I’m a resolution maker—and not just every January. Usually about once a month I’ll sit down and review my resolutions for the month ahead. Oftentimes my list for self-improvement includes health resolutions, fitness goals, spiritual practices and ways I can challenge myself.
For the longest time “take the GRE and apply to grad schools” was on my list, and in December I finally crossed that off. It’s funny how the things we deem most significant to ourselves are sometimes the hardest to accomplish.
Is it fear of failure that makes us anxious when it comes to pursuing our dreams?
I recently read “if you’re not failing, you’re not trying hard enough.” I think I’d heard that before, but the statement really rang true the last time I saw it. It brought me clarity of mind and peace of spirit in thinking about receiving letters back from the institutions to which I applied.
And a running item that’s been on the list since I moved to Oak Park has been “join a church.” I’ve looked around quite a bit, but I’ve been such a “maximizer” about this decision, I haven’t brought myself to buckle down and join one. I keep telling people it’s because I just haven’t found the right place yet. (And that’s true: no church has met all my requirements.) But I think another reason I haven't yet joined a new church is because I’m scared to commit.
Also on my list this year is to write more. It’s something I love to do yet sometimes I have a hard time bringing myself to just sit down and do it. Writing isn’t that hard, but sometimes it takes a lot of work.
One thing that I hope is going to motivate me to really stick to my resolutions this year is Gretchen Rubin’s “Happiness Project” for 2010. She is challenging her readers to participate in their own Happiness projects for 2010, and to keep participants accountable, there is an online petition that they can sign.
I absolutely love Gretchen’s blog, and I recently purchased and began reading her new book (that also shares the same title). Gretchen’s own happiness project, which she describes in her book, came about when she was sitting on a city bus and realized . . .
The days are long, but the years are short.
So why not seek out and embrace happiness, rather than getting caught up in the little things in life that tend to drag us down? This is what Gretchen did.
It's been a joy to follow her journey, and I’ve already started my own. With a friend, I am reading a chapter of The Happiness Project as it corresponds to each month in the year and trying to apply the resolutions and tidbits of wisdom to my own life, all the while also being mindful of my personal goals and resolutions for the year.
I think it’s going to be really great.
Interested in joining in? Visit www.happiness-project.com to learn more.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
Listening
I recently started reading Parker Palmer’s Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation. At first, I had trouble getting into it, but then I caught on. Palmer’s voice is heartfelt and earnest as he shares his thoughts on vocation and how he came to understand his purpose.
I’m only two chapters in, but one of my favorite meditations from his writing so far is when he talks about his granddaughter. He says he didn’t notice this when he was a parent looking at his own child, but as a grandparent looking on at his child’s child, he was amazed at how formed she was when she entered the world. She already had a purpose and it was showing through. Palmer says he plans to write a letter to his granddaughter someday, and then give it to her when she’s in her early twenties—the letter will share all the things that he has noticed about her that are special: “Here is a sketch of who you are from your earliest days in this world. It is not a definitive picture—only you can draw that. But it was sketched by a person who loves you very much. Perhaps these notes will help you do something your grandfather did only later: remember you you were when you first arrived and reclaim the gift of true self.”
At 24, I’m at a point in my life right now where I feel as though I’m still searching for my authentic voice. What was it that I was called to do on this earth? There’s a great quote from the folks at storypeople that pretty much sums up how I’m feeling: “I'm on my way to the future, she said & I said, But you're just sitting there listening & she smiled & said, It's harder than you'd think with all the noise everyone else is making.”
How does one decipher that voice inside when all the voices around seem to be making so much noise? I hear that voice that Palmer describes as what society thinks one “ought” to be. This ought voice reminds me of some sort of authoritative, pragmatic figure, my dad, possibly someone else I know who is really practical. And Then there’s the noble voice, which, if you’re sorta self-righteous, which I admit I can be sometimes, says you need to seek out the greatest need and act on it. Getting into some sort of social work, activism, that sort of thing. Of course there’s the voice of expectation, fulfilling society’s expectations, and this sort of reminds me of my mother, and to an extent, some of my friends, when they talk about marriage and life changes. I’m not finding that any of these voices are really mine.
Those who know me best know that none of these voices can drown out the pure enthusiasm I have for reading and writing—thinking about stories, telling stories, making stories—is that what I am meant to do? Isn’t that it?
The moment I begin to hover around contemplating what I think is my authentic voice, a bunch of “oughts” seem to pop up outside my head, sort of like those cartoon characters with thought bubbles all around them.
But you really should pick a career path that’s secure and will pay well.
But maybe you aren’t cut out for that sort of life—you’re not competitive enough, not smart enough. You probably can’t handle the pressure.
What about having a family? How does that fit into your plans?
Have you experienced these sorts of doubtful thoughts before? They can be pretty arresting when one is considering what to do with one’s life.
Palmer says that instead of asking, “What should I do?” we should instead consider, “Who am I?” and “What is my nature?” and, importantly, “Whose am I?”
Although they seem broader in nature, for some reason they’re a bit less daunting to me than, “What should I do?” Keeping in mind my faith, the people and the things I love, as well as what makes me happiest, gives me hope that following that inner voice will lead me to how I should live.
And I think I’m being impatient. I’ve always hoped my vocation will just arrive, an elusive butterfly that’s been fluttering around my head, will one day finally land in the palm of my hands and, as if this butterfly is a crystal ball, I’ll look into it deeply, sigh and think, “Ahh. All is right with the world now, I’ll just do what this butterfly says I should do. It has all the answers.”
Reality check. Butterflies aren’t crystal balls, nor do they usually flutter around anyone’s head for very long.
Yet I’m hoping that reading this book—in the context of these coming months, in which I hope I’ll have the opportunity to consider a big life-change—will help me to listen for my own voice, buried deep inside, the one that is passionate, enthusiastic and true. The voice that longs to sing the beauty of this world, a voice full of gratitude, joy, hope, and love. I deeply desire to let my life speak.
