“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.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
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.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
"One Lives But Once in the World" -Goethe
About a month ago, I found myself immersed in Nancy Horan’s captivating work of historical fiction, Loving Frank. Loving Frank chronicles the scandalous affair between famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright and Mamah Borthwick Cheney, a highly educated wife and mother who was among his clientele. The home Wright built for the Cheney family in 1903 remains a well-maintained structure amongst the many architectural gems that dot the neighborhoods of Oak Park. While I was reading the book, and even now, I like to imagine what Oak Park was like a century ago, and that Mamah and Frank walked along the same streets I frequent on my morning runs through the architectural district.
The story is told through the eyes of Mamah Borthwick Cheney (pronounced May-muh), a beautiful, erudite woman who falls in love with Frank while he commissions a new home for her and her husband Edward Cheney, an established electrical engineer. It is quite clear that Mamah and Edwin’s marriage is a pragmatic rather than a romantic pairing—at least for Mamah. She'd had many suitors, but Mamah finally agreed to marry Edwin after his persistent courting, and in doing so she left behind unfulfilled dreams:
For as long as Mamah could remember, she had felt a longing inside for something she could not name. . . . She had wanted to be a writer of substance, or maybe a translator of great works. But the years passed. She was nearing thirty when Edwin finally won her over. By the time she married him, she’d put those dreams to rest. (Horan 33)
As her relationship with Frank develops, Mamah discovers that it is in conversation with him that her dreams are slowly brought back to life. In Frank, Mamah finds someone she truly connects with, someone with whom she can debate and laugh and speak freely—her soul mate. Mamah and Frank’s forbidden blossoming love leaves them in a quandary—to indulge in it, no matter how free and easy and addictive it may be, defies societal morals—both parties have family and children and responsibilities and reputations to uphold. The weight of the affair especially affects Mamah, and she is often plagued by pangs of guilt, which continue to resurface throughout her life. As a result, in its earliest stages, Mamah and Frank's intimacy with one another ebbs and flows, Mamah cutting off the affair to refocus on her family, Frank his work . . . but each continues to pine after the other.
When Frank invites Mamah to travel to Europe with him, after much deliberation, she accepts, leaving behind her loved ones and privileged life. This is where the story, and Mamah's personality, begins to take flight. Despite my ethical objections to Mamah’s decision to leave her family, especially her children, I was drawn to (and consequently sympathetic towards) her strong conviction to follow her heart and seek out a more authentic, fulfilling life.
On one of her first nights abroad with Frank, Mamah “dreamed she was flying. She saw herself moving like a bird, arms outstretched, across the sky. A small hinged door in her chest opened up, and dark colored shapes fell through the opening to the snow-covered fields below” (Horan 90). I see these dark shapes as representative of Mamah’s past life: her husband, those who would chide her actions, her role as a wife and mother. It is important to note that Horan’s plot closely parallels the past; the historical Mamah Borthwick did in fact make the audacious choice to leave her family during a time when divorce was mostly unheard of and certainly not supported. She suffered harsh criticism from the yellow journalists of the time, in melodramatic stories that often portrayed her as a villainous temptress.
Despite the troubles at home, Mamah perseveres. While abroad she meets Ellen Key, a feminist philosopher whose theories give Mamah direction and strength. Serendipitously, Mamah lands a job as Key’s American translator, and she finds pleasure and a sense of identity “sitting in the hotel room translating Ellen’s essays. . . . She had discovered the state of her soul set down in ink” (137). One cannot help but be drawn to the excitement in Mamah’s voice as she begins to discover her vocation and reinvent herself. In an interview with the Random House Reading Circle, Horan says of the novel’s leading lady, “It was the condition of loving Frank that launched (Mamah) into a path that she could never have foreseen” (369). Loving Frank certainly engenders Mamah’s transformation, but in cultivating her personality, Mamah loses valuable time nurturing her children as they grow up, and their relationships do suffer as a result.
