequently get a longing for a place I've been- that comfort that comes with being in a totally strange place, where you can't possibly be expected to keep your shit together. And being lost and confused is expected and acceptable.

I'm leaving for Japan on Monday, and I don't speak Japanese, which makes me a little nervous. But my longing for strange places is so natural that being lost is being at home. I must have a gypsy soul.

Hard Women

Today was my first speedwork run of the new training season, which made it more miserable than usual. Not to mention I'm aiming for a slightly faster speed than I've ever done the repeats. In my head I was going to do 3x1mi repeats, but when I checked the calender, it said 4x1mi repeats. Bah!

On my last repeat, as misery was overtaking me, I thought about the poem by Brenna Twohy.

"& did you know
this is how we evolve?
Hunted girls
grow shells
& they call us
'hard women.' "

I thought about when a man is chasing you, you don't get to slow down just because you're tired.

I thought about how, years ago when I was on an engine crew, there was a guy who took a liking to me. He told the other guys on my crew, who proceeded to try to hook me up with him. They told me he wished I was more feminine though. That struck me as odd. If you already want to change me, don't think I'm going to give you a chance.

But as a small female, I have been targeted as prey by men on several occasions. I've been lucky in that taking an aggressive stance and shouting has led them to back off. So far.

I used to run the mountain roads alone at work in the morning. They say that if a mountain lion comes at you, you're supposed to get real big, wave your arms, and shout. Making myself as large and intimidating as possible has saved me from many dog attacks. Turning to square off with two large cows one time saved me from god knows what.

But there I was, 27 years old, and a man was saying I should be more feminine.

More delicate.

"As if survival
could ever be delicate."

When I was 16, I was followed home from school on more than one occasion. I have been chased by men on my runs... on a busy road or bike path... in the middle of the day. I've had to shove men away in clubs and bars. A man in Belize charged across the street at me until I squared up with him and shouted "Hey! No!", after which he followed me down the street shouting obscenities at me.

How am I supposed to make myself smaller, and more delicate, when that would certainly make me even more of a target than I already am? This world has made clear to me that I am not big enough, not strong enough, not intimidating enough.

"& they call us
'hard women.' "

A friend of mine was attacked a couple years ago on a run Christmas morning. Her injuries weren't too bad, but psychologically it damaged her for quite some time. She now does Krav Maga (self defense developed for the Israeli Defense Forces). She's smaller than me. She's had to make herself hard too. She just got her orange belt, and I've never been so proud. After being attacked, it took months before she could even run again because she was terrified. And people judge her for doing this aggressive training. I don't get it.

I took a self-defense class years ago when I was an undergrad. They tell you that being aggressive can sometimes convince a would-be attacker that you're not worth the effort. A girl in Belize was surprised that I follow that line of thinking, because I might come across as a bitch.

I would rather be a bitch than dead.

I would rather be muscular and intimidating than a delicate flower whose throat a man could crush with just one squeeze.

And so I press on.
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I Guess I'll Tell It Like This
by Brenna Twohy
did you know
sand dollars grow heavier skeletons
in rough water?

& did you know
young sand dollars
can't make themselves heavy enough
so they eat pebbles
to weigh their bodies down?

& did you know
the things
that
I
have
swallowed
just to keep this body
safe from the current?

& did you know
when I say the current
I mean
this body;

& did you know
there is a man
I can only talk about in metaphor,
the way his tattoos
make an avalanche
of my mouth

(even now)

& did you know
there are whole years
I have dropped
to the bottom of an uneasy ocean;

& did you know
this is how we evolve?
Hunted girls
grow shells
& they call us
"hard women."

As if survival
could ever be delicate.

As if we haven't been chewing rocks
for generations.

As if we haven't been rebuilding
our own bones.
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