Update

Last week I talked about how much I hate running.

But! I went with my running group last night, and I ran all the way around the outer loop of Greenlake, and I didn't need to stop ONCE! I ran down to the lake too, and ran home-- I think it was close to 4 or 5 miles in all. I felt stronger, and I'm pretty sure we were going faster.

I bet you anything it's because I was engrossed in conversation.

Engrossed is such an unfortunate word, isn't it? It sounds like the exact opposite of what it means. Words like pungent and diaphanous are delicious because they SOUND just how they MEAN... Not so with engrossed. Engrossed sounds gross.

Anyway: I'm going to keep trying with the running thing. I think I would like to say that, for at least a brief period of my life, I could run a few miles without stopping. I keep telling myself the prime of my life isn't going to last much longer, and I really ought to make the most of it while I'm there.

This is Iris, by the way: Zeus's rainbow messenger, as depicted by Howard David Johnson.


Doesn't she look like she could run fast?

Seasons

Went on a photo walk yesterday. Crisp; clear; sun streaming.

I kept my camera on, wandering into various neighbors' yards, zooming in on leaves and trees and dying blooms. Indeed: most of the "beautiful" things I found were in the process of expiring:






When my roommates looked at my pictures after I got home, they noted that the pictures were depressing-- especially that one of the face-planting dahlia.

But, for me, there's some sort of comfort in seeing these seasons play out, the way they so familiarly do. I remember spring break my Junior year of college-- the year I studied abroad-- traveling around Ireland with some of my girlfriends. It was the first time I'd ever had to use a map to navigate alongside a driver. My bad-ass friend Nicole took the wheel, and I directed us through tiny town after teeny tiny town, along narrow Irish roads, picking the next whimsical name to get us through. I always felt so delighted when, sure enough, just like the map said, Castleblaney would arrive, and then Tandragee, and then Seapatrick.

There's a comfort in knowing what to anticipate, and then finding yourself there.

A friend of mine is going through her first tough break-up, and I sent her a message to try to help her along. I wrote that I guessed she was probably in the "missing-stage" now, and described to her what I had learned are the different seasons in managing a broken heart. For better or for worse, I've had my heart broken-- the big, bad, shattering kind of broken-- three times now. But out of that, has come a recognition of seasons.

In spring you begin.
In summer you exult.
In fall you recognize the expiring.
And then comes a long, broken-hearted winter.

And in that winter comes first disbelief, and then whole-hearted MISSING, and then a hollow, abstract sort of loneliness, and then... as the spring begins again... gradual objectivity, a re-awakening of one's self as an independent heart, and sooner or later, a readiness to try again.

Spring DOES come again.

My broken heart-- this most recent one-- began this last spring... the literal one, not the figurative one. And so spring was snow, and sleet, and rain. Summer was watching buds creep out of their storm battered branches. And now, this fall, I'm once more experiencing the beginning of tentative blooms.

So seeing a dying rose doesn't seem tragic; it seems familiar, and comforting-- it's something I can relate to. The rose will encounter summer once again, and because of that, it's alright that it must head into winter. I think part of the letting go, and letting it all move through me is accepting that there's a winter that comes after fall, and rejoicing that spring inevitably comes after winter.

Loving these words today:

Ecclesiastes 3:
1 There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:

2 a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,

3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,

4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,

5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

6 a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,

7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,

8 a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.

Commuting

My school is about a half-hour away from my home, and now that the summer's expired, I tend to drive in as the sun rises, and often drive home after dark.

What a pain, right? A long commute. Who wants a long commute?

And yet...

Last night, as the rain began to pour down after days of sunshine, the freeways clogged, and what should have been a 30 minute drive stretched into almost an hour. See this photo banner, at the top of my blog? That's the view from the Alaskan Way viaduct, where I was stuck last night for about twenty minutes.

Something about being STUCK somewhere though, with no way of getting unstuck anytime soon, is almost peaceful.

I sat in my dark car, listened to the rain fall and the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers, and took in the lights of the Seattle skyline. I put my Ipod on a slow song, and let my mind wander. I thought about some of my students, and wondered how they would fare outside of high-school, and thought about moments from class.

It was so restful.

This morning, I drove in before the sun rose, and let myself be serenaded in the dark by KEXP. John played a Devotchka song, and its violins and gentle, driving rhythm made the concrete curves a wish; made the oncoming lights a hum; made the braking cars a sigh; made my heart gentle.