I’m only two chapters in, but one of my favorite meditations from his writing so far is when he talks about his granddaughter. He says he didn’t notice this when he was a parent looking at his own child, but as a grandparent looking on at his child’s child, he was amazed at how formed she was when she entered the world. She already had a purpose and it was showing through. Palmer says he plans to write a letter to his granddaughter someday, and then give it to her when she’s in her early twenties—the letter will share all the things that he has noticed about her that are special: “Here is a sketch of who you are from your earliest days in this world. It is not a definitive picture—only you can draw that. But it was sketched by a person who loves you very much. Perhaps these notes will help you do something your grandfather did only later: remember you you were when you first arrived and reclaim the gift of true self.”
At 24, I’m at a point in my life right now where I feel as though I’m still searching for my authentic voice. What was it that I was called to do on this earth? There’s a great quote from the folks at storypeople that pretty much sums up how I’m feeling: “I'm on my way to the future, she said & I said, But you're just sitting there listening & she smiled & said, It's harder than you'd think with all the noise everyone else is making.”
How does one decipher that voice inside when all the voices around seem to be making so much noise? I hear that voice that Palmer describes as what society thinks one “ought” to be. This ought voice reminds me of some sort of authoritative, pragmatic figure, my dad, possibly someone else I know who is really practical. And Then there’s the noble voice, which, if you’re sorta self-righteous, which I admit I can be sometimes, says you need to seek out the greatest need and act on it. Getting into some sort of social work, activism, that sort of thing. Of course there’s the voice of expectation, fulfilling society’s expectations, and this sort of reminds me of my mother, and to an extent, some of my friends, when they talk about marriage and life changes. I’m not finding that any of these voices are really mine.
Those who know me best know that none of these voices can drown out the pure enthusiasm I have for reading and writing—thinking about stories, telling stories, making stories—is that what I am meant to do? Isn’t that it?
The moment I begin to hover around contemplating what I think is my authentic voice, a bunch of “oughts” seem to pop up outside my head, sort of like those cartoon characters with thought bubbles all around them.
But you really should pick a career path that’s secure and will pay well.
But maybe you aren’t cut out for that sort of life—you’re not competitive enough, not smart enough. You probably can’t handle the pressure.
What about having a family? How does that fit into your plans?
Have you experienced these sorts of doubtful thoughts before? They can be pretty arresting when one is considering what to do with one’s life.
Palmer says that instead of asking, “What should I do?” we should instead consider, “Who am I?” and “What is my nature?” and, importantly, “Whose am I?”
Although they seem broader in nature, for some reason they’re a bit less daunting to me than, “What should I do?” Keeping in mind my faith, the people and the things I love, as well as what makes me happiest, gives me hope that following that inner voice will lead me to how I should live.
And I think I’m being impatient. I’ve always hoped my vocation will just arrive, an elusive butterfly that’s been fluttering around my head, will one day finally land in the palm of my hands and, as if this butterfly is a crystal ball, I’ll look into it deeply, sigh and think, “Ahh. All is right with the world now, I’ll just do what this butterfly says I should do. It has all the answers.”
Reality check. Butterflies aren’t crystal balls, nor do they usually flutter around anyone’s head for very long.
Yet I’m hoping that reading this book—in the context of these coming months, in which I hope I’ll have the opportunity to consider a big life-change—will help me to listen for my own voice, buried deep inside, the one that is passionate, enthusiastic and true. The voice that longs to sing the beauty of this world, a voice full of gratitude, joy, hope, and love. I deeply desire to let my life speak.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Waiting on Love
“It's hard being left behind. (...) It's hard to be the one who stays.”
-Clare, The Time Traveler’s Wife
Audrey Niffenegger’s novel, The Time Traveler’s Wife is one of my favorite books. It’s the sort of book most people either love or hate, (see goodreads.com for glowing and not-so-glowing reviews) and although Niffenegger’s novel has been criticized for its sense of melodrama, I found the work to be engaging. Oftentimes while reading it I found myself so caught up in the journey of the two main characters I felt as though I was suspended not in my own space and time, but theirs. (I absolutely love when this happens!) When you find a book that ignites feelings such as these, savor its richness, its warmth . . . or rush to the end and then go back again and enjoy it, for as many experienced readers know, “the best reading is re-reading.” (More on that in another post!)
To my delight, the novel was adapted to film this past summer, one that I thought aptly captured the essence of Niffenegger’s story. Oftentimes I leave movie adaptations of books I’ve read feeling as though I’ve been cheated: the characters are off, the screenplay writers change a key element in the storyline, the look of the film is all wrong. Although some minor details were reworked or glossed over, I thought the novel was adapted to film quite tastefully, despite the constraints posed by using such a medium to convey what is mostly an internal drama.
The novel alternates between the perspectives of the two protagonists—the time traveler, Henry, and his wife, Clare. The first time Clare meets Henry he’s already married to her in the present day (although she doesn’t know that), and she is just a little girl. After being transported from his current life to the past, Henry appears in a meadow outside Clare’s childhood home; he befriends young Clare and continues to return to the meadow (sporadically) to meet with her over the years. Henry’s earliest encounter with Clare, however, takes place when she’s a college-student and has known him (the older him) most of her life. (Yes. I realize that this does sound creepy. Just go with Niffenegger on this one rather than ask questions about which meeting came first—as there’s no real answer to that—but do know that Henry can’t change the past or alter the future, time just is.)
Niffenegger’s unique take on time travel is somewhat plausible. Henry has a genetic dysfunction that causes his body to randomly vault itself to alternative times and places. This sounds like it could be fun, but it usually ends up getting him in a lot of trouble. When Henry time travels, he can’t take anything—anything!—with him, so when he travels to a new time and location, he materializes there naked. Oftentimes he has to break and enter and steal to hustle up some clothing, food, and shelter, if necessary, which it always is. Because everyone knows the last thing people want to see is a grown man walking around naked and bewildered. When Henry travels to Clare, he is safe: she leaves a box of clothes for him in the field, and brings him food when he’s hungry.
The film highlights a few sweet moments between young Clare and Henry, but it does not portray much of Clare’s adolescence, when she begins to fall deeply in love with Henry. Especially significant are two scenes left out of the film: An interlude during which Henry helps a teenage Clare teach a lesson to a young boy who hurts her (for not going farther with him on a date). And, on Clare’s eighteenth birthday, the day for which she has been waiting so eagerly: the day they first make love. Err, when she first sleeps with him. His first time with her has already happened . . .