Loving Frank is a beautiful, heart-breaking novel with an engaging storyline and smooth, well-crafted prose. The truth Horan communicates via her work of historical fiction continues to stay with me: love for the person who ignites your soul’s great passions, seeking out vocation, and keeping connected with one’s family is worth fighting for, no matter what the cost.
The story is told through the eyes of Mamah Borthwick Cheney (pronounced May-muh), a beautiful, erudite woman who falls in love with Frank while he commissions a new home for her and her husband Edward Cheney, an established electrical engineer. It is quite clear that Mamah and Edwin’s marriage is a pragmatic rather than a romantic pairing—at least for Mamah. She'd had many suitors, but Mamah finally agreed to marry Edwin after his persistent courting, and in doing so she left behind unfulfilled dreams:
For as long as Mamah could remember, she had felt a longing inside for something she could not name. . . . She had wanted to be a writer of substance, or maybe a translator of great works. But the years passed. She was nearing thirty when Edwin finally won her over. By the time she married him, she’d put those dreams to rest. (Horan 33)
As her relationship with Frank develops, Mamah discovers that it is in conversation with him that her dreams are slowly brought back to life. In Frank, Mamah finds someone she truly connects with, someone with whom she can debate and laugh and speak freely—her soul mate. Mamah and Frank’s forbidden blossoming love leaves them in a quandary—to indulge in it, no matter how free and easy and addictive it may be, defies societal morals—both parties have family and children and responsibilities and reputations to uphold. The weight of the affair especially affects Mamah, and she is often plagued by pangs of guilt, which continue to resurface throughout her life. As a result, in its earliest stages, Mamah and Frank's intimacy with one another ebbs and flows, Mamah cutting off the affair to refocus on her family, Frank his work . . . but each continues to pine after the other.
When Frank invites Mamah to travel to Europe with him, after much deliberation, she accepts, leaving behind her loved ones and privileged life. This is where the story, and Mamah's personality, begins to take flight. Despite my ethical objections to Mamah’s decision to leave her family, especially her children, I was drawn to (and consequently sympathetic towards) her strong conviction to follow her heart and seek out a more authentic, fulfilling life.
On one of her first nights abroad with Frank, Mamah “dreamed she was flying. She saw herself moving like a bird, arms outstretched, across the sky. A small hinged door in her chest opened up, and dark colored shapes fell through the opening to the snow-covered fields below” (Horan 90). I see these dark shapes as representative of Mamah’s past life: her husband, those who would chide her actions, her role as a wife and mother. It is important to note that Horan’s plot closely parallels the past; the historical Mamah Borthwick did in fact make the audacious choice to leave her family during a time when divorce was mostly unheard of and certainly not supported. She suffered harsh criticism from the yellow journalists of the time, in melodramatic stories that often portrayed her as a villainous temptress.
Despite the troubles at home, Mamah perseveres. While abroad she meets Ellen Key, a feminist philosopher whose theories give Mamah direction and strength. Serendipitously, Mamah lands a job as Key’s American translator, and she finds pleasure and a sense of identity “sitting in the hotel room translating Ellen’s essays. . . . She had discovered the state of her soul set down in ink” (137). One cannot help but be drawn to the excitement in Mamah’s voice as she begins to discover her vocation and reinvent herself. In an interview with the Random House Reading Circle, Horan says of the novel’s leading lady, “It was the condition of loving Frank that launched (Mamah) into a path that she could never have foreseen” (369). Loving Frank certainly engenders Mamah’s transformation, but in cultivating her personality, Mamah loses valuable time nurturing her children as they grow up, and their relationships do suffer as a result.