Often, when driving in, I'm kissed by one of the most incredible views of Mt. Rainier you can get. She looms as I come around a bend-- sometimes austere, sometimes coy, sometimes majestic, sometimes pensive. I always pick an adjective to describe how she seems to be feeling that morning. "Lonely." "Proud." "Quiet." On those clear mornings when she's out, I'll inevitably see the dawn rip through the sky in oranges and reds and purples, and I'll WONDER again, feel awed again.

I miss my road trip sometimes.

I find it again sometimes.

On Running

I hate running. This is a well known fact. I tell everyone.

I LOVE walks however. I love going on walks with my camera and taking little pictures of things I find which are wonderful, like this:


Or like this:



But I hate running.

HOWEVER: in an effort to be more intentional about being active (because I know, ultimately, my body and my psyche love me more when I am active), AND, in an effort to plug into my church community, I joined a running group through my church. It is called, "Fit and Faithful."

I think that's sort of funny.

I forgot to go to the first Fit and Faithful. My sub-conscious continues to rebel against physical strain. I remembered to go to the second one though and, surprise surprise! I LOVED it!

I ran with this fantastic older woman named Anna. The first thing I found out about her is that she's taking a course to learn how to be a black-jack dealer. The second thing I found out about her was that she rides a "Ninja" motorcycle. The third thing, fourth thing, and fifth thing I found out about her respectively, was that she's a glass artist, married her husband two years ago after just five dates, and that she was in the navy.

She's FASCINATING! Also, so nice.

We ran all the way around the outer loop at Greenlake, and I was so delightfully distracted by my running buddy's life story, I only needed to stop once to walk, and it was just for a tiny, titchy bit.

I was so proud of myself.

SO proud, in fact, that I tried going for a second run yesterday, all by myself. I decided that if I was going to keep up with my group, I needed to get myself into relatively decent running shape.

Also, it was a gorgeous fall day. (I am, admittedly, a fair-weather worker-outer. I am a wussy wussy wimp when weather turns AVERSE.)

Despite the gorgeous weather though, my solo run....

Was abysmal.

I ran the inner loop. The short loop. The easy loop. I stopped many times. I felt sore. I felt tired. I had music on, and I hated my I-pod. Hated the music. Hated the whole ordeal.

Even when I pretended I was Iris, Zeus's rainbow messenger, and imagined a rainbow streaming out behind me, I hated running. (I am teaching mythology to my sophomores right now. I like pretending to be Iris.) I was all by myself, and I was tired, and I haaaaaated running.

Then I thought to myself, "No wonder I've never become a runner-- I've always tried to run on my own. I need a RUNNING BUDDY."

I am an extrovert folks. You want an extrovert to do something, give them people to do it with. On my own, when I have the freedom to quit, I give up. But when I'm with people, I suck it up and keep going until I'm finally at the blissful rubbery legs phase where it stops sucking so bad. (Just ask Annie. She's helped me get to the rubbery legs stage before.)

Finally, after huffing and puffing and giving up, I just started walking.

And-- once again-- I was loving life! I saw an autumn tree all lit up by the late afternoon sun, and it looked like something out of Eden. I saw a sweet little family taking pictures by the tree. I saw baby roses. I saw flirting dogs. I saw giant, radiant spider webs. I NOTICED things.

And of course, I wished for my camera. I hadn't brought it because I was planning to run. Curses on running! Curses!

This is my query then: should I just accept that it is not my fate to be a runner? Should I just continue doing what I love, and go on picture walks? Or should I push through the suckage so that I can be a happy deer-like frolicker with my running group? Should I force myself to join the rest of Seattle in pounding the pavement around Greenlake, rather than ambling along it?

And if you think I should do the second, do you know of someone who can be my running friend?

Paths and Bricks and Signs

Have been doing a unit on Mere Christianity with my seniors. (Remember: private Christian school.) Predestination vs. freewill has become a hot topic of debate. We've been trying real hard to figure out just how IT (i.e. the universe, salvation, living life, etc.) all works. One day, I drew four cartoon-y squiggles on the board, to represent two cartoon-y paths.

