We're all adults now. Grown-ups doing grown-up things: getting married, paying bills, having babies, trying to make grown-up decisions instead of embracing the bad.
The sunlight catches the drops of water on my goggles and makes them shimmer different shades of gold. The water feels the same splashing in my face as I watch the lane line and try to swim straight. I'm slower now. I have a little fat that sticks out of my suit. My shoulders don't tolerate half as much.
I was reading an article on older athletes- in their 40's, 50's, 60's... and even 80's. It occurred to me that I was once a 20 year old- faster, slimmer, with a body that could take much more abuse. It also occurred to me that I will one day be 40. Then 60. Eventually (maybe) 80. Which actually means that I might have quite a few years left in me (should I be blessed to live into old age). I could be an amazing athlete at 60 years old. Maybe I will.
I will never be that 20 year old again. While I miss that young athleticism that's far more available to youth, I do not miss being that young. I would like to keep this mind and heart, but take my 20 year old body.
But you run marathons! , you might say. And yes. At 35, I am indeed young. But just old enough to realize what's behind me. And what's ahead of me- if I do it right. People wonder why I work out like I do. Pushing myself when I'm busy enough as it is.
Because one day I will be 80 years old. And I will never get to return to today. I will never be 35 again. Time moves in one direction, always forward. Today will be lost forever. This morning is already gone. Forever.
So I went to the gym this morning, then I went for a swim. I even did a little butterfly. And right now I'm not as fast as I used to be, but I'm stronger. I'm smarter. I'm a little wiser. And I'm far more patient. Being in the water takes me back to when I was younger. Half my age now. I still like to duck just under the water- exactly to the spot where the light reflecting off the bottom of the pool casts a mirror image of everything under the water. I look up and see the black line going down the middle of the lane. I still like to exhale with my mouth just slightly above the surface, and it makes a wet wooshing sound that reminds me of a walrus, or a dolphin surfacing and clearing out its blow hole. The lifeguard looks at me funny. Doesn't everyone do this? I thought we all did.
And I still poke my head up onto the deck to stare at my towel, and how far away it is, when it's time to get out. With fingers clinging to the edge of the pool, I contemplate how cold it is outside, and how cold I will get just waiting here, staring at my towel. I finally get out and get wrapped up, shivering from the cold, and stand in the sun as I dry off. I zip up my old parka (that still fits, because hey- it was always oversized) and feel the moist heat get trapped in against my torso. It is such a soothing feeling. The pungent smell of chlorine gets trapped there, and I smell it when I move.
I get taken back- for a few seconds, every once in awhile. It's gone, I know. But I'm here now, and I have things to do, and I'm not going to let these days just slip by. Because they too, will be gone one day, irrevocably. The water still soothes my body and blocks out the rest of the world when I dive under and silently swim to the other side, watching my shadow all the way.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Monday, October 26, 2015
Who reads this crap?
I started this blog on March 24, 2008. This is my 356th post. You can see stats about people reading your blog, although I'm not sure how accurate it really is. At some point last year, my blog views sky-rocketed. At least in my opinion. I don't know what a good number is for this sort of thing. It's a public blog, but I never thought anyone but my close friends and family would ever read it. To date, I have had 14,027 views.
I also get to see where the traffic sources are coming from. My biggest fans are apparently in France. To my knowledge, I do not know anyone in France. Next on the audience list is the United States, which makes sense, followed by Russia, then Italy, and then one lone person in Portugal.
What is truly horrifying is which posts receive the most attention. Omg, can you believe people all over the world are reading about how I was convinced (because I had too much time on my hands) that the hospital had sent me home with someone else's rib when I requested to keep the one that was removed from my body? I actually called the hospital and asked if it was possible the lab had mixed the two up. After consulting some anatomy books and Candace's wise mother, it was decided that it was indeed my rib. That post has received 256 page views. Hopefully all by the same 3 people. Just many times.
My most viewed pages have been about food. I can relate to that.
And then there was the post about me trying to run while bogged down with allergies, allergy medications, and too much coffee. Why on earth is that my most viewed post? Strangely, that was when Russia really jumped up on the audience list. I had to re-read the post to be sure I wasn't posting anything that could lead to any sort of international tensions.
I started this blog as a way to share travel stories and such with my family instead of sending out a mass email or letter or whatever I did the first big trip out of the country. While the traffic has certainly picked up in the last year or two, the blog views average out to about 1,800 per year. That's really interesting considering most of my blogs are random musings...such as this one.