Actually, when a bewildered young Henry first meets grown-up love-struck Clare in the middle of the Newberry Library, she is already head-over-heels in love with the man he will become. When they start dating, it seems as though Henry's playing catch-up with time, having to compete with his older self for Clare's affection. I find it interesting that for both characters there are moments where it seems as though they’re being pulled along by the invisible hand of fate, especially in the circular confusion of their relationship: Clare’s childhood with Henry and Henry’s new relationship with Clare. Which came first? Niffenegger never delves too far into the topic, but . . . there’s a hint of awareness of this problem in the text, which the movie pokes fun at (see: scene when Henry proposes to Claire), but we’re never really sure what Niffenegger thinks.
Henry is, was, and has always been Clare’s everything, and he hers.
Their ardent love, however, is a far cry from perfect. One of the things that I like most about this novel is Niffenegger’s ability to pinpoint the characteristic struggles of the great majority of romantic relationships and marriages—miscommunication, distance, longing, the stress of family planning—and let them play out in Henry and Clare’s life together.
The same deep ache that Clare feels for Henry when he’s gone is the same emotion so many lovers in long distance relationships experience; the resentment, the frustration she experiences are not uncommon. Claire often dwells on what those of us who’ve been in long-distance relationships know too well, “It’s hard being the one who stays.”
Later on, she further voices the source of her heartbreak, “I wanted someone to love who would stay: stay and be there, always.”
This is understandable. I have been there, I have thought similar things.
Truthfully, even in ordinary relationships (for those of us not dealing with a chrono-disfunction or disorder or whatever), no one can ever stay with us, always. We’re far too busy making a living, doing what needs to be done, being mortal. Although we participate in romantic relationships, that doesn’t guarantee we’ll go through life with a companion always at our side—there are too many accidental deaths, divorces, break ups, lives that spin out of control. Some of us are lucky, but on the whole life remains predictably unpredictable and chaotic. This is another theme Niffenegger thread through her Time Traveler’s Wife—the haphazard ups and downs of life. As Henry is vaulted through time, fearing the next stop could mean his demise, he is reminded that he’s not in control, and he never was. (There is this tension between fate and utter randomness going on, and I'm not sure what to make of it!) Although this could be characterized as a romance novel, there’s some pretty dark stuff going on. (Aside from brief mention in Clare’s childlike faith and disengagement with Christianity as an adult, God is not in the the picture.)
The knowledge that our lives aren’t in necessarily in our hands doesn’t make it any easier to go on, though, especially for a time traveler’s wife: “I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks, I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that’s been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intensified by absence?” ponders Clare. I could, and I’m sure others would, give a whole host of answers to that question, but Clare hits on another conflict that does plague relationships: loneliness within the midst of companionship, both physical and psychological isolation. Clare and Henry’s all-too-familiar conflicts are heightened by their battle with time.
Upon finding out from its wikipedia page that Niffenegger views her novel as a metaphor for her previous failed relationships, I became more intrigued by the work as whole. Suddenly passages from the book can be seen in a new light, that of a woman waiting for love to come into her life.
I believe that the desire to love and be loved is the great desire of each and every person; I’d even go as far as to say that this desire, among other things, is part of what makes us human. Love is a reoccurring theme in the grand narrative of life: no matter what the culture, there’s a love story to be found, and not just love between lovers, but love for one’s children, family, friends, neighbors.
This novel has a sad ending. For those of you who’ve read it are aware, and for those of you who’ve not, don’t worry, I haven’t ruined it! (I found a good amount of cleverly laced foreshadowing in the text that it propels the plot forward with a slight sense of impending tragedy.)Don’t be discouraged by that, if anything, it makes for a good page-turner.
In a recent interview with Goodreads.com, Niffenegger confessed that she actually wrote the ending with a much darker twist, and then decided to revise it. I’m glad she did.
Because, in the midst of sorrow, this novel reminds us that there is hope. Hope in relationships, hope in love, the elements which we need to live and thrive and survive in this messy, mixed-up world.
-Clare, The Time Traveler’s Wife
Audrey Niffenegger’s novel, The Time Traveler’s Wife is one of my favorite books. It’s the sort of book most people either love or hate, (see goodreads.com for glowing and not-so-glowing reviews) and although Niffenegger’s novel has been criticized for its sense of melodrama, I found the work to be engaging. Oftentimes while reading it I found myself so caught up in the journey of the two main characters I felt as though I was suspended not in my own space and time, but theirs. (I absolutely love when this happens!) When you find a book that ignites feelings such as these, savor its richness, its warmth . . . or rush to the end and then go back again and enjoy it, for as many experienced readers know, “the best reading is re-reading.” (More on that in another post!)
To my delight, the novel was adapted to film this past summer, one that I thought aptly captured the essence of Niffenegger’s story. Oftentimes I leave movie adaptations of books I’ve read feeling as though I’ve been cheated: the characters are off, the screenplay writers change a key element in the storyline, the look of the film is all wrong. Although some minor details were reworked or glossed over, I thought the novel was adapted to film quite tastefully, despite the constraints posed by using such a medium to convey what is mostly an internal drama.
The novel alternates between the perspectives of the two protagonists—the time traveler, Henry, and his wife, Clare. The first time Clare meets Henry he’s already married to her in the present day (although she doesn’t know that), and she is just a little girl. After being transported from his current life to the past, Henry appears in a meadow outside Clare’s childhood home; he befriends young Clare and continues to return to the meadow (sporadically) to meet with her over the years. Henry’s earliest encounter with Clare, however, takes place when she’s a college-student and has known him (the older him) most of her life. (Yes. I realize that this does sound creepy. Just go with Niffenegger on this one rather than ask questions about which meeting came first—as there’s no real answer to that—but do know that Henry can’t change the past or alter the future, time just is.)
Niffenegger’s unique take on time travel is somewhat plausible. Henry has a genetic dysfunction that causes his body to randomly vault itself to alternative times and places. This sounds like it could be fun, but it usually ends up getting him in a lot of trouble. When Henry time travels, he can’t take anything—anything!—with him, so when he travels to a new time and location, he materializes there naked. Oftentimes he has to break and enter and steal to hustle up some clothing, food, and shelter, if necessary, which it always is. Because everyone knows the last thing people want to see is a grown man walking around naked and bewildered. When Henry travels to Clare, he is safe: she leaves a box of clothes for him in the field, and brings him food when he’s hungry.
