Everyone who knows me knows I work out. A lot. But what might surprise a few of you is I hate cardio machines. Stair climbers? No way. Elliptical? Errr, no thank you. Treadmill? Or shall we say, dreadmill? What's worse, is the most geographically convenient gym for me plays the worst, most mindless television ever invented (we'll leave my rant on the "real" housewives for another blog). Hence my quest for non-cardio machine forms of cardio outside of running began. And there's one place in the gym where the Kardashians can't invade my senses: the pool.
The only problem that existed with this new work out strategy was that I did not know how to swim. Well, I could flail around in water and not die, and I wasn't afraid of the water, I just had no clue how to make it from one end to other without a flotation device of some kind. So I decided to invest in some lessons at the local Y.
On the first day, I showed up to class ready to go. I was excited to learn something new, and I was confident I'd be swimming with just a few tips. Not so. The instructor gave me a kick board, and by the end of one length, I was panting like my German shepherd in August. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me: how is it possible I can run, but not swim? Why was it so dang hard? I left feeling discouraged, miserable, and exhausted. The next two lessons followed in a similar way: drills with the kick board, a large floating barbell, and failed attempts at swimming one measly length. By my fourth lesson, I was very close to giving up. Each lesson felt like torture, like I was reaching for something I could never attain. I had to reach deep down for a piece of strength just to get in the car and get to the lesson.
As it turned out. that was the lesson in which I swam my first full length via front crawl. I left feeling exhilarated from knowing I had pushed myself physically to do something I was not able to do even the day before. From there, there has been slow and steady progression. I'm still not very fast or very good at the front crawl, but I can get a few laps in before I need to recover.
One thing I realized during the entire process is it had been quite a long time since I had learned to do something brand new and physical. Learning to swim challenged my coordination, my physical strength, and my heart and lungs to the point where I feel refreshingly tired yet accomplished when I'm done. It reminded me of how little our culture seems to value taking on something brand new and how we lull ourselves to some kind of hypnotic state by allowing others to entertain us. I encourage everyone to try something new, and really learn it. Don't be afraid of things that seem difficult or things that seem out of your reach. You will surprise yourself.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Thoughts on a Wishbone
Everyone wants more than they have, hence the superstition of wishing we have in our culture. Wishing wells, Genies in lanterns, seeing a shooting star... you name it. There are probably hundreds of random events which prompt us to "make a wish" for something more. Not surprising, there are also tales in our culture of people who "got what they wished for" which has led to the cliche "be careful what you wish for."
A couple of weeks ago, I decided to participate in wish-making and extracted the wishbone from a slow-cooked chicken. For a couple days, I moved the bone around the kitchen with indecision of my non-existent wish. I found it remarkably difficult to wish for anything, because everything I want comes with an unfamiliar set of responsibilities. How am I to know if I can rise to a challenge being totally unaware of what that challenge might entail? Or maybe the difficulty was in the fact that I have no trivial wishes. All things nominal, such as ice cream or attending a concert or eating a cookie are all things I can and will do when I choose, and no wishing is necessary. Similarly, all my basic needs are met so no need for wishes there either.
When I finally decided what I really wanted to wish for, I was ready. I enlisted Ryan to help me break the tiny bone, and he said to me, "I don't need to do that, I already have everything I want." Great. All that thought put into my wish and the only person who could possibly be affected by it already is wishing for nothing more. To hell with it, I figured. I silently made my wish to myself, closed my eyes, and pulled on the bone. When I opened them, the larger piece was between my fingers. If our culture's mythology is correct, my wish should come true.
I have no idea if there are time-frames involved with wishbone wishes like there are with, say, birthday cake candle wishes. The wish I chose wasn't one of grave change requiring some unlikely act of God, but something that I'm hopeful will happen over the natural course of my life. I may have to wait years to find out if this wish comes true, but if wishes and luck are in any way connected, that will not be the case. Naturally, there will be consequences if this wish comes true. But, if the right choices are made along the way, it will serve to strengthen rather than hinder... and outcome I can only wish for.
A couple of weeks ago, I decided to participate in wish-making and extracted the wishbone from a slow-cooked chicken. For a couple days, I moved the bone around the kitchen with indecision of my non-existent wish. I found it remarkably difficult to wish for anything, because everything I want comes with an unfamiliar set of responsibilities. How am I to know if I can rise to a challenge being totally unaware of what that challenge might entail? Or maybe the difficulty was in the fact that I have no trivial wishes. All things nominal, such as ice cream or attending a concert or eating a cookie are all things I can and will do when I choose, and no wishing is necessary. Similarly, all my basic needs are met so no need for wishes there either.
When I finally decided what I really wanted to wish for, I was ready. I enlisted Ryan to help me break the tiny bone, and he said to me, "I don't need to do that, I already have everything I want." Great. All that thought put into my wish and the only person who could possibly be affected by it already is wishing for nothing more. To hell with it, I figured. I silently made my wish to myself, closed my eyes, and pulled on the bone. When I opened them, the larger piece was between my fingers. If our culture's mythology is correct, my wish should come true.
I have no idea if there are time-frames involved with wishbone wishes like there are with, say, birthday cake candle wishes. The wish I chose wasn't one of grave change requiring some unlikely act of God, but something that I'm hopeful will happen over the natural course of my life. I may have to wait years to find out if this wish comes true, but if wishes and luck are in any way connected, that will not be the case. Naturally, there will be consequences if this wish comes true. But, if the right choices are made along the way, it will serve to strengthen rather than hinder... and outcome I can only wish for.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Thoughts on Being a Race Spectator
I've been actively training for and running in races for the past five years. It all started with a couple of little 5Ks, then I discovered a fabulous coach and group to run with and my running career blossomed into a series of 10-milers and half marathons. While I'm not a "competitive" runner by any means (except against myself), I have learned to be consistent, persistent, and that bad days are still o.k. days if you get one foot in front of the other. And, I've become an addict. The end of each race is the beginning of training for the next, regardless of what hurts or what other life activities may deserve some of my precious training time. Upon recognizing this, I made a New Year's resolution to not race this year. "Not racing" does not mean "not running," only that I'm emphasizing cross-training more in an effort to keep me running for longer into my life.
For the first couple months of the year, this wasn't so bad. I've never been one to sign up for a winter race. But when registration for a popular St. Patrick's Day race was opened, I started to feel the pull to sign up. In fact, several of my running friends had registered and more than once I was asked if I was going to be there. Was I going to register? No. Would I be there? Absolutely.
St. Patrick's Day came with an unusual amount of sunshine and warm air, and I packed up the dog and found an intersection roughly halfway on the course. My own racing reminded me how tough that middle section can be, and it is often void of spectators save race volunteers. The lead runners flew by, strong in their focus and indifferent to my "Looking good!" cheer. But as the crowd of runners increased, so did the level of fatigue and exasperation I saw on their faces. While I was mostly looking for my friends, I started cheering for everyone. It felt sort of silly to be one person standing alone while clapping and hollering words of encouragement, until runners I didn't know started to thank me. This only encouraged my obnoxiousness, and I continued to clap and cheer. By the time I saw my friends, I was deep into spectator mode and I felt a surge of pride for each of them as they took steps toward their individual goals.
Watching the race was more fun than I thought it would be, and maybe it helps that I know what the runners are going through. Some of them are racing for the first time, others have set time goals, and others still may be having a bad race and just need an uplift. Having run so many races myself, I've experienced all of those scenarios. For the rest of the season, I intend spectate more races, maybe volunteer for a couple. I might have given up racing, but not the race.
For the first couple months of the year, this wasn't so bad. I've never been one to sign up for a winter race. But when registration for a popular St. Patrick's Day race was opened, I started to feel the pull to sign up. In fact, several of my running friends had registered and more than once I was asked if I was going to be there. Was I going to register? No. Would I be there? Absolutely.
St. Patrick's Day came with an unusual amount of sunshine and warm air, and I packed up the dog and found an intersection roughly halfway on the course. My own racing reminded me how tough that middle section can be, and it is often void of spectators save race volunteers. The lead runners flew by, strong in their focus and indifferent to my "Looking good!" cheer. But as the crowd of runners increased, so did the level of fatigue and exasperation I saw on their faces. While I was mostly looking for my friends, I started cheering for everyone. It felt sort of silly to be one person standing alone while clapping and hollering words of encouragement, until runners I didn't know started to thank me. This only encouraged my obnoxiousness, and I continued to clap and cheer. By the time I saw my friends, I was deep into spectator mode and I felt a surge of pride for each of them as they took steps toward their individual goals.