I mean really, who reads this stuff?
I also get to see where the traffic sources are coming from. My biggest fans are apparently in France. To my knowledge, I do not know anyone in France. Next on the audience list is the United States, which makes sense, followed by Russia, then Italy, and then one lone person in Portugal.
What is truly horrifying is which posts receive the most attention. Omg, can you believe people all over the world are reading about how I was convinced (because I had too much time on my hands) that the hospital had sent me home with someone else's rib when I requested to keep the one that was removed from my body? I actually called the hospital and asked if it was possible the lab had mixed the two up. After consulting some anatomy books and Candace's wise mother, it was decided that it was indeed my rib. That post has received 256 page views. Hopefully all by the same 3 people. Just many times.
My most viewed pages have been about food. I can relate to that.
And then there was the post about me trying to run while bogged down with allergies, allergy medications, and too much coffee. Why on earth is that my most viewed post? Strangely, that was when Russia really jumped up on the audience list. I had to re-read the post to be sure I wasn't posting anything that could lead to any sort of international tensions.
I started this blog as a way to share travel stories and such with my family instead of sending out a mass email or letter or whatever I did the first big trip out of the country. While the traffic has certainly picked up in the last year or two, the blog views average out to about 1,800 per year. That's really interesting considering most of my blogs are random musings...such as this one.
I mean really, who reads this stuff?
Frowny Face
So, come here often?
I'm here because writing in my blog is far easier than writing the proposal for funding that I should've written this past weekend but instead was writing the literature review for my thesis. Which led me to discover PhD Comics. Their second movie is coming out. First I want to see the first (lots of creative writing going on here). I think I might do a screening of it with the grad students in my department to blow off some steam. When we get time that is. Like never. Maybe I'll just watch it alone when I'm suppose to be writing the second draft of my literature review.
This past weekend I did in fact discover that I am slower than my older Garmin led me to believe. It's been a serious blow to my ego and in an effort to undo the psychological damage, I have decided to start training harder. I have less than a month before taper. More on taper later, that is not the subject of today's discussion.
While I warmed up this morning on the stationary bike at the gym, I watched a guy beat the crap out of a punching bag just 5 feet from me. My gym is in a state of remodel, complete with new equipment. Weeks ago, the owner witnessed me vying for a turn at the pull-up bar and was excited to declare that soon we would have this super cool new jungle gym type thing that had all sorts of do-dads on it. "Yeah but will it have just a plain pull-up bar?" I asked. "Oh yeah, it'll have one of those."
When the new piece of equipment arrived, I walked laps around it with everyone else, scoping it out. I spotted the pull-up bar. I had to do a double take. It was ten feet off the ground. Mind you, I'm not much more than 5 feet tall and my arms are definitely not another 5 feet each (supposedly your wing span is your height- doesn't help when you need one arm to be 5 feet long).
I stood under it and looked up. I pulled up a stool and stood on it. Still couldn't reach. I took a chance. I jumped. I did a few pull-ups, then hung there for a second, contemplating my fate. My feet must've been at least 4 feet off the ground. I have reached an age where a drop from a height of more than 6 inches is a scary thought. I considered taking a leap of faith and jumping back onto the stool. If I missed, I would be chewing on the ground real quick, and I don't know who'd I'd have faith in to begin with. My own grace and coordination? Ha!
I pointed my toes as far as they would go. I could feel the stool underneath me. My heart started racing. Do not mess this up. I let go of the bar. And found myself safely on the stool. And I walked away never to go back.
I digress. Severely.
In any case, there I was on the bicycle, warming up for leg day. I pondered how I was not as fit as I used to be while on the crew. I am not as fast, my body fat is not as low, I am not as muscular, I am not as strong. I'm probably not as intimidating. But then I realized, in those days, I was paid to be fit (essentially). My work was highly physical. I would go lift weights before work, hike or run before the crew made it in for the day, and then hike or run with the crew, then spend the day cutting brush or chasing fires up mountains.
Now I am a grad student. I sit at a computer and pretend to write proposals and literature reviews. I eat chocolate and cheese. I took on this massive project called "Master's Degree", so of course something had to give. That something was my hours of working out every day. My max pull-ups used to be 7 (the real kind, not the cross-fit kind), now it's more like 4 or 5 depending on the day. I won't talk about my squat since going to a full depth squat significantly decreased the weight I could lift anyway.
So while pedaling away on the bike, I realized, you can't do everything. As much as I think I can sometimes.