Loving Frank is a beautiful, heart-breaking novel with an engaging storyline and smooth, well-crafted prose. The truth Horan communicates via her work of historical fiction continues to stay with me: love for the person who ignites your soul’s great passions, seeking out vocation, and keeping connected with one’s family is worth fighting for, no matter what the cost.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
My Sister's Keeper
When I was in fifth grade, I knew of a girl at my school who had leukemia. She passed away early in the fall of that school year, and although I never knew her, her life and death left an impact on my young heart. Later on that year, I did a lot of research and then wrote a story inspired by and in memory of Evelyn. What would it be like, I wondered, to be so young and dealing with a life-threatening disease and chemotherapy treatments and knowing you might die soon, rather than worrying about boys and your grade in science and slumber parties?
My Sister’s Keeper, the novel (and upcoming film) imagined by Jodi Piccoult, explores this idea and others—such as how childhood illness can influence family dynamics—through use of multiple view-points and flashbacks. I recently finished this provocative page-turner, and I think that Piccoult succeeds in immersing her readers in the world the Fitzgeralds live in: one that is in constant flux, depending on the health of their eldest daughter, Kate. Kate is sixteen and suffers from acute promyelocytic leukemia, a cancer of the blood and bone marrow. Kate’s mother, Sarah is single-mindedly concerned with saving Kate—at times to a fault—and she has done and will do whatever it takes to help her child fight cancer.
Kate’s siblings lives have been drastically affected by their sister’s illness: her older brother Jesse is a lost child, a trouble-maker addicted to starting small fires who is always on the verge of doing irreparable damage. Thirteen-year-old Anna was a “designer baby,” genetically engineered by her parents (and their doctor) to be a bone marrow match for her older sister. Since the day she was born, Anna has undergone multiple medical procedures for Kate’s benefit.
Yet as she’s grown older, Anna has come to realize just how much her identity is intertwined in her sister’s: “I’m not sick, but I might as well be. . . . The only reason I was born was as a harvest crop for Kate. . . . Even now, a major decision about me is being made, and no one’s bother’s to ask the one person who most deserves it to speak her opinion” (Piccoult 18-19). As of late, Anna has been told that she will be donating a kidney to Kate.
Consequently, in a much-deliberated act that could be seen as desperation, Anna files a lawsuit against her family for the rights to her body—a “Petition for Medical Emancipation.” If Anna wins her suit, she will be able to decide if she should or should not donate her kidney to her sister. This is the crux of Piccoult’s story, the conflict on which her novel turns.
Imagine what it would be like feel as if you had no control over decisions made about your body. How might your self-understanding be effected if you were only defined in terms of the people you to which you were related?
It seems as though the greater problem here is not that next surgery Anna will be told to undergo for Kate, but the sheer weight and meaning of Anna’s life. She has always lived under the shadow of her sister’s illness, her sense of self and purpose is to be her sister’s keeper. Anna is only thirteen, but she’s saved her sister’s life multiple times; and although that is a beautiful thing, it still begs the question: is it permissible to genetically design and give life to a child in order to save a family member’s life? What do you think? Is that something you’d do if you had no other choice? What are the consequences of such a choice?
Find out what happens to the Fitzgeralds by reading (or watching) My Sister’s Keeper. . .
My Sister’s Keeper, the novel (and upcoming film) imagined by Jodi Piccoult, explores this idea and others—such as how childhood illness can influence family dynamics—through use of multiple view-points and flashbacks. I recently finished this provocative page-turner, and I think that Piccoult succeeds in immersing her readers in the world the Fitzgeralds live in: one that is in constant flux, depending on the health of their eldest daughter, Kate. Kate is sixteen and suffers from acute promyelocytic leukemia, a cancer of the blood and bone marrow. Kate’s mother, Sarah is single-mindedly concerned with saving Kate—at times to a fault—and she has done and will do whatever it takes to help her child fight cancer.
Kate’s siblings lives have been drastically affected by their sister’s illness: her older brother Jesse is a lost child, a trouble-maker addicted to starting small fires who is always on the verge of doing irreparable damage. Thirteen-year-old Anna was a “designer baby,” genetically engineered by her parents (and their doctor) to be a bone marrow match for her older sister. Since the day she was born, Anna has undergone multiple medical procedures for Kate’s benefit.