Watching the race was more fun than I thought it would be, and maybe it helps that I know what the runners are going through. Some of them are racing for the first time, others have set time goals, and others still may be having a bad race and just need an uplift. Having run so many races myself, I've experienced all of those scenarios. For the rest of the season, I intend spectate more races, maybe volunteer for a couple. I might have given up racing, but not the race.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Thoughts on Knowing Nothing while Having all the Answers
I've been studying T'ai Chi for nearly seven and a half years. I know several forms, both "solo" and "partner," have attended retreats, and even given workshops of my own. One might might think I know a thing or two about T'ai Chi. The knowing I do have has been a long, slow hike up a very tall mountain, containing obstacles, switch-backs, and an almost menial pace of progression. During class today, I'd had a moment where my solo form felt a little clumsy and I thought briefly to myself of how little I really know about the long form, and I really ought to take a private lesson or two have have an expert show me my insurmountable amount of errors. On one hand, my waist and legs know what is expected of them, on the other my mind is often surprised when an ankle twitches with lack of balance or my shoulder twinges with tension. Why, after all this time, do these things still happen?
Not fifteen minutes later during the same class, we were asked to do an exercise in pairs, and my teacher paired me with a woman who was just finishing the form. He said to her, "If you have questions, you can ask Karen. She has all the answers." Now I know he didn't mean that I know everything, and in our school to hear a statement like that is a very high compliment. The only way I knew to answer it was with a modest smile and proceed with the assignment, but internally I was laughing at irony known only to me. How funny to experience one moment where I feel I know nothing, and another minutes later being told I know a lot!
The whole experience reminded me of reading a book called Mastery by George Leonard. He discusses an idea known as "the mastery curve" in which steady progress is made, there is a slight reverse, and a long plateau. The pattern repeats itself indefinitely. In a later chapter, he describes a phenomenon known as The Plateau, a place where any one learning any skill will eventually find themselves. It is the place where, if it is not a talent one is truly interested in, a person will fade away from learning that skill. Leonard elaborates to say our society values the end goal, that all we do is based on getting something (a degree, a better job, a bigger house, etc) rather than placing a value on the hard work between goals. He writes,
"We are taught in countless ways to value the product, the prize, the climactic moment. But even after we've caught the winning pass in the Superbowl, there's always tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow... The question remains, where in our upbringing, our schooling, our career are we explicitly taught to value, enjoy, even to love the plateau, the long stretch of diligent effort with no seeming progress?" (pgs. 39-40).
To connect this with my experience today, I have to say I'm not sure where on the mastery curve I might be. Sometimes knowing one is wrong or unskilled is a sign of progress in and of itself, but I'm not sure how that reflects any amount of true progress on my part. At what point do the clouds in my mind lift, does tension fade, and I cease having doubt of my own knowledge? Does it just happen in some indiscernible way, as my Astrology teacher often asks, "when does a kitten become a cat?" In the meantime, I hope I would make both Sifu Ray and George Leonard proud in saying I am in love with The Plateau. It is the near-daily practice, coupled with a school where all learning abilities are honored and respected, that has kept me hiking up this mountain.
Not fifteen minutes later during the same class, we were asked to do an exercise in pairs, and my teacher paired me with a woman who was just finishing the form. He said to her, "If you have questions, you can ask Karen. She has all the answers." Now I know he didn't mean that I know everything, and in our school to hear a statement like that is a very high compliment. The only way I knew to answer it was with a modest smile and proceed with the assignment, but internally I was laughing at irony known only to me. How funny to experience one moment where I feel I know nothing, and another minutes later being told I know a lot!
The whole experience reminded me of reading a book called Mastery by George Leonard. He discusses an idea known as "the mastery curve" in which steady progress is made, there is a slight reverse, and a long plateau. The pattern repeats itself indefinitely. In a later chapter, he describes a phenomenon known as The Plateau, a place where any one learning any skill will eventually find themselves. It is the place where, if it is not a talent one is truly interested in, a person will fade away from learning that skill. Leonard elaborates to say our society values the end goal, that all we do is based on getting something (a degree, a better job, a bigger house, etc) rather than placing a value on the hard work between goals. He writes,
"We are taught in countless ways to value the product, the prize, the climactic moment. But even after we've caught the winning pass in the Superbowl, there's always tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow... The question remains, where in our upbringing, our schooling, our career are we explicitly taught to value, enjoy, even to love the plateau, the long stretch of diligent effort with no seeming progress?" (pgs. 39-40).
To connect this with my experience today, I have to say I'm not sure where on the mastery curve I might be. Sometimes knowing one is wrong or unskilled is a sign of progress in and of itself, but I'm not sure how that reflects any amount of true progress on my part. At what point do the clouds in my mind lift, does tension fade, and I cease having doubt of my own knowledge? Does it just happen in some indiscernible way, as my Astrology teacher often asks, "when does a kitten become a cat?" In the meantime, I hope I would make both Sifu Ray and George Leonard proud in saying I am in love with The Plateau. It is the near-daily practice, coupled with a school where all learning abilities are honored and respected, that has kept me hiking up this mountain.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Thoughts on Escapism
The very word "escapism" can evoke a negative connotation in our society, as we often associate it with excessive behavior of one sort or another. But I think it's a necessary fact of life, one we all need to maintain balance against the demands of families and careers. When I'm escaping, regardless of the method, I feel a grand sense of relief, that there is another way to exist outside of stressful deadlines and the demanding cube environment. It makes those days worth it.
After just one vacation day from work, I find myself blissful with domestication and family. Cubicle life is worlds away as I clack at the keys in a tidied living room amongst sleepy pets, enjoying the smell of simmering chili I realize how easily I could lose myself in the keeping of the house, and how odd that the very jail cell women fought to leave is the same one I seek to return to as I flee from a different sort of prison. I could just as easily lose myself in a novel, or a movie, or a nap...but today I escape by simply being here in the present.
During the week, I find it nearly impossible to do anything productive. My mind and sensibility are totally wiped clean from a day in the cube, and the need to escape into something simple grips me with an unspeakable strength. On the good days, I escape into a workout or a walk with the dog, where I am able to wear my body to catch up with the weariness of my mind. On bad ones, I find myself escaping into a bottle of wine and television, unable to do anything except passively forget the stress and absorb the onslaught of primetime's mediocrity.
A day like today serves as the perfect middle ground between the two, where I am able to escape into my home, leaving my energetic imprint on it as I wipe away dust and fill it with healthy food smells. I am surrounded by contentment as cat and dog doze and music plays softly on the stereo. I know that next time I'm chained to the cube, I will stare out the window and remember this moment, escape back into it and hopefully retrieve the feeling it brings.
After just one vacation day from work, I find myself blissful with domestication and family. Cubicle life is worlds away as I clack at the keys in a tidied living room amongst sleepy pets, enjoying the smell of simmering chili I realize how easily I could lose myself in the keeping of the house, and how odd that the very jail cell women fought to leave is the same one I seek to return to as I flee from a different sort of prison. I could just as easily lose myself in a novel, or a movie, or a nap...but today I escape by simply being here in the present.
During the week, I find it nearly impossible to do anything productive. My mind and sensibility are totally wiped clean from a day in the cube, and the need to escape into something simple grips me with an unspeakable strength. On the good days, I escape into a workout or a walk with the dog, where I am able to wear my body to catch up with the weariness of my mind. On bad ones, I find myself escaping into a bottle of wine and television, unable to do anything except passively forget the stress and absorb the onslaught of primetime's mediocrity.
A day like today serves as the perfect middle ground between the two, where I am able to escape into my home, leaving my energetic imprint on it as I wipe away dust and fill it with healthy food smells. I am surrounded by contentment as cat and dog doze and music plays softly on the stereo. I know that next time I'm chained to the cube, I will stare out the window and remember this moment, escape back into it and hopefully retrieve the feeling it brings.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Thoughts on Forgetting to Write
Earlier today, a co-worker and I went to the Open Book for a cup of coffee and I found myself telling her about how I used to take classes there. We chatted about writing in general, and I realized it's been a while since I've written here. I resovled to write a new entry tonight, and when I opened my blog I was horrified it's been nearly three months since my last entry. Three months? That's a quarter of a year. I wonder if I've grown out of writing, and why it has fallen so low on my list of priorities.
I came to the conclusion that there are some areas in life that either take up more energy than I would like them to or more energy than I anticipated when taking them on. My career is the first energy hog, sapping up more hours of my day and more electricity in my brain than I care to admit. It has reached a point where my mind has as much life at the end of a work day as double A batteries have by the day after Christmas. Finding the energy to write this entry is taking some effort: I made myself sit down to write rather than head to bed with a steaming cup of sleepy time tea and a thick Robin Hobb novel.
