New goals :)

Vintage framed oil painting - dated 1952

1. Walking a marathon
2. Climb a mountain - Be on top of everything
3. Kill honeysuckle in yard
4. Find a new project to immerse myself in :)

Right now, I'm particularly thinking about #4. I feel like I have huge chunks of time that are filled with me being tired, but not sleeping, not working, just tired. And something can be done with this time, and I don't think it's finishing Anna Karenina. I don't know what it is. I don't know if I'm going to start painting large canvases with abstract nudes, paying more attention to my victory garden, or finding a way to open my MCC thrift store.

Graduating without plans to pursue a PhD means I will eventually have to figure out a way to fill the time I once packed to the gills with papers that made no sense, working like a fiend, and occasionally feeding myself with bowls of raisin bran.

I'll let you know what I come up with :)

Old sweatshirts

CVC Tuscon - Roadrunner mug (great color, huh?)

I always have good thinking time when I'm out walking around my neighborhood. It helps me get rid of nasty bad feelings, and start to dream a little bit. And then when I walk in my front door, it's all in the past, and I move on with my day, leaving all those dreams undone, ready to be picked up at a later time.

Tonight, I was thinking about old sweatshirts, you know, the sweatshirts you wear all the time when you're at home? The ones that are faded and holey? Well, I was always trying to get my hands on these when I was a kid. I dreamed of the day that I would have old sweatshirts that felt familiar and homey. I would take sweatshirts from my parents, but they hated that, so I was always left wanting more, my own hooded sweatshirt. Twas only a dream...

Anyhow, I was thinking that the reason for this wish was the familiarity of something old, something that had been around for a long time, something tangible that crossed over from place to place, that traveled with me through time. I wanted something to hold on to.

Anyhow, I now have sweatshirts like this, that are faded and torn. I remember the moment that I tore one particular sweatshirt. I remember where I was, what I was doing, and what I was feeling. It has history. As I get older, my things age with me, become more a part of me.

Thoughts of the day. Whatever. Peace out :)

:) :) :) :) :) :) :)

8oz Starbucks travel mug

The moment you have in your heart this extraordinary thing called love and feel the depth, the delight, and the ecstasy of it, you will discover that the world is transformed.

J. Krishnamurti

My old car, the one I sold, had a wonderful bumper sticker on it from Krishnamurti. I wish I could remember it, so I'm gonna go look it up. Oh yay! It was orange, and it said (in a fantastic purple font), "It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society". It felt so Me, and I felt like it completely reflected who I am, or was at the time. I still think it reflects who I am, but now the car is gone, and the sentiment remains. I had a wonderful conversation last night about the Hunger Games (the movie, particularly), and I think that there was consensus that the world is a sick place, and not always for the reasons people think. Sometimes we ignore the real sickness so we can focus on the things that make us uncomfortable.

How's that for an inspiring post?! Go out and make the world a better place! Oh, I forgot to tell you all that while I was walking the dog last night, I found a discarded wicker coffee table in the alley and I carried it home like 3/4 of a mile in one hand, and the dog in the other. So now we have a patio coffee table and chairs, and the weather has been SO lovely that I want to be outside all the time! I need to walk down the alley more often. Oh, and I also think it's important to note that I will always be the person who picks up trash in the alley and makes it useful. That's just who I am.

Part II: Scars and Clumsiness

Define yourself radically as one beloved by God.

-Brennan Manning

So I'm lying on the canal trail, bleeding, with asphalt in my wounds and the terrible bad luck to have twisted one ankle, but fallen on the opposite side. Both sides were inoperable, and even though I lived a quarter mile away, there was no way I could get there on my own. So I figured I'd wait it out, lie on the pavement and wait for a car to drive by. I was close enough to a street lamp that I was covered in a dull yellow light.

Several minutes later, a kind, caring couple stopped in their car. They put me in their Volvo and drove me home (so close, yet so far). We'd never met, and in that delirious moment, I wasn't sure they were real (again, low blood sugar + runner's high + serious injury = delirium).

I ended up being in crutches for a week. I couldn't work because of the terrain of the job, so I lived on my couch with my legs in the air, hoping I hadn't done permanent damage that would lead to a foot amputation (I was an uninsured diabetic with a foot injury; my mind wouldn't stop swirling with worry).

When my wounds healed, which they all eventually did, I had a bright red heart-shaped scar on my knee. And for some reason, I felt like it meant something. I felt loved and protected, and today, that scar reminds me of that feeling. I don't feel foolish for running at night, or for running alone. I don't feel silly for getting hurt at the beginning of a new job. I don't feel those things, because of that little heart, reminding me that I am loved unconditionally, even radically.

Many more times in the next few years, I would experience similar reminders, none of them visible scars, but all of them tattooed on my memory forever.

Scars and clumsiness

This morning I saw this collection of photos on The Huffington Post. Scars are often jarring, disconcerting things when seen from the perspective of onlookers. But by-and-large, people seem to be proud of their scars. This surprised me; I'm not sure why (Obviously, this is not an unbiased sample, though).