I went off and had a kick ass weight lifting routine, then headed home to run. I don't know if you've ever tried to go do a hard run after a hard leg day at the gym, but it is not nearly as inviting as eating half a chocolate cake. Fortunately I had no chocolate cake and my day was already threatening to do me in. I mean it is Monday after all.
I ran anyway. One mile warm-up, 6x 1 mile repeats...at well....whatever, fast. And then a mile cool down. I was going to go a little easy on myself the first couple of miles since I really have no clue where my splits stand these days (faulty Garmin and all), but they all ended up at 7:20 per mile or faster anyway, so it went well. Tough enough to remind me that I did indeed compromise my tendons with that hamstring tear a year and a half ago. You know how your hamstring originates up in your butt area (ok, maybe you didn't know that, but now you do)? That tendon is apparently permanently unhappy with me. Imagine that. Permanent butt pain. Fun.
I managed to get home, eat, shower, run errands, and make it to class on time. I finished my literature review half an hour before it was due. Made it through class without having a break down (and surprisingly, the teacher didn't have a break down either), and then came home to attempt to write a proposal for the Joint Fire Science Program to fund my research. And.....here I am blogging because I've re-written the first sentence 7 times now and just saved it with a half sentence on the page. I'll try again tomorrow when I'm fresh. After the gym.
I'm here because writing in my blog is far easier than writing the proposal for funding that I should've written this past weekend but instead was writing the literature review for my thesis. Which led me to discover PhD Comics. Their second movie is coming out. First I want to see the first (lots of creative writing going on here). I think I might do a screening of it with the grad students in my department to blow off some steam. When we get time that is. Like never. Maybe I'll just watch it alone when I'm suppose to be writing the second draft of my literature review.
This past weekend I did in fact discover that I am slower than my older Garmin led me to believe. It's been a serious blow to my ego and in an effort to undo the psychological damage, I have decided to start training harder. I have less than a month before taper. More on taper later, that is not the subject of today's discussion.
While I warmed up this morning on the stationary bike at the gym, I watched a guy beat the crap out of a punching bag just 5 feet from me. My gym is in a state of remodel, complete with new equipment. Weeks ago, the owner witnessed me vying for a turn at the pull-up bar and was excited to declare that soon we would have this super cool new jungle gym type thing that had all sorts of do-dads on it. "Yeah but will it have just a plain pull-up bar?" I asked. "Oh yeah, it'll have one of those."
When the new piece of equipment arrived, I walked laps around it with everyone else, scoping it out. I spotted the pull-up bar. I had to do a double take. It was ten feet off the ground. Mind you, I'm not much more than 5 feet tall and my arms are definitely not another 5 feet each (supposedly your wing span is your height- doesn't help when you need one arm to be 5 feet long).
I stood under it and looked up. I pulled up a stool and stood on it. Still couldn't reach. I took a chance. I jumped. I did a few pull-ups, then hung there for a second, contemplating my fate. My feet must've been at least 4 feet off the ground. I have reached an age where a drop from a height of more than 6 inches is a scary thought. I considered taking a leap of faith and jumping back onto the stool. If I missed, I would be chewing on the ground real quick, and I don't know who'd I'd have faith in to begin with. My own grace and coordination? Ha!
I pointed my toes as far as they would go. I could feel the stool underneath me. My heart started racing. Do not mess this up. I let go of the bar. And found myself safely on the stool. And I walked away never to go back.
I digress. Severely.
In any case, there I was on the bicycle, warming up for leg day. I pondered how I was not as fit as I used to be while on the crew. I am not as fast, my body fat is not as low, I am not as muscular, I am not as strong. I'm probably not as intimidating. But then I realized, in those days, I was paid to be fit (essentially). My work was highly physical. I would go lift weights before work, hike or run before the crew made it in for the day, and then hike or run with the crew, then spend the day cutting brush or chasing fires up mountains.
Now I am a grad student. I sit at a computer and pretend to write proposals and literature reviews. I eat chocolate and cheese. I took on this massive project called "Master's Degree", so of course something had to give. That something was my hours of working out every day. My max pull-ups used to be 7 (the real kind, not the cross-fit kind), now it's more like 4 or 5 depending on the day. I won't talk about my squat since going to a full depth squat significantly decreased the weight I could lift anyway.
So while pedaling away on the bike, I realized, you can't do everything. As much as I think I can sometimes.