Yet as she’s grown older, Anna has come to realize just how much her identity is intertwined in her sister’s: “I’m not sick, but I might as well be. . . . The only reason I was born was as a harvest crop for Kate. . . . Even now, a major decision about me is being made, and no one’s bother’s to ask the one person who most deserves it to speak her opinion” (Piccoult 18-19). As of late, Anna has been told that she will be donating a kidney to Kate.
Consequently, in a much-deliberated act that could be seen as desperation, Anna files a lawsuit against her family for the rights to her body—a “Petition for Medical Emancipation.” If Anna wins her suit, she will be able to decide if she should or should not donate her kidney to her sister. This is the crux of Piccoult’s story, the conflict on which her novel turns.
Imagine what it would be like feel as if you had no control over decisions made about your body. How might your self-understanding be effected if you were only defined in terms of the people you to which you were related?
It seems as though the greater problem here is not that next surgery Anna will be told to undergo for Kate, but the sheer weight and meaning of Anna’s life. She has always lived under the shadow of her sister’s illness, her sense of self and purpose is to be her sister’s keeper. Anna is only thirteen, but she’s saved her sister’s life multiple times; and although that is a beautiful thing, it still begs the question: is it permissible to genetically design and give life to a child in order to save a family member’s life? What do you think? Is that something you’d do if you had no other choice? What are the consequences of such a choice?
Find out what happens to the Fitzgeralds by reading (or watching) My Sister’s Keeper. . .
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
When I was a child, I discovered a fantastic poem by Emily Dickinson in which she celebrates anonymity-- her "I'm Nobody! Who are you?"(or #260). Encountering such a passage brought me great delight; I felt as if I'd heard the poem straight from Emily herself, as a young school girl whispering it in my ear on the playground. As a rather introverted, bookish child, I really connected with the passage-- "Yes, who wants to be Somebody after all?", I thought. Suddenly, it was okay that I wasn't as well known as the prettiest girl in school or the boy who told the best jokes. Like Emily, I was just Nobody. And that seemed to be quite alright. Actually in this case, it was even better-- since now I knew there was someone else who felt like me. Two kindred souls. Two Nobodies.
Of course, I never really told anyone about that (until now). That was the fun of the passage. Even today when I read this poem I imagine Emily feverishly sharing her secret with me. And this effect, this intimacy that Emily creates with her reader is constructed quite carefully in the opening stanzas: "Are you nobody too?/Then there's a pair of us?" I love how she first engages her reader directly and then, assuming an affirmative response to her query, she implicates the reader as part of a pair.
And here's the fun-- even if you thought it was cool to be Somebody before you read this simple phrase, now you end up wanting to be Nobody. Because, to be Somebody is so dreary. Of course, the twist to this poem is this: our traditional take on the label "Nobody" is that the word implies blankness, nondescript, overlooked-- yet, in joining in community with Emily as a pair of Nobodies, the reader becomes somebody (not Somebody). In becoming somebody, as in one that is not overlooked but not a celebrity, I gained a sense of identity. I had a story. That's why I love this poem.
Of course, I never really told anyone about that (until now). That was the fun of the passage. Even today when I read this poem I imagine Emily feverishly sharing her secret with me. And this effect, this intimacy that Emily creates with her reader is constructed quite carefully in the opening stanzas: "Are you nobody too?/Then there's a pair of us?" I love how she first engages her reader directly and then, assuming an affirmative response to her query, she implicates the reader as part of a pair.
And here's the fun-- even if you thought it was cool to be Somebody before you read this simple phrase, now you end up wanting to be Nobody. Because, to be Somebody is so dreary. Of course, the twist to this poem is this: our traditional take on the label "Nobody" is that the word implies blankness, nondescript, overlooked-- yet, in joining in community with Emily as a pair of Nobodies, the reader becomes somebody (not Somebody). In becoming somebody, as in one that is not overlooked but not a celebrity, I gained a sense of identity. I had a story. That's why I love this poem.
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