Energy hog number two is my relationships. None of my relationships are negative (anymore) and I love everyone I spend time with dearly. From my boyfriend to the dog to happy hours with co-workers, I enjoy every second of being with them all. But I can't write and socialize, or write and walk the dog, or write and go on a dinner date at the same time. Hence, the writing doesn't get done.
Balancing the career and relationships on top of the third energy hog, self care, is quite the game. By "self care" I mean physical fitness, tai chi, meditation, cooking...all the things I make time for in order to enhance my health and well-being. Take today, for example. I worked a very full day, took the dog for a run, made homemade chili and corn muffins for supper, cleaned up, and then and only then did I make time for this blog, the first entry in months. I feel out of practice and unable to channel the sentences as readily as usual. I want my writing back.
I don't count on hundreds of people clicking the link on FB I am about to post, but if you do read my entries, I have a small favor to ask. Tell me to write. Even if you hate it. Remind me how much I enjoy spilling my thoughts into the blogosphere, and they will spill. I have many more thoughts to share.
I came to the conclusion that there are some areas in life that either take up more energy than I would like them to or more energy than I anticipated when taking them on. My career is the first energy hog, sapping up more hours of my day and more electricity in my brain than I care to admit. It has reached a point where my mind has as much life at the end of a work day as double A batteries have by the day after Christmas. Finding the energy to write this entry is taking some effort: I made myself sit down to write rather than head to bed with a steaming cup of sleepy time tea and a thick Robin Hobb novel.
Energy hog number two is my relationships. None of my relationships are negative (anymore) and I love everyone I spend time with dearly. From my boyfriend to the dog to happy hours with co-workers, I enjoy every second of being with them all. But I can't write and socialize, or write and walk the dog, or write and go on a dinner date at the same time. Hence, the writing doesn't get done.
Balancing the career and relationships on top of the third energy hog, self care, is quite the game. By "self care" I mean physical fitness, tai chi, meditation, cooking...all the things I make time for in order to enhance my health and well-being. Take today, for example. I worked a very full day, took the dog for a run, made homemade chili and corn muffins for supper, cleaned up, and then and only then did I make time for this blog, the first entry in months. I feel out of practice and unable to channel the sentences as readily as usual. I want my writing back.
I don't count on hundreds of people clicking the link on FB I am about to post, but if you do read my entries, I have a small favor to ask. Tell me to write. Even if you hate it. Remind me how much I enjoy spilling my thoughts into the blogosphere, and they will spill. I have many more thoughts to share.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Thoughts on Gay Marriage and Kim Kardashian
Anyone who has read my blog over the past couple of years knows that I typically stick to every day topics of life, beauty, and joy. Every once in a while I venture into political thoughts or into something that pisses me off. This entry covers both of those things.
In our country, there is a strong, unfounded resistance against gay marriage. In the State of Minnesota, homosexuality is protected class, which means you cannot discriminate in areas of lending, employment, and housing based on a person's status as belonging to that group. Clearly, folks who favor "protecting" marriage as an institution between one man and one woman have little respect for the homosexual population as a protected class and deserving of the same rights and privileges as folks who do not belong to that protected class.
But Civil Rights is not the only reason why everyone should have the freedom to marry within their affectional preference. I personally know several gay couples who have relationships just as committed (if not more) as straight married couples, and as a divorcee myself, I have nothing but respect for the integrity and commitment it takes to maintain a relationship for decades. The ability to grow with another person is astounding and beautiful, and to be able to put up with their crap for a lifetime is nothing short of amazing.
This leads me to the second topic of this blog. I am not a "reality" TV fan, nor have I have ever actually watched whatever show it was that made Kim Kardashian famous. But I do watch news now and again, and shop at grocery stores every once in a while, and in these activities I picked up on this little princess's 72 day stunt. Since there have been famous people, famous people have engaged in stunts to become either more famous, more rich, or both. The act of committing a media stunt is not inherently wrong, and as long as there are consumers who support these endeavors they will continue to happen. What pisses me off is that she chose to make a mockery of marriage. Seventy-two days, really? I know I'm not the first to say so, but that's not even a radar blip on a marital screen. Not only that, but there is a large group of people who belong to a protected class as mentioned above, who are not allowed by our laws to have that right. Ms. Kardashian took a right so many of our population are denied and rubbed in their faces, all so more people will look at her, talk about her, and spend money in ways that are profitable to her.
Perhaps by writing the little rant above I'm just feeding into it and giving Ms. Kardashian what she wants. But I'm sorry, when I have close friends for whom marriage is not even an option, it angers me that someone like her can engage in marriage, then divorce, and feel good about it.
In our country, there is a strong, unfounded resistance against gay marriage. In the State of Minnesota, homosexuality is protected class, which means you cannot discriminate in areas of lending, employment, and housing based on a person's status as belonging to that group. Clearly, folks who favor "protecting" marriage as an institution between one man and one woman have little respect for the homosexual population as a protected class and deserving of the same rights and privileges as folks who do not belong to that protected class.
But Civil Rights is not the only reason why everyone should have the freedom to marry within their affectional preference. I personally know several gay couples who have relationships just as committed (if not more) as straight married couples, and as a divorcee myself, I have nothing but respect for the integrity and commitment it takes to maintain a relationship for decades. The ability to grow with another person is astounding and beautiful, and to be able to put up with their crap for a lifetime is nothing short of amazing.
This leads me to the second topic of this blog. I am not a "reality" TV fan, nor have I have ever actually watched whatever show it was that made Kim Kardashian famous. But I do watch news now and again, and shop at grocery stores every once in a while, and in these activities I picked up on this little princess's 72 day stunt. Since there have been famous people, famous people have engaged in stunts to become either more famous, more rich, or both. The act of committing a media stunt is not inherently wrong, and as long as there are consumers who support these endeavors they will continue to happen. What pisses me off is that she chose to make a mockery of marriage. Seventy-two days, really? I know I'm not the first to say so, but that's not even a radar blip on a marital screen. Not only that, but there is a large group of people who belong to a protected class as mentioned above, who are not allowed by our laws to have that right. Ms. Kardashian took a right so many of our population are denied and rubbed in their faces, all so more people will look at her, talk about her, and spend money in ways that are profitable to her.
Perhaps by writing the little rant above I'm just feeding into it and giving Ms. Kardashian what she wants. But I'm sorry, when I have close friends for whom marriage is not even an option, it angers me that someone like her can engage in marriage, then divorce, and feel good about it.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Thoughts on Apple Pie and Tai Chi
I grew up eating apple pie made from scratch. Mom always used lard, and often used apples fresh from the backyard trees. So when I fell in love with a man who prefers pie to cake, I decided it was time to see if I inherited any talent in the area of pie-making.
The process took a week and four phone calls. First, I knew I needed Mom's recipe for crust. Phone call number one was that request. A day later, two scanned pages from a 1950s cookbook appeared in my in-box. I had to smile at the dated font and design, knowing that there are many things that used to be built to last and aren't anymore. Pie crust recipes must be one of them. Phone call number two was a lengthy conversation in which I needed clarification on the method. Mom mentioned a pastry cloth and rolling pin sleeve would be helpful (two items I learned were not to be found anywhere in the Rosedale mall area). At this point, she told me much of it is practice, and I was reminded of a saying we use in Tai Chi: "any questions practice can't answer," and completely understood why I should not expect perfection.
Phone call number three took place after my first dead-end try of cutting the lard into the flour. It felt like sugar cookie dough, too easy to handle, and I knew it was wrong. On Mom's suggestion, I cut my losses and started over, this time making sure the lard was good and cold. Another reminder from Tai Chi: sometimes you don't get it right on your first day. Like my first day learning the single-whip posture, or my first time holding a sword, my hands felt clumsy with the pastry dough. I felt assured that, because of my experience with learning Tai Chi, I needed to overcome this critical first try.
Rolling the crust was my next challenge. Luckily, I had used a rolling pin before to make cookies, so the feel of that was not as foreign as that of the pastry blender. It was like going from sword to Tai Chi knife form: both are edge weapons but the purpose and feel of each are entirely different. The crust was more delicate than cookie dough and less agreeable to being picked up and re-shaped. But I managed to get both the bottom crust fit into the pan, poured in the sliced and spiced apples, dabs of butter, then fit atop the top crust. I struggled a bit to get a perfect seal between the top and bottom crusts, but by this point I was ready to be finished and just did my best. I sprinkled it with sugar, slit it open a little, and put it in the oven.