I went off and had a kick ass weight lifting routine, then headed home to run. I don't know if you've ever tried to go do a hard run after a hard leg day at the gym, but it is not nearly as inviting as eating half a chocolate cake. Fortunately I had no chocolate cake and my day was already threatening to do me in. I mean it is Monday after all.
I ran anyway. One mile warm-up, 6x 1 mile repeats...at well....whatever, fast. And then a mile cool down. I was going to go a little easy on myself the first couple of miles since I really have no clue where my splits stand these days (faulty Garmin and all), but they all ended up at 7:20 per mile or faster anyway, so it went well. Tough enough to remind me that I did indeed compromise my tendons with that hamstring tear a year and a half ago. You know how your hamstring originates up in your butt area (ok, maybe you didn't know that, but now you do)? That tendon is apparently permanently unhappy with me. Imagine that. Permanent butt pain. Fun.
I managed to get home, eat, shower, run errands, and make it to class on time. I finished my literature review half an hour before it was due. Made it through class without having a break down (and surprisingly, the teacher didn't have a break down either), and then came home to attempt to write a proposal for the Joint Fire Science Program to fund my research. And.....here I am blogging because I've re-written the first sentence 7 times now and just saved it with a half sentence on the page. I'll try again tomorrow when I'm fresh. After the gym.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Days Like This
I'm wallowing in self pity which may be directly caused by hormones since my left ovary attempted to secede from the union before my run. I'm also having a fat day which for some reason usually makes me want to drown my fat in ice cream. Also a possible symptom of hormones (or being an overworked grad student).
I had a 3 hour midterm last night that I probably didn't fail but probably didn't get an A in either. So today I decided it was a good day to get my life back together...which I have since decided isn't going to happen.
Lately, my old Garmin has been slightly untruthful with me about how fast I've been running. And by slightly I mean a few weeks ago it told me I ran my cool-down mile in a 5:21. Most of the time, the lies have not been that blatant, but I think that was when I finally decided I needed a new Garmin.
Well I got one. And I think it's being fairly honest with me. Which makes me sad. Not only am I not running 5:21's for my cool down miles, I'm also not running 7:21's for my cool-down mile. More like 8:21....which I suppose is actually ok for a cool down mile. After spending a couple hours trying to program my Garmin this morning and get it synced with my computer and/or phone, I finally managed to upload a tough workout to it: 1 mile warm-up, 2 miles at a 7:17 pace, 2 min rest, 2 miles at pace, 2 min rest, 2 more miles at pace, then a 1 mile cool down. A total of 8 miles, with six of them being fast.
I knew this was going to go poorly, but I still held out hope.
The problem with telling a gps unit to keep you within a specified pace (I told it 7:15 to 7:20), is that a gps is only accurate to a certain degree. It cannot really tell you instantaneous pace, only average, which changes every second. Every other second this stupid thing was beeping and vibrating, telling me I'm not on pace, now I'm on pace, too fast, too slow, at pace. Meanwhile, I'm trying my best to ignore it and just keep going. Too fast, too slow, too fast, too slow. I was exhausted. I stopped the watch and took a break for a few seconds, tried again. My asthma started to act up, so I decided I'd finish out the first two mile interval and then switch to just a regular gps run and do the repeats on my own.
When I stopped to take a break, I reset my watch. It proudly told me that I had run my fastest mile (since buying this Garmin) at a 7:01. What the hell?? Why did this stupid thing let me run a 7:01 and what the hell was the second mile? Since my two miles came out to 14:40, I can only guess it was a 7:39. Stupid technology. I was wiped out. I decided to start over, do another mile aiming for 7:17, then turn around and head back.
I pushed as hard as I could without inducing an asthma attack. 7:28. I took a break, then headed back at a slower pace. I was done pushing for the day. The next mile was 8:08, I was 5 miles into my run, 3 miles from home, and I decided I just didn't want to do this anymore.
This has happened only a handful of times in my running career. There are days when my run just really isn't going to happen, and my brain and/or body just call it quits. I respect those times because for one, it doesn't happen very often (maybe once or twice a year) and two, there is most likely a physical reason behind it and one run is not worth risking injury.
However, I have never been 3 miles from home when it has happened. After walking about a mile and a half, I got tired of walking. People were passing me (I mean whatever, but just so you get a visual). I wanted to be home. I was low on water, I was getting hungry, I was totally over it, and if I was out there too long I was going to have to pee and I had already passed the last bathroom. I started up a slow jog again. I made it to about half a mile from home and gladly walked again.