The film highlights a few sweet moments between young Clare and Henry, but it does not portray much of Clare’s adolescence, when she begins to fall deeply in love with Henry. Especially significant are two scenes left out of the film: An interlude during which Henry helps a teenage Clare teach a lesson to a young boy who hurts her (for not going farther with him on a date). And, on Clare’s eighteenth birthday, the day for which she has been waiting so eagerly: the day they first make love. Err, when she first sleeps with him. His first time with her has already happened . . .
Actually, when a bewildered young Henry first meets grown-up love-struck Clare in the middle of the Newberry Library, she is already head-over-heels in love with the man he will become. When they start dating, it seems as though Henry's playing catch-up with time, having to compete with his older self for Clare's affection. I find it interesting that for both characters there are moments where it seems as though they’re being pulled along by the invisible hand of fate, especially in the circular confusion of their relationship: Clare’s childhood with Henry and Henry’s new relationship with Clare. Which came first? Niffenegger never delves too far into the topic, but . . . there’s a hint of awareness of this problem in the text, which the movie pokes fun at (see: scene when Henry proposes to Claire), but we’re never really sure what Niffenegger thinks.
Henry is, was, and has always been Clare’s everything, and he hers.
Their ardent love, however, is a far cry from perfect. One of the things that I like most about this novel is Niffenegger’s ability to pinpoint the characteristic struggles of the great majority of romantic relationships and marriages—miscommunication, distance, longing, the stress of family planning—and let them play out in Henry and Clare’s life together.
The same deep ache that Clare feels for Henry when he’s gone is the same emotion so many lovers in long distance relationships experience; the resentment, the frustration she experiences are not uncommon. Claire often dwells on what those of us who’ve been in long-distance relationships know too well, “It’s hard being the one who stays.”
Later on, she further voices the source of her heartbreak, “I wanted someone to love who would stay: stay and be there, always.”
This is understandable. I have been there, I have thought similar things.
Truthfully, even in ordinary relationships (for those of us not dealing with a chrono-disfunction or disorder or whatever), no one can ever stay with us, always. We’re far too busy making a living, doing what needs to be done, being mortal. Although we participate in romantic relationships, that doesn’t guarantee we’ll go through life with a companion always at our side—there are too many accidental deaths, divorces, break ups, lives that spin out of control. Some of us are lucky, but on the whole life remains predictably unpredictable and chaotic. This is another theme Niffenegger thread through her Time Traveler’s Wife—the haphazard ups and downs of life. As Henry is vaulted through time, fearing the next stop could mean his demise, he is reminded that he’s not in control, and he never was. (There is this tension between fate and utter randomness going on, and I'm not sure what to make of it!) Although this could be characterized as a romance novel, there’s some pretty dark stuff going on. (Aside from brief mention in Clare’s childlike faith and disengagement with Christianity as an adult, God is not in the the picture.)
The knowledge that our lives aren’t in necessarily in our hands doesn’t make it any easier to go on, though, especially for a time traveler’s wife: “I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks, I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that’s been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intensified by absence?” ponders Clare. I could, and I’m sure others would, give a whole host of answers to that question, but Clare hits on another conflict that does plague relationships: loneliness within the midst of companionship, both physical and psychological isolation. Clare and Henry’s all-too-familiar conflicts are heightened by their battle with time.
Upon finding out from its wikipedia page that Niffenegger views her novel as a metaphor for her previous failed relationships, I became more intrigued by the work as whole. Suddenly passages from the book can be seen in a new light, that of a woman waiting for love to come into her life.
I believe that the desire to love and be loved is the great desire of each and every person; I’d even go as far as to say that this desire, among other things, is part of what makes us human. Love is a reoccurring theme in the grand narrative of life: no matter what the culture, there’s a love story to be found, and not just love between lovers, but love for one’s children, family, friends, neighbors.
This novel has a sad ending. For those of you who’ve read it are aware, and for those of you who’ve not, don’t worry, I haven’t ruined it! (I found a good amount of cleverly laced foreshadowing in the text that it propels the plot forward with a slight sense of impending tragedy.)Don’t be discouraged by that, if anything, it makes for a good page-turner.
In a recent interview with Goodreads.com, Niffenegger confessed that she actually wrote the ending with a much darker twist, and then decided to revise it. I’m glad she did.
Because, in the midst of sorrow, this novel reminds us that there is hope. Hope in relationships, hope in love, the elements which we need to live and thrive and survive in this messy, mixed-up world.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
beginner's mind
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life
-Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"
It’s all too easy to slip into the constant hustle and bustle of life—the daily commute from here to there; cooking and cleaning and making oneself look presentable to the world; working out or making an effort to do some sort of movement so one doesn’t feel like a total slob; grocery shopping, errands, laundry . . . does this sound familiar?
Lately, I feel like I’ve been slipping. I find myself either too wrapped up in the minute goings on of work and home life, or I’m plagued by the opposite, just distracted by thoughts of what task I need to be finishing next, where I’m heading, and what I’m doing. Sometimes I just zone out in front of the couch watching Iron Chef after finishing my dinner. Is this my life? Shouldn’t I be doing something else? I feel as though I’m missing the point. What point? You know, the point. The dazzle of it all, the gift of life.
Perhaps it’s the weather. (If you’re anywhere in the Midwest right now you know what I’m talking about.)
Yet, more likely, it’s my attitude. The Danish philosopher Kierkegaard would probably say that my listlessness and lack of passion is simply a symptom of the human despair with which we are all ridden, though most of us aren’t cognizant of it. As depressing as that sounds, I’m pretty sure he’s on to something. Have you ever read the Moviegoer by Percy Walker? The protagonist Binx Bolling is the classic example of someone who goes through life without ever fully engaging himself in it. His relies on movies as an escape from the malaise of ordinary life, and the sense of restlessness he feels.
Do you ever feel restless?