The fourth and final call to Mom happened at this point. She cautioned me against leaving it in the oven too long, but was happy to hear I didn't have any further woes. She told me that once she really had a feel for making the crust, she found she would make silly mistakes because she would stop focusing on the process and think of something else. Similarly, once you learn the Tai Chi solo form, it's easy to let your mind wander and lose your balance or worse, your place in the form. The key is to stay focused on the present moment and take each individual piece as it comes. I realized Mom is a pie master in the sense that she understands the zen of the journey from flour and lard to golden crust. It amazed me that speaking with her about baking a pie led to lessons on mindfulness, just like how conversations about Tai Chi and martial arts are also lessons on mindfulness. Two seemingly very different activities yielding the same insight.
The pie is still cooling, and no, it doesn't look like the perfect pictures in cookbooks, or even as nice as a store-bought crust would look. And despite having a bit of frustration, I still enjoyed the process and feel proud that I made a pie from scratch. Just as my solo form lacks the smoothness of the masters, I still experience joy every time I practice, savoring every empty step of the journey.
The process took a week and four phone calls. First, I knew I needed Mom's recipe for crust. Phone call number one was that request. A day later, two scanned pages from a 1950s cookbook appeared in my in-box. I had to smile at the dated font and design, knowing that there are many things that used to be built to last and aren't anymore. Pie crust recipes must be one of them. Phone call number two was a lengthy conversation in which I needed clarification on the method. Mom mentioned a pastry cloth and rolling pin sleeve would be helpful (two items I learned were not to be found anywhere in the Rosedale mall area). At this point, she told me much of it is practice, and I was reminded of a saying we use in Tai Chi: "any questions practice can't answer," and completely understood why I should not expect perfection.
Phone call number three took place after my first dead-end try of cutting the lard into the flour. It felt like sugar cookie dough, too easy to handle, and I knew it was wrong. On Mom's suggestion, I cut my losses and started over, this time making sure the lard was good and cold. Another reminder from Tai Chi: sometimes you don't get it right on your first day. Like my first day learning the single-whip posture, or my first time holding a sword, my hands felt clumsy with the pastry dough. I felt assured that, because of my experience with learning Tai Chi, I needed to overcome this critical first try.
Rolling the crust was my next challenge. Luckily, I had used a rolling pin before to make cookies, so the feel of that was not as foreign as that of the pastry blender. It was like going from sword to Tai Chi knife form: both are edge weapons but the purpose and feel of each are entirely different. The crust was more delicate than cookie dough and less agreeable to being picked up and re-shaped. But I managed to get both the bottom crust fit into the pan, poured in the sliced and spiced apples, dabs of butter, then fit atop the top crust. I struggled a bit to get a perfect seal between the top and bottom crusts, but by this point I was ready to be finished and just did my best. I sprinkled it with sugar, slit it open a little, and put it in the oven.
The fourth and final call to Mom happened at this point. She cautioned me against leaving it in the oven too long, but was happy to hear I didn't have any further woes. She told me that once she really had a feel for making the crust, she found she would make silly mistakes because she would stop focusing on the process and think of something else. Similarly, once you learn the Tai Chi solo form, it's easy to let your mind wander and lose your balance or worse, your place in the form. The key is to stay focused on the present moment and take each individual piece as it comes. I realized Mom is a pie master in the sense that she understands the zen of the journey from flour and lard to golden crust. It amazed me that speaking with her about baking a pie led to lessons on mindfulness, just like how conversations about Tai Chi and martial arts are also lessons on mindfulness. Two seemingly very different activities yielding the same insight.
The pie is still cooling, and no, it doesn't look like the perfect pictures in cookbooks, or even as nice as a store-bought crust would look. And despite having a bit of frustration, I still enjoyed the process and feel proud that I made a pie from scratch. Just as my solo form lacks the smoothness of the masters, I still experience joy every time I practice, savoring every empty step of the journey.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Thoughts on Closing the Circle of Life
About six weeks ago, I had to make a decision to euthanize my oldest cat, Roscoe. Roscoe had been plagued with a large, benign bony growth in his mouth for nearly a year. His personality hardly changed at all, in fact, he was the only cat to even come close to getting along with the dog and seemed to have gotten more lovable. But one warm evening last August, I noticed how difficult it was for him to eat. While his eyes were still bright, his demeanor still vocal, and he craved cuddles more than ever, it was obvious his quality of life was diminishing quickly.
The next day, I had to go to my car to make the appointment to bring him to the vet. On one hand, my feeling was to not assume anything about what the vet might say and to remain optimistic. On the other, my gut was screaming loud and clear about what was going to happen. I knew that evening would be my last with Roscoe.
At the vet, he was spry as ever. He leaped from the carrier and explored the entire examination room. The vet said he was "bright eyed" but after examining the growth in his mouth, the conversation about putting him down dominated. The vet seemed almost impressed with how happy Roscoe was, but he made sure I understood how quickly his quality of life would decline. So I made the decision to save him from weeks or possibly months of misery and signed the paperwork.
I stayed with him the whole time. I didn't watch the actual injection but I petted him and kept contact with him through his last breath. I felt that it would be easier for Roscoe to leave the earth with his "mommy" there, and hopefully my love for him was what he took with him to whatever afterlife a kitty cat might have. It was not easy for me, but at that point, what was easy for me was not a factor. It was about making his last moment as comfortable as possible.
Throughout the whole time, I managed to hold it together. But the second I was out the door, Roscoe's collar in one hand and a crinkled receipt in the other, I lost it. For the first time in my life (aside from squashing a bug or fishing), I was a primary player in closing the circle of life for another creature. While I know without my decision, Roscoe would have starved to death, it was still a very riveting moment in my own growth as a person to be a part of ending a life. I still can't find the words to describe what exactly this means, but in retrospect, I feel good that I made the right decision and did what was best for Roscoe.
The next day, I had to go to my car to make the appointment to bring him to the vet. On one hand, my feeling was to not assume anything about what the vet might say and to remain optimistic. On the other, my gut was screaming loud and clear about what was going to happen. I knew that evening would be my last with Roscoe.
At the vet, he was spry as ever. He leaped from the carrier and explored the entire examination room. The vet said he was "bright eyed" but after examining the growth in his mouth, the conversation about putting him down dominated. The vet seemed almost impressed with how happy Roscoe was, but he made sure I understood how quickly his quality of life would decline. So I made the decision to save him from weeks or possibly months of misery and signed the paperwork.
I stayed with him the whole time. I didn't watch the actual injection but I petted him and kept contact with him through his last breath. I felt that it would be easier for Roscoe to leave the earth with his "mommy" there, and hopefully my love for him was what he took with him to whatever afterlife a kitty cat might have. It was not easy for me, but at that point, what was easy for me was not a factor. It was about making his last moment as comfortable as possible.
Throughout the whole time, I managed to hold it together. But the second I was out the door, Roscoe's collar in one hand and a crinkled receipt in the other, I lost it. For the first time in my life (aside from squashing a bug or fishing), I was a primary player in closing the circle of life for another creature. While I know without my decision, Roscoe would have starved to death, it was still a very riveting moment in my own growth as a person to be a part of ending a life. I still can't find the words to describe what exactly this means, but in retrospect, I feel good that I made the right decision and did what was best for Roscoe.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Thoughts on Being Together, Finally
Many people do not know I have been "in a relationship" for two and a half years. For nearly two of those years, this relationship was not declared, necessarily public, or committed. But for me, it was always hopeful.
The circumstance of meeting him was almost more than being in the right place at the right time. The path of an ended relationship led me to the then-acquantainces (now friends) who introduced us via picture-by-phone. At the moment where I allowed myself to be photographed and sent, I remember thinking, "wouldn't it be totally crazy if...?" Where the ...? stands for actually meeting, liking, and possibly loving, marrying, bearing the children of this attractive gentleman. Because at the time, that's all it was. A single, thirty-something woman being attracted to nothing more than the photograph of a handsome, single, thirty-something man. And quite honestly, once you are a thirty-something single, you tend to view such circustances with small hopes. The mere idea of a solid relationship being built out of a moment of attraction to someone's photograph on a cell phone is nearly ludicris, let alone realistic...especially considering we lived hundreds of miles apart.
With the exception of the first couple times we met and spent time together, our usual "date" would last anywhere from a weekend to a week. In between, we text messaged, instant messaged, and spoke on the phone. Perhaps it is because we are both busy, independent individuals who cherish the lifestyle choices that make us individuals, or the fact that we had both established lives for ourselves just fine, but we both have an appreciation for the un-clingy counterpart. I never once wanted his (or anyone's) presence to complete me as a person, but to enhance me as a person. I felt very complete already, and I am confident he felt the same. I believe it is this idea that nurtures the solid respect we have for one another. That, mixed with an uncanny chemistry and mutual enjoyment of similar movies, humor, and things otherwise cool, kept a matchlight of intrigue going; a matchlight which ultimately led to dynamite.