During my walk, I thought about how much slower I was than my old Garmin implied. I thought about hormones, and wheat, and how I was wearing a different pair of running shoes than usual. I also thought about Monday's run, which was actually at a decent pace without pushing myself much.
So maybe it's just a bad day (I hope) and not that I now have a Garmin that is brutally honest with me and telling me I am far too slow to meet my goal pace at my upcoming half marathon and marathon. I feel like I have been completely deceived and I have been living in this fantasy world where I was getting really fast, and now it turns out I'm slow. Today I had this weird thought that maybe I couldn't even run as far as I thought I could because I didn't make it the whole way. But then I realized I have run the same route a hundred times before (and many times much further) and that the path did not magically get miles shorter. Garmin can't change that.
I'll run again on Saturday, a 13 mile run at a 7:49 pace, but maybe I'll ease off of that for the first few miles to see where I'm at.
Years (and years) ago, at a swim meet, my dad told me "You can't get faster every time" after a disappointing swim. Not everyday will be a personal record. Sometimes it can be a little difficult being your own coach, trainer, and sports psychologist.
I had a 3 hour midterm last night that I probably didn't fail but probably didn't get an A in either. So today I decided it was a good day to get my life back together...which I have since decided isn't going to happen.
Lately, my old Garmin has been slightly untruthful with me about how fast I've been running. And by slightly I mean a few weeks ago it told me I ran my cool-down mile in a 5:21. Most of the time, the lies have not been that blatant, but I think that was when I finally decided I needed a new Garmin.
Well I got one. And I think it's being fairly honest with me. Which makes me sad. Not only am I not running 5:21's for my cool down miles, I'm also not running 7:21's for my cool-down mile. More like 8:21....which I suppose is actually ok for a cool down mile. After spending a couple hours trying to program my Garmin this morning and get it synced with my computer and/or phone, I finally managed to upload a tough workout to it: 1 mile warm-up, 2 miles at a 7:17 pace, 2 min rest, 2 miles at pace, 2 min rest, 2 more miles at pace, then a 1 mile cool down. A total of 8 miles, with six of them being fast.
I knew this was going to go poorly, but I still held out hope.
The problem with telling a gps unit to keep you within a specified pace (I told it 7:15 to 7:20), is that a gps is only accurate to a certain degree. It cannot really tell you instantaneous pace, only average, which changes every second. Every other second this stupid thing was beeping and vibrating, telling me I'm not on pace, now I'm on pace, too fast, too slow, at pace. Meanwhile, I'm trying my best to ignore it and just keep going. Too fast, too slow, too fast, too slow. I was exhausted. I stopped the watch and took a break for a few seconds, tried again. My asthma started to act up, so I decided I'd finish out the first two mile interval and then switch to just a regular gps run and do the repeats on my own.
When I stopped to take a break, I reset my watch. It proudly told me that I had run my fastest mile (since buying this Garmin) at a 7:01. What the hell?? Why did this stupid thing let me run a 7:01 and what the hell was the second mile? Since my two miles came out to 14:40, I can only guess it was a 7:39. Stupid technology. I was wiped out. I decided to start over, do another mile aiming for 7:17, then turn around and head back.
I pushed as hard as I could without inducing an asthma attack. 7:28. I took a break, then headed back at a slower pace. I was done pushing for the day. The next mile was 8:08, I was 5 miles into my run, 3 miles from home, and I decided I just didn't want to do this anymore.
This has happened only a handful of times in my running career. There are days when my run just really isn't going to happen, and my brain and/or body just call it quits. I respect those times because for one, it doesn't happen very often (maybe once or twice a year) and two, there is most likely a physical reason behind it and one run is not worth risking injury.
However, I have never been 3 miles from home when it has happened. After walking about a mile and a half, I got tired of walking. People were passing me (I mean whatever, but just so you get a visual). I wanted to be home. I was low on water, I was getting hungry, I was totally over it, and if I was out there too long I was going to have to pee and I had already passed the last bathroom. I started up a slow jog again. I made it to about half a mile from home and gladly walked again.
During my walk, I thought about how much slower I was than my old Garmin implied. I thought about hormones, and wheat, and how I was wearing a different pair of running shoes than usual. I also thought about Monday's run, which was actually at a decent pace without pushing myself much.