I think I’ve been experiencing that sensation lately, but I’m trying to wrestle my way out of it. A couple weeks ago I finished Scott Russell Sanders’ touching and earnest memoir, A Private History of Awe. In it, Sanders reflects on his life, beginning with his childhood and moving on through adulthood, ending with the birth of his daughter; interspersed between those memory clips are moments that take place closer to present day, mostly his reflections on caring for his mother, who is deteriorating in old age, juxtaposed against the growth of his wide-eyed, young granddaughter. Sanders’ life isn’t extraordinary by any means, but that’s not really the point of this work. His writing is honest, poignant, elegant, and insightful. In his memoir, Sanders is able to lift up what so many of us long to do but often forget: those rare moments of enlightenment that can be only described as awe. So he says in the preface to his work:
I wish to recover, so far as possible, the freshness of apprehension that I behold in my granddaughter. . . . I have watched the baby meet the world with clear, open, wondering quality that Buddhists call beginner’s mind. When she sleeps she sleeps, and when she wakes she is utterly awake, undistracted by past or future, living wholly in the present.
It’s a wonderful book, certainly a worthwhile read, that shines light on everyday moments of illumination, standing in stark contrast to some memoirs that seem lack the humility and heart Sanders’ writing possesses.
Inspired by Sanders, I'm reminded of the beauty outside my cozy apartment . . .
Despite the unpleasantness of the cold, damp weather, it’s really been a glorious October week in Illinois. These dark October skies are perhaps the most breathtaking thing I've gazed at in a while. It’s my favorite time of year--the trees are now studded with shades of crimson, gold, and brown; the air is crisp and cool, fall flavors of apple, pumpkin, and cinnamon are in abundance in coffee shops and bakeries. Fall is also a time of death and dying, as nature prepares itself for the harsh winter ahead. Life, we are reminded, is oftentimes a constant state of flux, precious and delicate, brilliant and fading, like the seasons.
Like Scott, I wish to recover my beginner’s mind; I want to recognize the “dazzle and the light of every moment of [my] life.”
-Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"
It’s all too easy to slip into the constant hustle and bustle of life—the daily commute from here to there; cooking and cleaning and making oneself look presentable to the world; working out or making an effort to do some sort of movement so one doesn’t feel like a total slob; grocery shopping, errands, laundry . . . does this sound familiar?
Lately, I feel like I’ve been slipping. I find myself either too wrapped up in the minute goings on of work and home life, or I’m plagued by the opposite, just distracted by thoughts of what task I need to be finishing next, where I’m heading, and what I’m doing. Sometimes I just zone out in front of the couch watching Iron Chef after finishing my dinner. Is this my life? Shouldn’t I be doing something else? I feel as though I’m missing the point. What point? You know, the point. The dazzle of it all, the gift of life.
Perhaps it’s the weather. (If you’re anywhere in the Midwest right now you know what I’m talking about.)
Yet, more likely, it’s my attitude. The Danish philosopher Kierkegaard would probably say that my listlessness and lack of passion is simply a symptom of the human despair with which we are all ridden, though most of us aren’t cognizant of it. As depressing as that sounds, I’m pretty sure he’s on to something. Have you ever read the Moviegoer by Percy Walker? The protagonist Binx Bolling is the classic example of someone who goes through life without ever fully engaging himself in it. His relies on movies as an escape from the malaise of ordinary life, and the sense of restlessness he feels.
Do you ever feel restless?
I think I’ve been experiencing that sensation lately, but I’m trying to wrestle my way out of it. A couple weeks ago I finished Scott Russell Sanders’ touching and earnest memoir, A Private History of Awe. In it, Sanders reflects on his life, beginning with his childhood and moving on through adulthood, ending with the birth of his daughter; interspersed between those memory clips are moments that take place closer to present day, mostly his reflections on caring for his mother, who is deteriorating in old age, juxtaposed against the growth of his wide-eyed, young granddaughter. Sanders’ life isn’t extraordinary by any means, but that’s not really the point of this work. His writing is honest, poignant, elegant, and insightful. In his memoir, Sanders is able to lift up what so many of us long to do but often forget: those rare moments of enlightenment that can be only described as awe. So he says in the preface to his work:
I wish to recover, so far as possible, the freshness of apprehension that I behold in my granddaughter. . . . I have watched the baby meet the world with clear, open, wondering quality that Buddhists call beginner’s mind. When she sleeps she sleeps, and when she wakes she is utterly awake, undistracted by past or future, living wholly in the present.
It’s a wonderful book, certainly a worthwhile read, that shines light on everyday moments of illumination, standing in stark contrast to some memoirs that seem lack the humility and heart Sanders’ writing possesses.
Inspired by Sanders, I'm reminded of the beauty outside my cozy apartment . . .
Despite the unpleasantness of the cold, damp weather, it’s really been a glorious October week in Illinois. These dark October skies are perhaps the most breathtaking thing I've gazed at in a while. It’s my favorite time of year--the trees are now studded with shades of crimson, gold, and brown; the air is crisp and cool, fall flavors of apple, pumpkin, and cinnamon are in abundance in coffee shops and bakeries. Fall is also a time of death and dying, as nature prepares itself for the harsh winter ahead. Life, we are reminded, is oftentimes a constant state of flux, precious and delicate, brilliant and fading, like the seasons.
Like Scott, I wish to recover my beginner’s mind; I want to recognize the “dazzle and the light of every moment of [my] life.”
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
running out of time
So yesterday I had to log a forty-five minute tempo run, according to my about.com half marathon training plan for "intermediate beginner runners" (whatever that means). And, I was going to get up and do that before work, but we all know how this one goes . . . right, I turned off the clock. This constant battle with my alarm clock is driving me batty and makes me feel guilty and probably has something to do with my inability to fall asleep earlier than 11:00 p.m. Sometimes I get up for morning runs, but the majority of the time I feel as though I’m glued to my bed and then I come up with some lame excuse about how I need rest so I can be alert at work, which is pretty true. No one wants a half awake editorial assistant making sure their communications materials are proofread and accurate—you can’t do this job, which takes intense concentration, unless you’re wide awake. So, more often than not, I tend to lunge across my bed and turn off the alarm.
Oh, the best laid plans . . .
The good news is that I did finally do my tempo run after work, but not before I had a snack for fuel. Usually around 6 or so when I get home I am starving! Most runners will tell you that the pre-run snack is an important element to a successful workout, as long as it is light and healthy. However, you do need to give your body some time to digest it. So after having a small bowl of cereal and milk, I did take some time to let it digest (good thing too, because it was really humid in Oak Park when I first got home from work). I finally trotted outside some time after 7:00 p.m., which would have been fine, except that it’s not summer anymore, so the sun sets earlier these days.