I have huge scars on both knees and I don't feel entirely fond of them. They're only a reminder of my clumsiness. In my crazed long-distance running days, I fell a lot, always on asphalt. One of these injuries was particularly bad. I'd just started a new job, and the human resources manager asked me to stay after my shift to work an employment fair with her. At the time, I had even less of an ability to say "No" than I do now, so even though I was exhausted, I went.

By the time I got home, it was dark, and I had to run out my stress. There was a mile-long paved trail right by my house, lit at night, and I ran laps. By the end, I had that runner's high combined with low blood sugar and maybe some dizziness. I tripped, and fell, sprained an ankle and a foot, and busted my knee. I couldn't get up and was bleeding all over myself. It was dark outside and there was no one around.

I'll finish the story tomorrow. Oo! A cliffhanger!

Did you know I love dogs?

I saved a dog's life this week. It was a big black Labrador, late at night. He was standing in the middle of a dark street. I was also walking a black lab, which was strange, so I let them sniff eachother. Then the male dog ran into the street and got hit by a car.

I screamed. The dog walked away like nothing had happened, but the sound of the impact convinced me that he had some sort of internal injuries. I figured if I left him behind on the canal, he'd run into the street again and get killed (he insisted on running in front of the cars-so scary), so I hooked him to my leash and tried to walk the two beasts together. That lasted less than a minute, so I just hollered at him every time he went near the street and he walked home with us. It was awful. Walking one beast is enough of a job. Worrying about the other dog just made my heart race faster. I was exhausted when I got them both home in one piece.

The dog slept with me, so as only to keep him from being shot by an exasperated neighbor in the backyard after he howled with sorrow from 12 to 5am. I didn't get much sleep, between the howling, and the sleeping with a beast. But it was all worth it. In the morning, my mom called animal control and thirty minutes later, the owner was at the front door.

I know it's a simple silly story, but I felt like a hero that night, and saving a life is good for the soul.

An addiction to thrift?

 

So I read a blog post this morning that talked about thrift addiction (i.e. the addiction to thrift store shopping). I've been wondering lately if I have such an addiction, and this blog post really hit me hard. I resonated with the idea that I thrift for therapy. I go thrifting at the end of a long day: I walk the aisles; I comb through racks; I talk to my crazy thrift store friends. I freely admit it. I know I do it. I do it intentionally. And I haven't run the numbers, but I think I'm in the black overall.

Here's my take on this, if we're going to use the word addiction to describe the things we use to define us, that consume our time and energy, and give us purpose in life. The word addiction has a negative connotation, yet we all use it freely. People say they're addicted to their Diet Cola of choice, but I don't stress about that. People say they're addicted to running, to a particular sport, to a place they like to go (e.g. Yosemite), but I say that if it isn't harming anyone, then it isn't a real addiction.

Thrifting can be an addiction if it comes between you and people, if it distances you from those you love. I mentioned once that I feared that someone I loved would ask me to give up thrift entirely, and that I would be challenged to let go of something I didn't think I could live without, because it permeated every part of my life. Honestly, I don't know if I could, and that scares me. I wouldn't define it as an addiction, but I have allowed it to become something I depend on to the point of dependence.

Scary, but is it wrong?

A thrifty Thanksgiving :)

Ways to be thrifty this Thanksgiving:

1. Cook the turkey carcass and make soup stock (no-brainer)
2. Use real plates (dishwashing time is my favorite)
3. Play lots of non-electronic games
4. Have deep conversations with people you have shallow relationships with
5. Dance or walk after dinner
6. Compliment everyone's cooking (no matter what)
7. Bring something to share, even if it's small
8. Talk to someone you avoid every year
9. Find new things to be grateful for
10. Be yourself. Sometimes in the midst of old patterns, we switch to old personas. Be you, the adult you. Inject newness into old relationships. Don't fall back on old patterns.

I hope your Thanksgiving is warm and enjoyable. I know mine will be.

"I'm so lost without you"

So I love Air Supply, like love them. I listened to their original Greatest Hits as I ran at night in college. I'd measure out a mile and run laps and listen to Air Supply on my Walkman. For some reason, I always ran at night. I'd get energy at dark, and then I'd hit the pavement in my dorky running shorts and ridiculously long legs. I'd always wanted to be a distance runner, so I figured I'd finally found the perfect opportunity of desperate loneliness and pitiful self-hatred. I think I alternated between that tape and James Taylor's 1985 album, "That's Why I'm Here". I never felt scared of running at night. I don't do it anymore. I fell one too many times. All of my knee scarring is from falling on asphalt, hard.

I don't always listen to music now when I go walking. Sometimes I listen to podcasts, but lately, I've been leaving my headphones at home. I like to spend the time arguing with myself. It gets out a lot of junk that I can leave behind and feel release at the end of the day, like I'm not holding onto stuff I have no business holding onto. It's become my "crazy thinking time". I do all of the crazy thinking when I can go in any and every direction without worrying that I won't be able to come back from it. I walk back in the door and it's done. Walking is my therapeutic container for the day.

My crazy then goes off into the night sky, off into the atmosphere, then gets sucked into the sun and burns up. Take that world.