"Maybe the way it works, is that when God creates us, He has this BEST story in mind for us. Right? If everything went according to His plan, *this* would be THE best story for our lives. That's this path. BUT: we have the bricks in our hands, and we get to choose where we lay the bricks down. We can choose to seek Him, and pray for guidance, and lay the bricks down on His path... OR: we can lay the bricks down on our OWN path. It's our choice. We've got the bricks. But our own path is never going to measure up to the one He's envisioned. It could just never be as good of a story."

Someone else pointed out that, maybe God wants us to get to certain key landmarks, but that we can determine how we get there. That's a good idea too, I think. I also think, if we're the praying sort and are asking for God to play a part in our lives, then we sometimes allow Him to pull rank on where we lay the bricks down. Sometimes, it seems like we HAVE to lay them down a certain way, even when we'd prefer to lay them down differently. That's probably Him interfering. (We asked Him to.)

In any case, this evening, I am having these thoughts:

1.) We pray for God's will, and sometimes we ask for things.

2.) Sometimes we ask for things that are not on the "best-story" path. It's like, we see a sign pointing down a path that says, "THIS LOOKS GOOD" and-- of course-- we want to go down that one.

3.) Sometimes God doesn't give us those things, because He knows if we got them, we would run after them so fast, we'd lose the good path. In those cases, it's like God doesn't even let us find the THIS LOOKS GOOD sign.

4.) Sometimes God DOES give us those things, because He knows when we get them, we'll realize, "Oh. Hey. This actually isn't the way I want my life to go after all." It's sort of like, He shows us the THIS LOOKS GOOD path, and lets us look down it, because He knows-- this time-- we'll realize that that path isn't the best story. And so, we'll make our way very comfortably back to the good one.

I think I'm experiencing a bit of "4" lately. Which is always surprising.

I'm watching some of my favorite people experience what I suspect is a bit of #3. That's tougher stuff.

So.

These are my thoughts this Monday evening.

Ebb and Flow

I had a great weekend.


@ Shannon's art opening, currently on display at Cafe Lulu.





@ Stacy and Blake's wedding




But this is sort of how I feel right now.


en route to Grants Pass in southern OR, along the 101.

And that's life, right?

So praise the Lord.

Scooching

From a journal entry-- 9/25/2010

Just read through the whole first half of this journal... Watched the inside scenery, the emotional terrain shift and slowly melt... like a glacier, making its way down the mountainside. Carefully, gently, surely-- arriving in new places incrementally until the distance has finally grown into miles from where it started.

"You've come a long way, baby."


En route to Montrose, CO

Wishing On

In a field at sunrise, somewhere in Northern Arizona.

Maybe Grace is a bird that takes both of us up to the clouds
And we'll ride on her wings, and we'll soar
And we'll be safe and sound.
She'll fly 'round the earth, keeping pace with the quiet sunrise;
We'll see color and light
And have only awakening eyes.



*

What the Morning Glory learned from the Rose

Once upon a time, a Morning Glory wound its budding vine through a hydrangea bush, and opened its white cheerful bloom against a background of blue.


"Good morning!" the Morning Glory chirped to the hydrangeas. But the hydrangeas stayed silent. They were too busy being blue to chat.

Suddenly the Morning Glory felt embarrassed. What was she doing in a hydrangea bush? Surely she didn't belong there-- nothing about her white trumpet bloom matched anything around her. "I'm sorry," she stammered out to the hydrangeas. "I wasn't thinking. I'll go."

"What you ought to do," a bloom on her left mused in a very hydrangea-ish voice, "Is change your bloom. No flower ought to be so hideously DIFFERENT as you."

The Morning Glory was eager to be accepted, so she agreed immediately. "Yes-- yes I'll try!"

And she did try. She didn't bloom in the first hours of the morning, as she always used to do. Instead, she tried to be like the hydrangeas, and keep her bloom open in the heat of the day. It was terribly hard-- the sun baked her gentle petals and it was all she could do to keep from curling up her blossom. But she hated being different, so she tried to be like everything around her.

So there was no flower to greet the morning.

Beneath the hydrangea bush was a dandelion, and it watched the Morning Glory struggle for weeks to change herself. Finally, the dandelion, who by now had dried and fluffed, asked the Morning Glory, "Why are you trying to be like the hydrangeas?"

"No flower wants to be so hideously different," the Morning Glory replied, from her exhausted, sun-baked perch. "I just want to be the same. You should try. You're a weed. You should try to be like us flowers."