So maybe it's just a bad day (I hope) and not that I now have a Garmin that is brutally honest with me and telling me I am far too slow to meet my goal pace at my upcoming half marathon and marathon. I feel like I have been completely deceived and I have been living in this fantasy world where I was getting really fast, and now it turns out I'm slow. Today I had this weird thought that maybe I couldn't even run as far as I thought I could because I didn't make it the whole way. But then I realized I have run the same route a hundred times before (and many times much further) and that the path did not magically get miles shorter. Garmin can't change that.
I'll run again on Saturday, a 13 mile run at a 7:49 pace, but maybe I'll ease off of that for the first few miles to see where I'm at.
Years (and years) ago, at a swim meet, my dad told me "You can't get faster every time" after a disappointing swim. Not everyday will be a personal record. Sometimes it can be a little difficult being your own coach, trainer, and sports psychologist.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Memories
Tomorrow would've been my dad's 60th birthday. I don't wish him happy birthday every year or do anything special, it's just not me. And some years that pass are harder than others, some aren't as bad. This year it is ten years since he's been gone and it seems to be a little harder than it has been. But maybe that's because I don't remember how I react one year to the next.
So I was going through some of his old slides. Many of them have a funny line down the side from when the slide scanner decided to poop out. But it's the meaning behind the photos that are important.
This is one of my favorite photos of him. Walking on the rocks at Sunset Cliffs with Chris in the carrier on his back.
This brings to mind a couple of things. One- apparently at one point my dad was leaning over the cliffs with my brother on his back like that and my brother slipped out and fell over the cliffs. He was completely silent and did not cry at all. They were terrified. He was amazingly ok. Second- when I was a little girl, my dad came home from scuba diving or skin diving and his knee was all bloodied and messed up. The first story he gave me was that it was from us kids bouncing on his knee all the time. The second story he gave me was that he was attacked by a shark. When I was 14 I was telling my dad how I was afraid of sharks and he was trying to convince me that that was ridiculous and your chances of getting attacked by a shark are incredibly slim. "But you were attacked by a shark!" I replied. He looked startled, "When?" he asked. I recounted the story. He laughed. He had slipped on the rocks and it had cut up his knee. I believed it for over ten years.
When he went scuba or skin diving, he would also go spear fishing.
I believe that is called a guitar fish. I also believe that we ate it. He brought home lobsters, fish, and abalone as well.
My brother and I with some of his catch.
Carving pumpkins, I am tasting mine.
Camping, eating pancakes with Dad.
My birthday perhaps.
My dad raced downhill skiing in college at U of M.
And had some of the wildest hair.
I remember him doing the inlay on this table. He cut every little piece of wood and would sand them down to fit, different types of wood for different colors.
I remember the smell of the wood and the sound of the little detail sander. The late nights he spent on it. He made our bunk beds, our toy box, and I vaguely remember something about a cradle or crib for Chris.
He enjoyed photography.
Our last Christmas together, the boys flew back to Michigan to spend it with Mom. Dad and I drove up to Bear Mountain to ski. I was just getting over a stress fracture in my tibia (lower leg) and wore out easily. I made him take me down the bunny slopes, because I can't ski. Along the way I convinced him to go over a couple little jumps. I think he was surprised by how much the impact hurt at his age. I regret that I left my camera in the car and didn't get a single picture of us. But I took photos as he drove. Before we left, I set him loose on the slopes and sat at the base of the black diamond hill and waited for him. Letting him relive some of his glory days.
I got married very young, far too young. But one of the most precious things I got from that, is that I got to dance with my dad.
It was to Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance".
We scattered some of his ashes out in the Pacific Ocean, in sight of the OB pier. As the ship captain sifted the ashes into the water, I dropped rose petals on top, from his rose garden. The shimmer of the sun off the ash let off a greenish glow like phosphorescence. I bet he would've thought that was pretty cool.
So I was going through some of his old slides. Many of them have a funny line down the side from when the slide scanner decided to poop out. But it's the meaning behind the photos that are important.
This is one of my favorite photos of him. Walking on the rocks at Sunset Cliffs with Chris in the carrier on his back.
When he went scuba or skin diving, he would also go spear fishing.
I believe that is called a guitar fish. I also believe that we ate it. He brought home lobsters, fish, and abalone as well.
Carving pumpkins, I am tasting mine.
Camping, eating pancakes with Dad.
My birthday perhaps.
My dad raced downhill skiing in college at U of M.
And had some of the wildest hair.
I remember him doing the inlay on this table. He cut every little piece of wood and would sand them down to fit, different types of wood for different colors.