Naturally, we came to a time where we knew that everything felt right enough to be able to tolerate each other under the same roof. And while we had made a decision as to when this co-habitation would come to be, fate insisted we live together sooner than originally planned. Suddenly, I am forced into having faith that this was the right time, and that the Universe had had enough of us pussy-footing around our love for each other.
And it is amazing. Every day, I am amazed by the talent and devotion of this man and with every second I am more and more convinced that he was well worth the wait. We are together, finally, and so far, it's wonderful.
The circumstance of meeting him was almost more than being in the right place at the right time. The path of an ended relationship led me to the then-acquantainces (now friends) who introduced us via picture-by-phone. At the moment where I allowed myself to be photographed and sent, I remember thinking, "wouldn't it be totally crazy if...?" Where the ...? stands for actually meeting, liking, and possibly loving, marrying, bearing the children of this attractive gentleman. Because at the time, that's all it was. A single, thirty-something woman being attracted to nothing more than the photograph of a handsome, single, thirty-something man. And quite honestly, once you are a thirty-something single, you tend to view such circustances with small hopes. The mere idea of a solid relationship being built out of a moment of attraction to someone's photograph on a cell phone is nearly ludicris, let alone realistic...especially considering we lived hundreds of miles apart.
With the exception of the first couple times we met and spent time together, our usual "date" would last anywhere from a weekend to a week. In between, we text messaged, instant messaged, and spoke on the phone. Perhaps it is because we are both busy, independent individuals who cherish the lifestyle choices that make us individuals, or the fact that we had both established lives for ourselves just fine, but we both have an appreciation for the un-clingy counterpart. I never once wanted his (or anyone's) presence to complete me as a person, but to enhance me as a person. I felt very complete already, and I am confident he felt the same. I believe it is this idea that nurtures the solid respect we have for one another. That, mixed with an uncanny chemistry and mutual enjoyment of similar movies, humor, and things otherwise cool, kept a matchlight of intrigue going; a matchlight which ultimately led to dynamite.
Naturally, we came to a time where we knew that everything felt right enough to be able to tolerate each other under the same roof. And while we had made a decision as to when this co-habitation would come to be, fate insisted we live together sooner than originally planned. Suddenly, I am forced into having faith that this was the right time, and that the Universe had had enough of us pussy-footing around our love for each other.
And it is amazing. Every day, I am amazed by the talent and devotion of this man and with every second I am more and more convinced that he was well worth the wait. We are together, finally, and so far, it's wonderful.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Thoughts on Failure to Launch (not the movie)
Once upon a time, I wanted to be a personal trainer. I studied hard, I took workshops. I passed the exam, earned a certification. I bought liability insurance, took on a client. Gave free advice (lots of free advice). Applied for jobs in big-box gyms and small independent gyms alike, with zero bites. Hit a busy time with my day job and personal life at the same time, and just couldn't keep up with the persistence required to launch a new career.
I still want to be a personal trainer. I'm keeping my certification current and continue to train myself all the time. Sometimes my dream feels like just that: a brief vision from weeks ago, fuzzy which maybe didn't exist at all. Other times, I kick myself for not maintaining the enthusiasm I had when studying for the exam and not going for it full force. I know my style of "full force" can get me anywhere, so the question of why has burdened my mind lately, especially as I once again experience malcontent with sitting at a desk for hours a day.
Fear is definitly playing a role, but it's not fear of success. It's fear of budget uncertainty. The real problem arises when I do a little math and see that to go full force toward this new career would lead to a budget with more holes in it than the great state of Minnesota's. And it's not just my pocketbook that would suffer, as an attempt at two jobs at once (especially one on top of my mentally demanding day job) would leave major holes in my energy and sanity budgets. While energy and sanity are not tangible, they are real. I know from experience when I start messing with those budgets, especially the energy budget, I have to give it all up simply to recover.
I also have a basic philosophical difference with gyms: I'm not into selling memberships. I'm into helping people make wise, healthy decisions with regard to their physical fitness and wellness. I want to help people understand their bodies and how capable they are and how, if one is patient and puts in the work, transformation will happen. That type of change doesn't come from a gym membership, it comes from someplace special inside the heart. It's tempting to "fake it" and pretend like I'm all about showing clients the yellow brick road to fabulous beach bodies via elliptical machine and weight-room dependence, but I just can't do it when I know deep down it doesn't work. What works is the teaching of a variety of methods along with genuine support of each unique journey.
Despite all this self-reflection, it still leaves me in my day job, staring at the skyline between emails, wishing I was leading a client on a challenging run up the River Road instead of answering compliance questions. I've kicked around becoming a group fitness instructor, with the hope of finding one or two slots a week to teach a class just to be in the fitness industry as a professional, or pursuing free-lance fitness writing. I'm reserving hope that my failure to launch is more about right action and right timing than it is about a true failure on my part. They say everything happens for a reason and the Universe opens doors when it's time to walk through them. For now, I'm watching for the open door.
I still want to be a personal trainer. I'm keeping my certification current and continue to train myself all the time. Sometimes my dream feels like just that: a brief vision from weeks ago, fuzzy which maybe didn't exist at all. Other times, I kick myself for not maintaining the enthusiasm I had when studying for the exam and not going for it full force. I know my style of "full force" can get me anywhere, so the question of why has burdened my mind lately, especially as I once again experience malcontent with sitting at a desk for hours a day.
Fear is definitly playing a role, but it's not fear of success. It's fear of budget uncertainty. The real problem arises when I do a little math and see that to go full force toward this new career would lead to a budget with more holes in it than the great state of Minnesota's. And it's not just my pocketbook that would suffer, as an attempt at two jobs at once (especially one on top of my mentally demanding day job) would leave major holes in my energy and sanity budgets. While energy and sanity are not tangible, they are real. I know from experience when I start messing with those budgets, especially the energy budget, I have to give it all up simply to recover.
I also have a basic philosophical difference with gyms: I'm not into selling memberships. I'm into helping people make wise, healthy decisions with regard to their physical fitness and wellness. I want to help people understand their bodies and how capable they are and how, if one is patient and puts in the work, transformation will happen. That type of change doesn't come from a gym membership, it comes from someplace special inside the heart. It's tempting to "fake it" and pretend like I'm all about showing clients the yellow brick road to fabulous beach bodies via elliptical machine and weight-room dependence, but I just can't do it when I know deep down it doesn't work. What works is the teaching of a variety of methods along with genuine support of each unique journey.
Despite all this self-reflection, it still leaves me in my day job, staring at the skyline between emails, wishing I was leading a client on a challenging run up the River Road instead of answering compliance questions. I've kicked around becoming a group fitness instructor, with the hope of finding one or two slots a week to teach a class just to be in the fitness industry as a professional, or pursuing free-lance fitness writing. I'm reserving hope that my failure to launch is more about right action and right timing than it is about a true failure on my part. They say everything happens for a reason and the Universe opens doors when it's time to walk through them. For now, I'm watching for the open door.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Thoughts on Spring Cleaning
Part of my transition from apartment living to house living is the notion of spring cleaning. When I lived in apartments, either the spaces were small enough or I didn't live there long enough to warrant any project worthy of being called spring cleaning. Now, after about five years in the house, I'm noticing little things, like cobwebs in upper window corners and tribes of dust bunnies under the bed, starting to build up.
Don't get me wrong: I'm a far cry from "neat freak." I am untidy and disorganized, and sometimes I think my financial survival is pure luck. But yesterday, those windows bothered me. So as I was reaching behind the curtains to clean up the cobwebs, I noticed how dusty the blinds were. After scraping my knuckles and uttering a curse or two, I finally got them down to soak in the tub. Then back to the frames, which are wood. They were dusty and unhappy looking, so I didn't stop with the cobwebs. I gave them a nice treatment of Murphy Oil and washed the inside panes, and when they were decently dry, I re-hung the blinds. This little chore made my living smell so wonderful I found myself kicking back with a beer and relaxing music, just inhaling the combo of Murphy Oil, glass cleaner, and lemons (I use Mrs. Meyers aroma therapy cleaner).
I never imagined I would find joy from an act so simple and so domestic. The work itself wasn't exactly plesant; it was more akin to a labor of love. It's the kind of thing I don't normally get to because I spend more time on maintenance cleaning (litter boxes, dirty dishes, and laundry). Usually once the maintenace cleaning is done, I feel as though I've worked enough and it's time to relax. Yesterday I didn't do any maintenance cleaning, just spring cleaning.