My bad. I started my run quick and easy, and it felt good for say, about a couple minutes, then I felt as though I was lagging. Ironically, I find that when I take a rest day (Monday), sometimes the next day into a run my body takes more time to adjust and go into “auto pilot mode” as I like to think of it (i.e. smooth, controlled pace). I’m thinking, Okay, you need to keep pushing, today is all about pushing it. Even though I didn’t want to, I did. And, after the 2 mile-marker (I’m just guessing on this time-wise, because I have no idea where it actually was on this particular route I took), I started to feel so much better.
That’s when I realized the sun was going down. Oh yeah, it’s September. Running was much easier in the summer months when some mornings the sun was shining and it actually made me want to jump out of bed all fresh and go for a run or head to lake shore after work for a quick jaunt. The sun was going down, and I was pretty far out, jogging through the back neighborhoods of Oak Park. You can’t turn around now, that’s not going to help. It was pretty dark by the time I passed through the park on LeMoyne for a water break, and I knew I still had halfway to go. So, what did I do? I kept pushing steadily along, and you know what? I think I actually increased my speed on miles 3 and 4.
Thank God for street lights, I thought. I was running not just to complete a workout, but to get the heck out of the dark and get home. I wasn’t really concerned about my safety since I know this is a very safe area (okay, I was a tad concerned), but I was more concerned about the fact that I was running in dark shorts and a dark gray tank top and had low visibility. The street lights weren’t that helpful. So I kept pushing. Actually, pushing it felt really good. And, I ended up finishing at a 9:00 minute mile average pace for the 4 ½ + mile loop that I ran, which made me feel pretty great since for me, that is fast! (Unfortunately I ran a bit less than forty-five minutes like I intended, but that was okay, considering the circumstances!)
I guess this is common sense, but when you’re running from someone, something, or the dark, it really helps quicken your pace. Tuesday's incident reminded me of another time when I was running towards something, and it happened when I was studying abroad in Cambridge: while on an evening run I sort of made a wrong turn and got a little lost in the backs of the colleges there. It was pretty scary, but all I could do was keep running until I got somewhere familiar since I knew walking wasn’t going to get me there any faster. I did find my way home, and in doing so I ended up tacking on twenty-minutes to my work-out. Phew!
I’m determined to increase my speed over the next few months, especially after this half marathon. I won’t be going for any more pushing-twilight runs in the near future, since they’re pretty creepy, but what I’ve learned just might help my mindset as I continue to train for my big day . . . What's one of the secrets to speed? Run with purpose.
Oh, the best laid plans . . .
The good news is that I did finally do my tempo run after work, but not before I had a snack for fuel. Usually around 6 or so when I get home I am starving! Most runners will tell you that the pre-run snack is an important element to a successful workout, as long as it is light and healthy. However, you do need to give your body some time to digest it. So after having a small bowl of cereal and milk, I did take some time to let it digest (good thing too, because it was really humid in Oak Park when I first got home from work). I finally trotted outside some time after 7:00 p.m., which would have been fine, except that it’s not summer anymore, so the sun sets earlier these days.
My bad. I started my run quick and easy, and it felt good for say, about a couple minutes, then I felt as though I was lagging. Ironically, I find that when I take a rest day (Monday), sometimes the next day into a run my body takes more time to adjust and go into “auto pilot mode” as I like to think of it (i.e. smooth, controlled pace). I’m thinking, Okay, you need to keep pushing, today is all about pushing it. Even though I didn’t want to, I did. And, after the 2 mile-marker (I’m just guessing on this time-wise, because I have no idea where it actually was on this particular route I took), I started to feel so much better.
That’s when I realized the sun was going down. Oh yeah, it’s September. Running was much easier in the summer months when some mornings the sun was shining and it actually made me want to jump out of bed all fresh and go for a run or head to lake shore after work for a quick jaunt. The sun was going down, and I was pretty far out, jogging through the back neighborhoods of Oak Park. You can’t turn around now, that’s not going to help. It was pretty dark by the time I passed through the park on LeMoyne for a water break, and I knew I still had halfway to go. So, what did I do? I kept pushing steadily along, and you know what? I think I actually increased my speed on miles 3 and 4.
Thank God for street lights, I thought. I was running not just to complete a workout, but to get the heck out of the dark and get home. I wasn’t really concerned about my safety since I know this is a very safe area (okay, I was a tad concerned), but I was more concerned about the fact that I was running in dark shorts and a dark gray tank top and had low visibility. The street lights weren’t that helpful. So I kept pushing. Actually, pushing it felt really good. And, I ended up finishing at a 9:00 minute mile average pace for the 4 ½ + mile loop that I ran, which made me feel pretty great since for me, that is fast! (Unfortunately I ran a bit less than forty-five minutes like I intended, but that was okay, considering the circumstances!)
I guess this is common sense, but when you’re running from someone, something, or the dark, it really helps quicken your pace. Tuesday's incident reminded me of another time when I was running towards something, and it happened when I was studying abroad in Cambridge: while on an evening run I sort of made a wrong turn and got a little lost in the backs of the colleges there. It was pretty scary, but all I could do was keep running until I got somewhere familiar since I knew walking wasn’t going to get me there any faster. I did find my way home, and in doing so I ended up tacking on twenty-minutes to my work-out. Phew!
I’m determined to increase my speed over the next few months, especially after this half marathon. I won’t be going for any more pushing-twilight runs in the near future, since they’re pretty creepy, but what I’ve learned just might help my mindset as I continue to train for my big day . . . What's one of the secrets to speed? Run with purpose.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
double digits
Jogging is very beneficial. It's good for your legs and your feet. It's also very good for the ground. It makes it feel needed.