He enjoyed photography.
Our last Christmas together, the boys flew back to Michigan to spend it with Mom. Dad and I drove up to Bear Mountain to ski. I was just getting over a stress fracture in my tibia (lower leg) and wore out easily. I made him take me down the bunny slopes, because I can't ski. Along the way I convinced him to go over a couple little jumps. I think he was surprised by how much the impact hurt at his age. I regret that I left my camera in the car and didn't get a single picture of us. But I took photos as he drove. Before we left, I set him loose on the slopes and sat at the base of the black diamond hill and waited for him. Letting him relive some of his glory days.
I got married very young, far too young. But one of the most precious things I got from that, is that I got to dance with my dad.
We scattered some of his ashes out in the Pacific Ocean, in sight of the OB pier. As the ship captain sifted the ashes into the water, I dropped rose petals on top, from his rose garden. The shimmer of the sun off the ash let off a greenish glow like phosphorescence. I bet he would've thought that was pretty cool.
Mine
The turbulence from the weather over San Diego made me nervous as I watched the blanket of clouds come closer below us. I longed to dip into them, to get under the turbulent layer and onto the ground. I had been watching the clouds for a good portion of the flight, being a meteorology student and all.
As the thick cloud enveloped us, I felt a sense of belonging- to that substance, that mist surrounding the plane. Getting under the stratus layer was like ducking under the surface of the ocean, a completely different world from the one we descended from. But as the high rises of downtown poked into view, I felt it again. My cloud. My city. Mine.
It occurred to me that the word "mine" has two meanings. That which belongs to me, and that which I belong to. I do not own this city, this land, certainly not this misty layer of cloud. But it owns me. It possesses me in the way that so much of me is made up by this city, these clouds, my friends and family.
I've heard it said that it is not noble to be owned by someone or something. To be held captive by possessions or places, or things.
Cut an astronaut loose from his tether to his ship, and you will see a man owned by nothing at all. And if that is a pretty sight, then yes, perhaps you should avoid being possessed by anything at all, and by all costs.
As I tied my shoes to go take the trash out this morning, Charlotte walked by and kissed my shoulder. I smiled. Mine. Because she owns a piece of my heart that will always be hers.
Being back in San Diego, I felt that belonging that I always feel when I'm back there, but more so than normal. I was blessed with the ability to see quite a few friends in such a short time, and it was soothing to be pulled back by that tether and safe at my origin. All that which owns me. Mine.
As the thick cloud enveloped us, I felt a sense of belonging- to that substance, that mist surrounding the plane. Getting under the stratus layer was like ducking under the surface of the ocean, a completely different world from the one we descended from. But as the high rises of downtown poked into view, I felt it again. My cloud. My city. Mine.
It occurred to me that the word "mine" has two meanings. That which belongs to me, and that which I belong to. I do not own this city, this land, certainly not this misty layer of cloud. But it owns me. It possesses me in the way that so much of me is made up by this city, these clouds, my friends and family.
I've heard it said that it is not noble to be owned by someone or something. To be held captive by possessions or places, or things.
Cut an astronaut loose from his tether to his ship, and you will see a man owned by nothing at all. And if that is a pretty sight, then yes, perhaps you should avoid being possessed by anything at all, and by all costs.
As I tied my shoes to go take the trash out this morning, Charlotte walked by and kissed my shoulder. I smiled. Mine. Because she owns a piece of my heart that will always be hers.
Being back in San Diego, I felt that belonging that I always feel when I'm back there, but more so than normal. I was blessed with the ability to see quite a few friends in such a short time, and it was soothing to be pulled back by that tether and safe at my origin. All that which owns me. Mine.
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
The burden of being human
It started with the 17 mile run....or maybe it ended with the 17 mile run. I think any time you schedule something like a 17 mile run mid-week is just asking for trouble.
I'm traveling this weekend and don't really see time in the weekend schedule to run 17 miles, so I did it today. With plans to come home and study. Here's what's on the agenda from now until Mon/Tues. Study for two midterms, write 4 research paper annotations (like 3 page book reports, but for research papers that are way over my head), study for a quiz, read for and actually do my homework for Unix/Linux, somehow come up with a proposal (including supporting evidence) for the Joint Fire Science program to give me $25,000. Also, I'm traveling.
So post 17 mile run, I talked to Jen on the phone for over an hour, ate, showered, ate, then sat down to read the required chapter in my Linux book. I got up and got a cup of coffee. Halfway through it, I thought- maybe I should just take a nap instead. I napped for about 20 minutes, drank more coffee and opened up the Linux book again.