I'm not gunning to start on every crevice of the house. I know I could find a "spring cleaning" project at any time during the year, as I've learned that the rooms I rarely go into still manage to get themselves dirty. Maybe it's what I need to do to create spring in the dead of winter: if I want to "rebirth" my home, I can lift up a piece of furniture and find a new home for the dust bunnies.
Don't get me wrong: I'm a far cry from "neat freak." I am untidy and disorganized, and sometimes I think my financial survival is pure luck. But yesterday, those windows bothered me. So as I was reaching behind the curtains to clean up the cobwebs, I noticed how dusty the blinds were. After scraping my knuckles and uttering a curse or two, I finally got them down to soak in the tub. Then back to the frames, which are wood. They were dusty and unhappy looking, so I didn't stop with the cobwebs. I gave them a nice treatment of Murphy Oil and washed the inside panes, and when they were decently dry, I re-hung the blinds. This little chore made my living smell so wonderful I found myself kicking back with a beer and relaxing music, just inhaling the combo of Murphy Oil, glass cleaner, and lemons (I use Mrs. Meyers aroma therapy cleaner).
I never imagined I would find joy from an act so simple and so domestic. The work itself wasn't exactly plesant; it was more akin to a labor of love. It's the kind of thing I don't normally get to because I spend more time on maintenance cleaning (litter boxes, dirty dishes, and laundry). Usually once the maintenace cleaning is done, I feel as though I've worked enough and it's time to relax. Yesterday I didn't do any maintenance cleaning, just spring cleaning.
I'm not gunning to start on every crevice of the house. I know I could find a "spring cleaning" project at any time during the year, as I've learned that the rooms I rarely go into still manage to get themselves dirty. Maybe it's what I need to do to create spring in the dead of winter: if I want to "rebirth" my home, I can lift up a piece of furniture and find a new home for the dust bunnies.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Thoughts on Silence
I was raised to be quiet. My father often said "children should be seen and not heard" when things got unruly amongst my brothers and myself. In the car, we played the "quiet game," a contest to see who could go the longest without talking, and mom frequently requested her "peace and quiet." It's not that surprising that as an adult, I can't stand excessive noise. I prefer soft music, won't turn on the television for "background," and I hate it when there's a child demanding the audio attention of everyone with a screaming ear shot.
This past weekend I had a friend over who is mom of three. She commented to me about how it quiet it is here; that she is used to the constant chatter of her boys and rarely hears herself breathe. Until that conversation yesterday, it hadn't occurred to me that I have been taking my silence for granted. I'm used to hearing my breath, the swish sound a tissue makes when you pull it from the box, and now, the sounds of my fingers clicking on the keyboard. I can even hear the dog breathing as he naps at my feet.
The only real noise I have to cope with is that of my own thoughts. My brain is constantly rattling with what I'm doing now or what I'm about to do or what needs to be done (in T'ai Chi, we refer to this as our monkey brains). Sometimes my mind is so loud ideas sneak by with barely an acknowledgement and have no opportunity to see the light of day. On occasion, they get snagged like a lobster in a trap, and become something, like a blog entry or new meal or a flower garden. In dealing with my noisy mind, I have learned to do things (such as T'ai Chi or a long run without thumping music) to clear out the chatter and invite in the ideas. Those activities tend to wipe my mind clean like a black board, giving space for ideas to come forward and grow. It is usually shortly after these activities that I am able to write or begin a project, as my mind is free of the traffic jam of thoughts everyday life insists upon.
My friend's observation of my silence helped me appreciate it and the fact that I am able to control most of the noise in my home environment. The only racket I have to deal with is by my own personal choice, and I feel lucky to have life where that is possible.
This past weekend I had a friend over who is mom of three. She commented to me about how it quiet it is here; that she is used to the constant chatter of her boys and rarely hears herself breathe. Until that conversation yesterday, it hadn't occurred to me that I have been taking my silence for granted. I'm used to hearing my breath, the swish sound a tissue makes when you pull it from the box, and now, the sounds of my fingers clicking on the keyboard. I can even hear the dog breathing as he naps at my feet.
The only real noise I have to cope with is that of my own thoughts. My brain is constantly rattling with what I'm doing now or what I'm about to do or what needs to be done (in T'ai Chi, we refer to this as our monkey brains). Sometimes my mind is so loud ideas sneak by with barely an acknowledgement and have no opportunity to see the light of day. On occasion, they get snagged like a lobster in a trap, and become something, like a blog entry or new meal or a flower garden. In dealing with my noisy mind, I have learned to do things (such as T'ai Chi or a long run without thumping music) to clear out the chatter and invite in the ideas. Those activities tend to wipe my mind clean like a black board, giving space for ideas to come forward and grow. It is usually shortly after these activities that I am able to write or begin a project, as my mind is free of the traffic jam of thoughts everyday life insists upon.
My friend's observation of my silence helped me appreciate it and the fact that I am able to control most of the noise in my home environment. The only racket I have to deal with is by my own personal choice, and I feel lucky to have life where that is possible.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Thoughts on Becoming My Mother
Upon visiting my mother last weekend for Mother's Day, myself and my brothers had to razz her a little for never allowing anyone to photograph her. Her only reply was "Just look at Karen!" I had to think, really? In many ways I don't look a thing like her, but in other ways, I look just like her. Admittedly, there have been times when I wake up first thing, see myself in the mirror, and think, "Mom?". And while my mom was a mother to 2.5 children by the time she was my age, there are definitely some major traits I carry of hers, most of them traits anyone would love to have.
For starters, my mom loves to nurture. As any mother does, all through my childhood she put the health and needs of the children well above her own, often wearing the same shoes or jackets for years so the family could keep the growing children clothed. She also made sure we knew that other people and animals have feelings. We were taught never to make others feel bad or put them down, never to hit animals, and always to care for them and treat them as equal members of the family.
I didn't just learn about loving others, but also to care for myself. Many of the healthy habits I have today I learned from Mom, and I still love discussing nutrition and cooking with her. Growing up, my parents grew many of our vegetables, which we ate fresh in the summer and canned in the winter, something I had no idea was a luxury until now. As a very young child, my exposure to processed foods and factory farmed produce was minimal, and looking back I have to partially credit my current health to that.
But it isn't just values I find myself repeating. I am an early riser, I love coffee and I love to read. I love to find joy in small beautiful things, like dandelions on an unmown yard or brown-eyed susans growing in the ditch along the freeway. I love solitude and peace. These are all things I know my mother to love, and grew up watching her love those things, and naturally learning to love them myself.
As I age, I know now that most of the time she was right, and when she wasn't, it was with loving intention. I hope that if I ever have a family of my own, I will succeed in passing along the ability to love and nurture as uncondionally as my mom did and continues to do for myself and my brothers, and my dad. I am proud to say I am like her.
For starters, my mom loves to nurture. As any mother does, all through my childhood she put the health and needs of the children well above her own, often wearing the same shoes or jackets for years so the family could keep the growing children clothed. She also made sure we knew that other people and animals have feelings. We were taught never to make others feel bad or put them down, never to hit animals, and always to care for them and treat them as equal members of the family.
I didn't just learn about loving others, but also to care for myself. Many of the healthy habits I have today I learned from Mom, and I still love discussing nutrition and cooking with her. Growing up, my parents grew many of our vegetables, which we ate fresh in the summer and canned in the winter, something I had no idea was a luxury until now. As a very young child, my exposure to processed foods and factory farmed produce was minimal, and looking back I have to partially credit my current health to that.
But it isn't just values I find myself repeating. I am an early riser, I love coffee and I love to read. I love to find joy in small beautiful things, like dandelions on an unmown yard or brown-eyed susans growing in the ditch along the freeway. I love solitude and peace. These are all things I know my mother to love, and grew up watching her love those things, and naturally learning to love them myself.
As I age, I know now that most of the time she was right, and when she wasn't, it was with loving intention. I hope that if I ever have a family of my own, I will succeed in passing along the ability to love and nurture as uncondionally as my mom did and continues to do for myself and my brothers, and my dad. I am proud to say I am like her.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Thoughts on My Canine Companion
I grew up with dogs. Throughout my childhood we had three family dogs, each coming and passing as nature intended, each teaching the family lessons in patience and love. Since living on my own, I have wanted a dog but it took a while to get to a place where it was appropriate for me to bring one into my home (I am already a self-proclaimed crazy cat lady). Seven months ago, I met and fell in love with a white German shepherd named Thor.