--Charles Schulz, Peanuts
On Saturday, I did something I never imagined I was capable of doing: I ran for ten miles. Straight. (Well, okay, I actually took a couple water breaks and had to wait at some stoplights, but other than that, I ran the whole way!) I did it in two five-mile loops around the neighborhood, which included one of my favorite roads to run down, Thatcher Avenue. I recently discovered this road while logging miles in training for my first half marathon in October. It’s a calm, tree-lined stretch of pavement in front of beautiful houses just on the edge of River Forest, and I often encounter fellow runners while I’m making my way down the sidewalk. The path ends at Division Street, where I usually hang a right (you can’t turn left, technically) and then pass by the campuses of Dominican University and Concordia. Then comes a park just across the way from the church I enjoy attending, which is a marker for my favored water/restroom stop, and then it’s back down Division towards the architecturally stunning homes of Oak Park. I feel blessed to live in such a nice area to run.
I’ve read that breaking the double-digit mileage barrier is a momentous occasion in the life of a runner, and I’m writing about it this evening to say that, yes, actually, it is. At least, it felt that way to me! I was so proud to be done, because it was hard! I knew this day was coming, but I was a little anxious about it since I'd never ran that far before and the weekend prior to this one, I had to break up my nine-mile run on Saturday due to fatigue. That Saturday, I was actually feeling pretty bad somewhere around mile seven—but I just pushed through because I thought to myself, “Well, if you don’t do this now, what are you going to do on race day?” That’s what’s kept me going throughout this entire journey—the drive to succeed, to finish, and to do it strong.
Training for my upcoming debut in the world of half marathons has been difficult, but incredibly rewarding. There have definitely been some bumps along the way, including a couple repeat offenses to my body (wholly my fault) during which I went for long runs when I was clearly in no condition to be running. (I paid for it later, but I’ll spare you the details.) I was stubborn, and I didn’t listen to my body. And I had another scare about halfway through training when my left hip issues from cross country days of old came back to haunt me. I was pretty miserable when it started feeling sore again, I had just gotten to the point where I was feeling really solid about my training. The pain sort of when away, but I haven't been to PT, which my doctor recommends, yet. (My first appointment is this week.)
So back to double digits . . . After I finished my run on Saturday, I felt exhausted, but as though something had changed. As I lay on my yoga mat, drenched in sweat, stretching my hip, and worrying that I was never going to move again (it had already been fifteen minutes on that mat, and I thought that was kind of pushing it), I felt incredibly empowered. It is amazing what your body can do, when you put your mind to it. When I clocked in my average pace for my run using mapmyrun.com’s workout calculator, I came in at 9:20 average miles, which is great, for me! I couldn’t even believe it, and I was so proud I had held to that pace (on average). After I got over my initial tiredness, I felt really alive and energized, and I was starving. I pretty much felt that way the whole day, too (that was great, except for the part where I was a bottomless pit!). All day, I felt in awe of my body, and so fortunate and thankful for God’s gift of good health and physicality.
Ever since I started training for this run, I finally felt that I could call myself a runner. Prior to this training program, I was running--along with other activities--to stay fit, usually on a weekly basis. For some reason, perhaps it was the ambitious undertaking in mileage or sticking to a consistent training program, now naming myself a runner finally seems to fit. I’ve always loved to run, but I find that now I look forward to it and feel empty without it, in a way I never did before. After the half marathon is up, I’ve decided to start a speed training program, and I can’t wait to see where it takes me!
I think taking on new challenges and then seeking to achieve those goals is perhaps one of the most meaningful journeys in life. Whether the outcome is success or failure, I believe that the path in and of itself is valuable; and my case, I’ve grown every step of the way. Has there been a time in your life when you committed to a big goal, and your journey towards achievement left a lasting impact? Is there something in your life that you could work towards? Don’t hold back. Dive in. You might just surprise yourself with what you can achieve.
--Charles Schulz, Peanuts
On Saturday, I did something I never imagined I was capable of doing: I ran for ten miles. Straight. (Well, okay, I actually took a couple water breaks and had to wait at some stoplights, but other than that, I ran the whole way!) I did it in two five-mile loops around the neighborhood, which included one of my favorite roads to run down, Thatcher Avenue. I recently discovered this road while logging miles in training for my first half marathon in October. It’s a calm, tree-lined stretch of pavement in front of beautiful houses just on the edge of River Forest, and I often encounter fellow runners while I’m making my way down the sidewalk. The path ends at Division Street, where I usually hang a right (you can’t turn left, technically) and then pass by the campuses of Dominican University and Concordia. Then comes a park just across the way from the church I enjoy attending, which is a marker for my favored water/restroom stop, and then it’s back down Division towards the architecturally stunning homes of Oak Park. I feel blessed to live in such a nice area to run.
I’ve read that breaking the double-digit mileage barrier is a momentous occasion in the life of a runner, and I’m writing about it this evening to say that, yes, actually, it is. At least, it felt that way to me! I was so proud to be done, because it was hard! I knew this day was coming, but I was a little anxious about it since I'd never ran that far before and the weekend prior to this one, I had to break up my nine-mile run on Saturday due to fatigue. That Saturday, I was actually feeling pretty bad somewhere around mile seven—but I just pushed through because I thought to myself, “Well, if you don’t do this now, what are you going to do on race day?” That’s what’s kept me going throughout this entire journey—the drive to succeed, to finish, and to do it strong.
Training for my upcoming debut in the world of half marathons has been difficult, but incredibly rewarding. There have definitely been some bumps along the way, including a couple repeat offenses to my body (wholly my fault) during which I went for long runs when I was clearly in no condition to be running. (I paid for it later, but I’ll spare you the details.) I was stubborn, and I didn’t listen to my body. And I had another scare about halfway through training when my left hip issues from cross country days of old came back to haunt me. I was pretty miserable when it started feeling sore again, I had just gotten to the point where I was feeling really solid about my training. The pain sort of when away, but I haven't been to PT, which my doctor recommends, yet. (My first appointment is this week.)
So back to double digits . . . After I finished my run on Saturday, I felt exhausted, but as though something had changed. As I lay on my yoga mat, drenched in sweat, stretching my hip, and worrying that I was never going to move again (it had already been fifteen minutes on that mat, and I thought that was kind of pushing it), I felt incredibly empowered. It is amazing what your body can do, when you put your mind to it. When I clocked in my average pace for my run using mapmyrun.com’s workout calculator, I came in at 9:20 average miles, which is great, for me! I couldn’t even believe it, and I was so proud I had held to that pace (on average). After I got over my initial tiredness, I felt really alive and energized, and I was starving. I pretty much felt that way the whole day, too (that was great, except for the part where I was a bottomless pit!). All day, I felt in awe of my body, and so fortunate and thankful for God’s gift of good health and physicality.