Nope.
I switched to studying for my Advanced Dynamics midterm. I got stuck and no one from my study group was up on Facebook with answers. I grabbed a beer (pumpkin ale) and continued working. I started on a second beer and started craving crispy fried chicken from KFC. I looked at my glass. Almost 2 beers down. No driving. Bike? No way. It was getting dark and I have clip-in pedals....and live in the city. The only time I've ever ridden my bike under the influence was in Yreka, where there were no vehicles and I hadn't switched to clip-ins (or "clip-less" as they are ironically called) yet.
I checked the menu for the local bbq joint two blocks away. Slow smoked chicken. Not crispy fried. I settled for leftover sauerkraut with potatoes and kielbasa.
Then I thought- hot fudge sundae! With brownies!
I considered my options. The corner up the block from my house is fairly sketchy. There's a 7-Eleven and a McDonalds. Also a Pho place across the street. Again, getting dark, sketchy area....
I had salsa. No chips. BBQ sauce, no chicken (or fries). An ice cream maker, nothing to put in it.
Pizza sounded awesome.
There would be no more studying tonight.
I tried to read Runner's World. Nope.
Heart of a Buddha. Nope.
I thought about the little video of the sliding polar bear I put up on Facebook. Yes, that is what I wanted. Even more than KFC and a hot fudge sundae. I just wanted to be a polar bear sliding around the ice on my belly.
http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/video/polar-bear-sliding-on-chin-chest-across-snow-field-stock-video-footage/559-132
So I tossed some frozen cherries into plain yogurt, added cocoa powder and honey, and called it good.
No fried chicken, no french fries, no chips and salsa, no hot fudge brownie sundae, no pizza, no chocolate cheesecake....no sliding around on my belly covered in fur.
And no more studying tonight.
This human thing is really rough.
I'm traveling this weekend and don't really see time in the weekend schedule to run 17 miles, so I did it today. With plans to come home and study. Here's what's on the agenda from now until Mon/Tues. Study for two midterms, write 4 research paper annotations (like 3 page book reports, but for research papers that are way over my head), study for a quiz, read for and actually do my homework for Unix/Linux, somehow come up with a proposal (including supporting evidence) for the Joint Fire Science program to give me $25,000. Also, I'm traveling.
So post 17 mile run, I talked to Jen on the phone for over an hour, ate, showered, ate, then sat down to read the required chapter in my Linux book. I got up and got a cup of coffee. Halfway through it, I thought- maybe I should just take a nap instead. I napped for about 20 minutes, drank more coffee and opened up the Linux book again.
Nope.
I switched to studying for my Advanced Dynamics midterm. I got stuck and no one from my study group was up on Facebook with answers. I grabbed a beer (pumpkin ale) and continued working. I started on a second beer and started craving crispy fried chicken from KFC. I looked at my glass. Almost 2 beers down. No driving. Bike? No way. It was getting dark and I have clip-in pedals....and live in the city. The only time I've ever ridden my bike under the influence was in Yreka, where there were no vehicles and I hadn't switched to clip-ins (or "clip-less" as they are ironically called) yet.
I checked the menu for the local bbq joint two blocks away. Slow smoked chicken. Not crispy fried. I settled for leftover sauerkraut with potatoes and kielbasa.
Then I thought- hot fudge sundae! With brownies!
I considered my options. The corner up the block from my house is fairly sketchy. There's a 7-Eleven and a McDonalds. Also a Pho place across the street. Again, getting dark, sketchy area....
I had salsa. No chips. BBQ sauce, no chicken (or fries). An ice cream maker, nothing to put in it.
Pizza sounded awesome.
There would be no more studying tonight.
I tried to read Runner's World. Nope.
Heart of a Buddha. Nope.
I thought about the little video of the sliding polar bear I put up on Facebook. Yes, that is what I wanted. Even more than KFC and a hot fudge sundae. I just wanted to be a polar bear sliding around the ice on my belly.
http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/video/polar-bear-sliding-on-chin-chest-across-snow-field-stock-video-footage/559-132
So I tossed some frozen cherries into plain yogurt, added cocoa powder and honey, and called it good.
No fried chicken, no french fries, no chips and salsa, no hot fudge brownie sundae, no pizza, no chocolate cheesecake....no sliding around on my belly covered in fur.
And no more studying tonight.
This human thing is really rough.
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