At first, I wasn't sure about him. While I had a total crush on the big white puppy, I wasn't sure about the disturbance he would bring to my previously feline dominated home. I was worried about about what I would do with him when I go out of town, the daily walks, and certain furniture and shoe destruction. In fact, for 24 hours after I first met him, I had decided against the adoption. But, my heart won over my head in my desire for a canine running buddy and a guard dog for my home.
Months later, I'm quietly typing this blog while Thor rests on the rug in front of the door (one of his "spots"). We had a nice paced jog after work, and while it has taken months for him to adapt to my pacing, we now run nearly one-handed. If we don't run, we walk, in fact he gets me outdoors nearly every day, regardless of wind, snow, sleet, or rain. Only once has he barked meanly at a stranger, and boy, that stranger was not comfortable and moved right along. Neighbors on all sides of the fence are comfortable petting him, and in my opinion he has become the king of the block.
At the same time, having him around called for serious alterations to my lifestyle. My desire to care for him changed my weeknight schedule and when I leave town it's one more thing to plan around (luckily I have a friend who enjoys having him around for a couple days). But it all pays off when I get the puppy dog eyes, success at tricks and a nice calm Thor Bear after a nice long run. The rewards in nurturing are definitly worth it.
At first, I wasn't sure about him. While I had a total crush on the big white puppy, I wasn't sure about the disturbance he would bring to my previously feline dominated home. I was worried about about what I would do with him when I go out of town, the daily walks, and certain furniture and shoe destruction. In fact, for 24 hours after I first met him, I had decided against the adoption. But, my heart won over my head in my desire for a canine running buddy and a guard dog for my home.
Months later, I'm quietly typing this blog while Thor rests on the rug in front of the door (one of his "spots"). We had a nice paced jog after work, and while it has taken months for him to adapt to my pacing, we now run nearly one-handed. If we don't run, we walk, in fact he gets me outdoors nearly every day, regardless of wind, snow, sleet, or rain. Only once has he barked meanly at a stranger, and boy, that stranger was not comfortable and moved right along. Neighbors on all sides of the fence are comfortable petting him, and in my opinion he has become the king of the block.
At the same time, having him around called for serious alterations to my lifestyle. My desire to care for him changed my weeknight schedule and when I leave town it's one more thing to plan around (luckily I have a friend who enjoys having him around for a couple days). But it all pays off when I get the puppy dog eyes, success at tricks and a nice calm Thor Bear after a nice long run. The rewards in nurturing are definitly worth it.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Thoughts on Being an Athlete, Not a Jock
Over the past few years I've developed a habit of running, and with that habit came races, and my next race is a half marathon. When my registration check didn't clear within a couple weeks, I went to the race website to check on my status, and there it was. Athlete Name: Karen Magnuson. Athlete. Me?
I have had many identities, but "athlete" has never been one of them. Sister, daughter, friend, student, girlfriend, ex-wife....the list is long. Athlete has never been on it. Athletes have their picutres on Wheaties boxes and endorse Gatorade. Athletes are lean and lithe and break finish line ribbons with their arms held high in victory. Athletes are not the urban middle-class with self-esteem issues. Athletes have coaches, not trainers, and are interviewed on tv sports shows. Athletes don't huff and puff at an embarrassingly sluggish pace and are simply proud to "finish." No. Athletes compete, and compete to win. Or so I thought.
The label forced me to reconsider my definition of "athlete" and determine if I can really put myself in that category. I am certainly active, with exercise of some form happening nearly every day. Over the past ten years and especially the past four, my fitness has increased significantly. Since taking up running, I have participated in several running events and have tracked decent progress at middle distances. I find my weight training routine is designed to support running muscles and have even incorported yoga here and there to keep those muscles limber. I buy special gear, and eat special foods. When I take a true look at my lifestyle, I seem more and more "athletic" although I don't consider myself an "athlete."
Then it hit me. It's the label "jock" I'm trying to avoid. And while I'm certainly a far cry from being an elite athlete, there is nothing to stop me from living an athletic lifestyle and reaping all the benefits it has to offer. Bring on the sweaty workouts, lean protein, and copies of Runners World magazines. I'll take it.
I have had many identities, but "athlete" has never been one of them. Sister, daughter, friend, student, girlfriend, ex-wife....the list is long. Athlete has never been on it. Athletes have their picutres on Wheaties boxes and endorse Gatorade. Athletes are lean and lithe and break finish line ribbons with their arms held high in victory. Athletes are not the urban middle-class with self-esteem issues. Athletes have coaches, not trainers, and are interviewed on tv sports shows. Athletes don't huff and puff at an embarrassingly sluggish pace and are simply proud to "finish." No. Athletes compete, and compete to win. Or so I thought.
The label forced me to reconsider my definition of "athlete" and determine if I can really put myself in that category. I am certainly active, with exercise of some form happening nearly every day. Over the past ten years and especially the past four, my fitness has increased significantly. Since taking up running, I have participated in several running events and have tracked decent progress at middle distances. I find my weight training routine is designed to support running muscles and have even incorported yoga here and there to keep those muscles limber. I buy special gear, and eat special foods. When I take a true look at my lifestyle, I seem more and more "athletic" although I don't consider myself an "athlete."
Then it hit me. It's the label "jock" I'm trying to avoid. And while I'm certainly a far cry from being an elite athlete, there is nothing to stop me from living an athletic lifestyle and reaping all the benefits it has to offer. Bring on the sweaty workouts, lean protein, and copies of Runners World magazines. I'll take it.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Thoughts on Thank Yous
Today as I lapped around Como Lake on my Sunday afternoon jog, I found myself reflecting on a segment I saw on CBS Sunday Morning, the lost art of hand written thank-yous. The journalist interviewed a man who decided to start writing thank you cards to everyone for whom he held appreciations: he thanked his child's piano teacher, his clients for payment, and the barista at Starbucks for remembering his name. His statement was that a simple show of appreciation brings brought more positive energy to his life in general, and the things for which he was thankful began to flourish all around him.
I realized how rare a thought this might be in our society today. We are so focused on what we don't have, or what we can't do, that we so often fail to remember what we do have and what we can do. As is often the case, I immediately thanked the Universe for my body, which rarely refuses to do what I ask of it, and my mother for instilling the values of good health and the tools to make healthy decisions. This thank you was a little ironic today, as I literally had to drag myself out of the house to do the run! I then thanked Mother Nature for the absolutely beautiful day She blessed St. Paul with, and I thanked the City of Saint Paul for maintaining the path around Como Lake so we may enjoy it during the throes of winter.
As I rounded the second lap, I noticed the American flag flying high next to the cafe on the park and immediately was thankful to live in America, where I can come and go from my home freely without danger of looters, go to the grocery store and have a selection of foods inconceivable in some parts of the world, and hold whatever spiritual beliefs I choose and not be persecuted. Flawed as America may be, she is certainly worth the gratitude of all her citizens.
The more I reflected, the longer the list of thanks became. I am grateful for a steady income, a working vehicle, and a home I can call my own. I realized how abundant my life is, and how easily I fall into the trap of whining over what I don't have, or what I don't do well, or what I could do better. Instead, I need to practice focusing my energy on gratitude for what I have and put loving intention into all I do. Clearly this is something to practice, and on some days, it may not be perfect. But I need to try.
Thank you for your time to read this blog. I hope you are now thinking of the things for which you are grateful.
I realized how rare a thought this might be in our society today. We are so focused on what we don't have, or what we can't do, that we so often fail to remember what we do have and what we can do. As is often the case, I immediately thanked the Universe for my body, which rarely refuses to do what I ask of it, and my mother for instilling the values of good health and the tools to make healthy decisions. This thank you was a little ironic today, as I literally had to drag myself out of the house to do the run! I then thanked Mother Nature for the absolutely beautiful day She blessed St. Paul with, and I thanked the City of Saint Paul for maintaining the path around Como Lake so we may enjoy it during the throes of winter.
As I rounded the second lap, I noticed the American flag flying high next to the cafe on the park and immediately was thankful to live in America, where I can come and go from my home freely without danger of looters, go to the grocery store and have a selection of foods inconceivable in some parts of the world, and hold whatever spiritual beliefs I choose and not be persecuted. Flawed as America may be, she is certainly worth the gratitude of all her citizens.
The more I reflected, the longer the list of thanks became. I am grateful for a steady income, a working vehicle, and a home I can call my own. I realized how abundant my life is, and how easily I fall into the trap of whining over what I don't have, or what I don't do well, or what I could do better. Instead, I need to practice focusing my energy on gratitude for what I have and put loving intention into all I do. Clearly this is something to practice, and on some days, it may not be perfect. But I need to try.