Ever since I started training for this run, I finally felt that I could call myself a runner. Prior to this training program, I was running--along with other activities--to stay fit, usually on a weekly basis. For some reason, perhaps it was the ambitious undertaking in mileage or sticking to a consistent training program, now naming myself a runner finally seems to fit. I’ve always loved to run, but I find that now I look forward to it and feel empty without it, in a way I never did before. After the half marathon is up, I’ve decided to start a speed training program, and I can’t wait to see where it takes me!
I think taking on new challenges and then seeking to achieve those goals is perhaps one of the most meaningful journeys in life. Whether the outcome is success or failure, I believe that the path in and of itself is valuable; and my case, I’ve grown every step of the way. Has there been a time in your life when you committed to a big goal, and your journey towards achievement left a lasting impact? Is there something in your life that you could work towards? Don’t hold back. Dive in. You might just surprise yourself with what you can achieve.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
old school
Some weeks ago, my mom and I found ourselves riffling through some old report cards and papers of mine from way back when (I'm talking my elementary era, which was in the late early nineties). Exactly why we were up to our arms in worksheets and handwriting samples (both mine and my brother’s) escapes me, but it was spontaneous and fun, and that experience really impacted me. For a moment, I had a glance of what it might be like to be a parent one day, watching my own child grow and learn. My mom’s still proud of my work samples from years past: “Look at how detailed that old drawing was!” “Can you believe you wrote this in fifth grade?” she remarked.
I have to admit, revisiting some of those old papers and projects was sort of embarrassing, especially samples of my earliest writings, including a cheesy poem I once wrote for one of the pastors at my church (all the stanzas rhymed, but sometimes awkwardly so!). Yet some of my work surprised me—it wasn’t too bad. In fact, it was kind of good—like this poem I found in a collection of nature writing I had to create for maybe a third grade project and a short story I wrote in fifth grade that eventually ended up winning a school contest.
Why don’t I write like that anymore? I mused to myself. And to be honest, I’m still wrestling with the question. I’m not sure when it happened that I stopped working on creative fiction and transitioned into the world of nonfiction writing, which is certainly exciting, but it seems as though I’ve been ignoring this other voice, this hungry creative impulse that longs to make something out of nothing. Writer Brenda Ueland believes the desire to create and express are a key signifier of our humanity: “writing (is) this: an impulse to share with other people a feeling or truth” (If You Want to Write 21) one has. I like that idea, and I think it rings pretty true for me.
Since my walk down memory lane, I’ve been thinking a lot about my writing, and how I can get better about doing it for myself and to share with others—not at my day job, that doesn’t count—on a regular basis. I’ve decided two things: First, I’m going to start posting more frequently. In order to do so, I’m not just writing about books anymore because as much as I enjoy that, I think this narrow scope was restricting my creative juices. Although I read often, what was happening was I kept finishing books, setting them aside to post on, and then putting off the post, as if it were a dreaded high school English assignment, even though I really like writing about books.
My other epiphany was short and sweet: whatever I do in life, I always want to be writing. I’ve been struggling a lot with figuring out my career ambitions lately, because although I enjoy my current job, I'm not necessarily passionate about it. I have yet to find a career path I’m ready to throw my heart into—a vocation.
This is my second attempt at getting this blog going—I’ll still be writing on stories, as I had originally intended, but I'll also write on the other ways that I nourish my mind, body, and soul. In short, my new focus will be journeys, which I think is an appropriate term to use as an umbrella for all of my interests. Right now I feel like a phony at this blogging thing, but maybe that’s because I haven’t made a serious commitment to posting on a regular basis. So. From now on, I’ll be commenting more frequently, and I'll try and remember what my mom said to me while we were looking at those “vintage” papers, as a means of moral support, “I always knew you’d be a writer, Erin.” Thanks mom! I hope this comes true.
I have to admit, revisiting some of those old papers and projects was sort of embarrassing, especially samples of my earliest writings, including a cheesy poem I once wrote for one of the pastors at my church (all the stanzas rhymed, but sometimes awkwardly so!). Yet some of my work surprised me—it wasn’t too bad. In fact, it was kind of good—like this poem I found in a collection of nature writing I had to create for maybe a third grade project and a short story I wrote in fifth grade that eventually ended up winning a school contest.
Why don’t I write like that anymore? I mused to myself. And to be honest, I’m still wrestling with the question. I’m not sure when it happened that I stopped working on creative fiction and transitioned into the world of nonfiction writing, which is certainly exciting, but it seems as though I’ve been ignoring this other voice, this hungry creative impulse that longs to make something out of nothing. Writer Brenda Ueland believes the desire to create and express are a key signifier of our humanity: “writing (is) this: an impulse to share with other people a feeling or truth” (If You Want to Write 21) one has. I like that idea, and I think it rings pretty true for me.
Since my walk down memory lane, I’ve been thinking a lot about my writing, and how I can get better about doing it for myself and to share with others—not at my day job, that doesn’t count—on a regular basis. I’ve decided two things: First, I’m going to start posting more frequently. In order to do so, I’m not just writing about books anymore because as much as I enjoy that, I think this narrow scope was restricting my creative juices. Although I read often, what was happening was I kept finishing books, setting them aside to post on, and then putting off the post, as if it were a dreaded high school English assignment, even though I really like writing about books.
My other epiphany was short and sweet: whatever I do in life, I always want to be writing. I’ve been struggling a lot with figuring out my career ambitions lately, because although I enjoy my current job, I'm not necessarily passionate about it. I have yet to find a career path I’m ready to throw my heart into—a vocation.
This is my second attempt at getting this blog going—I’ll still be writing on stories, as I had originally intended, but I'll also write on the other ways that I nourish my mind, body, and soul. In short, my new focus will be journeys, which I think is an appropriate term to use as an umbrella for all of my interests. Right now I feel like a phony at this blogging thing, but maybe that’s because I haven’t made a serious commitment to posting on a regular basis. So. From now on, I’ll be commenting more frequently, and I'll try and remember what my mom said to me while we were looking at those “vintage” papers, as a means of moral support, “I always knew you’d be a writer, Erin.” Thanks mom! I hope this comes true.
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