Thank you for your time to read this blog. I hope you are now thinking of the things for which you are grateful.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Thoughts on My Lost Writer
Earlier this afternoon, my mother and I were browsing a big box book store. When we came upon the blank books, I made an offhand comment about how I wished I was still writing so I would have an excuse to purchase a new blank book. She looked at me, eyebrows raised, and said, "You mean you don't write anymore?" I told her not really, that I hammer out the occasional blog but haven't put in the effort I once did.
Later on, as I made the drive from Duluth to St. Paul, I came upon the show Talking Volumes on public radio. The interviewee was an author I'd never heard of, but I nonetheless found myself absorbed in her comments about writing fiction. So often, she said, she didn't know who a character would become, and equally as often entire novels began with simply writing about a basic interaction between two or more people she would witness on a walk or during some mundane trip of daily life in public. This made me think of my own writing, of how lines of poetry once marched through my mind for days before I'd write them down, weave a context for them, and sometimes erase them completely around the verses they inspired. I thought of how I have somewhere between ten and twenty notebooks floating around the house, each a garden of writing filled with poetic weeds with the occasional blooming rose bush shining in unlikely pages. How the writer in me has become a lost friend, the kind of friend you might wonder about at the last moments before a deep sleep or upon hearing an old song on the radio. How sometimes I call her up by means of this blog, and we write for a little while but then she disappears again into the mist of my imagination, unseen until something like a public radio show calls her back.
My last journal entry was May 10, 2010, and so much has changed in my life since then. Where has the lost writer been through family turmoil, love, pets, and accomplishments? Should I coax her out? Am I afraid of the statement that I am a writer, therefore, I must write? And if I don't coax her out, will I forever remain wondering "What if?" like a timid boy abandoning his true love out of fear, only to live a life of regret?
It must find its correct place in my life, and if it belongs, it will stay. Maybe the lost writer leaves for so long of a time because she doesn't feel welcome, like my mind is so occupied with other things and activities that I won't allow her to dance, and so she stays still. Either way, she is visiting now. I shall have to ask her.
Later on, as I made the drive from Duluth to St. Paul, I came upon the show Talking Volumes on public radio. The interviewee was an author I'd never heard of, but I nonetheless found myself absorbed in her comments about writing fiction. So often, she said, she didn't know who a character would become, and equally as often entire novels began with simply writing about a basic interaction between two or more people she would witness on a walk or during some mundane trip of daily life in public. This made me think of my own writing, of how lines of poetry once marched through my mind for days before I'd write them down, weave a context for them, and sometimes erase them completely around the verses they inspired. I thought of how I have somewhere between ten and twenty notebooks floating around the house, each a garden of writing filled with poetic weeds with the occasional blooming rose bush shining in unlikely pages. How the writer in me has become a lost friend, the kind of friend you might wonder about at the last moments before a deep sleep or upon hearing an old song on the radio. How sometimes I call her up by means of this blog, and we write for a little while but then she disappears again into the mist of my imagination, unseen until something like a public radio show calls her back.
My last journal entry was May 10, 2010, and so much has changed in my life since then. Where has the lost writer been through family turmoil, love, pets, and accomplishments? Should I coax her out? Am I afraid of the statement that I am a writer, therefore, I must write? And if I don't coax her out, will I forever remain wondering "What if?" like a timid boy abandoning his true love out of fear, only to live a life of regret?
It must find its correct place in my life, and if it belongs, it will stay. Maybe the lost writer leaves for so long of a time because she doesn't feel welcome, like my mind is so occupied with other things and activities that I won't allow her to dance, and so she stays still. Either way, she is visiting now. I shall have to ask her.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Thoughts on Staying In
It's not unusual in this part of the country to be isolated at home by the weather. Today has turned out to be such a day: a raging blizzard has struck St. Paul, and there's no way my little Corolla is going to make it anyplace. Luckily I was smart enough last night to pick up fixings for a large meal and I have plenty of movies and in-home projects to do. I decided to take the blizzard as a gift of time rather than a frustrating weather event stopping me from my usual goings of here and there.
As I look outside, all I can see is the world being covered up by a huge bluster of white. There's nothing inviting about it (unless you're my yearling German Shepherd, who insists on sitting on the back steps with his head tilted in fascination). It's weather of hot chocolate, flannel sheets, and thick novels. Weather to stay in and stay cozy.
Ironically, this time of year no one in our culture "stays in." Normally, we are out hustling and bustling, gift shopping and party going. It's almost as though our cultural practice of the "Holiday Season" gives Mother Nature the finger while she persistently tries to keep us still with cold and snow. Today is one of the rare days She has met success. Metro Transit has shut down city buses, and anyone I see brave enough to venture out is walking on the street and not the sidewalk. Our Mother is telling us it's time for stillness and quiet, to stay in and be with ourselves, an ancient notion She is enforcing in full today. I hope others can see this as the true gift it is and not stew in frustration at winter's heavy lifting. It's natural to stay in, so just go with the flow, and enjoy.
As I look outside, all I can see is the world being covered up by a huge bluster of white. There's nothing inviting about it (unless you're my yearling German Shepherd, who insists on sitting on the back steps with his head tilted in fascination). It's weather of hot chocolate, flannel sheets, and thick novels. Weather to stay in and stay cozy.
Ironically, this time of year no one in our culture "stays in." Normally, we are out hustling and bustling, gift shopping and party going. It's almost as though our cultural practice of the "Holiday Season" gives Mother Nature the finger while she persistently tries to keep us still with cold and snow. Today is one of the rare days She has met success. Metro Transit has shut down city buses, and anyone I see brave enough to venture out is walking on the street and not the sidewalk. Our Mother is telling us it's time for stillness and quiet, to stay in and be with ourselves, an ancient notion She is enforcing in full today. I hope others can see this as the true gift it is and not stew in frustration at winter's heavy lifting. It's natural to stay in, so just go with the flow, and enjoy.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thoughts on Fresh Paint
Over the course of the past year and a half or so, I've been slowly changing the colors of all the rooms of my house. It started with the three-season porch (red to purple), then the master bedroom (nicotine off white to eucalyptus green), the kitchen (awful pastel sea green to straw yellow), and finally my living/dining room space, which has been the source of my labor for the past three days. This process has proven to be most therapeutic.
The history of my tenure in this home is a sad one. The emotional wounds have long scarred over and I have no wish to scratch them here, but occasionally a wound re-opens and I find myself wanting to live somewhere else. However, because of the timing of my purchase, there isn't a economically wise way out of the mortgage. So I'm left to deal with it, but I decided I'm not going to live with it "as is." My method of sealing the wounds for good involves paint, and not only the new color but the process involved.
Before you can think of painting, cleaning must happen first. All the dust and grime needs to go, all the nail holes filled in. This part of the process was particularly wonderful the living room, since the "ex" had decided it a nice idea to hang a print with not two, not three, but EIGHT roofing nails! I don't need to say why this was unwise, but when the print was removed it was destroyed and the nails left nasty holes in the wall. The holes are no more, and after a few weeks of the new paint I probably won't remember them anymore.
The color itself is much brighter than the old. I went from the same nicotine-stain off white of the bedroom to a much brighter porcelain off white. It's still neutral, but the color actually makes the room look bigger. With every brush or roller stroke, I sealed away forever every disagreement, every name-calling, and every tear that was shed in this space before, during, and after that relationship. A fresh coat of paint has become more than a new color. It is an intrinsic method of healing and moving forward without a constant reminder of what is behind.
The history of my tenure in this home is a sad one. The emotional wounds have long scarred over and I have no wish to scratch them here, but occasionally a wound re-opens and I find myself wanting to live somewhere else. However, because of the timing of my purchase, there isn't a economically wise way out of the mortgage. So I'm left to deal with it, but I decided I'm not going to live with it "as is." My method of sealing the wounds for good involves paint, and not only the new color but the process involved.
Before you can think of painting, cleaning must happen first. All the dust and grime needs to go, all the nail holes filled in. This part of the process was particularly wonderful the living room, since the "ex" had decided it a nice idea to hang a print with not two, not three, but EIGHT roofing nails! I don't need to say why this was unwise, but when the print was removed it was destroyed and the nails left nasty holes in the wall. The holes are no more, and after a few weeks of the new paint I probably won't remember them anymore.
The color itself is much brighter than the old. I went from the same nicotine-stain off white of the bedroom to a much brighter porcelain off white. It's still neutral, but the color actually makes the room look bigger. With every brush or roller stroke, I sealed away forever every disagreement, every name-calling, and every tear that was shed in this space before, during, and after that relationship. A fresh coat of paint has become more than a new color. It is an intrinsic method of healing and moving forward without a constant reminder of what is behind.
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