And the dandelion suddenly felt very embarrassed. He had never thought of himself as a weed before. "What can I do to be more like a flower?" he asked, ashamed.

"You shouldn't let your seeds fly off when you're blown by the wind," she said, grumpily. It was difficult for the Morning Glory to feel anything but grumpy while she was trying so hard to be different. "No one wants more weeds."

So the dandelion made up his mind to hold on tight to his seeds. Even when a little child picked him and happily crowed to her mother that she was going to "blow the flower and make a wish!" the dandelion didn't let his seeds go.

And the child was disappointed because there was nothing to wish on.

But the story of the Morning Glory and the Dandelion spread to the other flowers, and soon, all the flowers were trying to change themselves so that they could be more like something else.

The dahlias tried to flatten their petals, so that they could be more like the daisies.


... And the girls who wanted dahlias in bouquets were disappointed to find them so flattened.

Meanwhile, the daisies felt that they ought to grow in cultivated gardens, like the dahlias. They abandoned their spots in the fields, and in the woods, and next to streams, and determined that they would only grow in greenhouses.


... And there were no wildflowers to welcome those that had walked off the beaten paths.

The desert flowers felt they should try to grow where it rained...


And there was no color in the desert.

The water lilies tried to grow in the heat--


And they dried up and shriveled.


The crocuses were ashamed to be the first flowers to bloom after winter, so they tried to bloom later, like everything else--


And there was nothing to trumpet the arrival of spring.

The clover tried to be bigger and grander--


And its blooms were made ragged by the wind.

The columbine tried to become more simple and round--


And the hikers brushed by it without a moment's notice.

All over the world, the flowers tried to change, but it only made them paler, feebler, weaker, and more ordinary. Even the hydrangeas had given up their blue.


Finally, the only thing left to plant in the window boxes were silk flowers that people made with machines--


But even the silk flowers were a weak memory of what had been. No one could remember what the real flowers had looked like when they had all been happily themselves.

There was only one flower left in the whole world that had not tried to change itself:


Even when the other flowers had told the Rose she should try to rid herself of thorns, or give up her scent, or try to flatten her petals, she grew on just as she always had: thorny, perfumed, and color wonderful.


Finally, the Morning Glory-- who was still feebly trying to be like the hydrangeas-- made up her mind that she'd much rather be like the Rose. There was just something about the Rose. The Morning Glory summoned all her remaining strength and unwound her vine from the hydrangea bush. She presented herself to the Rose and asked, "Rose-- how can I be like you?"

The Rose was joyfully basking in the sun, and took a moment before looking down at the worn out, bedraggled Morning Glory. Every petal on the Rose looked like a smile-- she couldn't help being happy.


"What is it you want to do?" she asked the tired little Morning Glory.

"I just want to be different. I just want to be better. You're the only beautiful one left," the Morning Glory wept. "How can I be like you?"

The Rose sighed a breath of sweet scented air, and looked kindly at the Morning Glory. "You must never be beautiful like me," she said.


"You must only be beautiful like you. You must greet the day, as only you can. You must be white, when all around you is blue. You must cover trellises with your vines and brighten the gardens. You must twist into a bud in the heat of the day to protect your glorious trumpet from fading. Why would you want to be beautiful like me when you are made to be beautiful like you? You must be a spark of difference."

But the Morning Glory cried, "I don't want to be hideously different."

The Rose turned its face back to the sun and said, "To be different is what it means to be beautiful."


"You can say that," the Morning Glory said. "Everyone knows you're the most beautiful flower."

"But I will fade," the Rose said gently. "I will age, and my petals will fall. Even now, I'm growing older. But every petal that falls will carry with it my joy of living. Even when I fade, I will tell a story of a beautiful life. I have loved being me."


"Now go," the Rose said to the Morning Glory. "Go grow in the way only you can. You must be beautiful in your own way." The Rose smiled. "You will love it."

And so the Morning Glory found a place to grow that felt comfortable, and felt right. She bloomed in the morning, greeting the sun as it rose. She wound her vines up garden trellises and through hydrangea bushes and within the junipers, and when she bloomed, she was something different, and something beautiful.

Insufficient

I haven't been posting because I haven't known how to put these first three weeks into words.

You know when you see a sunset, and its unequivocal beauty swallows anything you could say to describe it?

I love my job.

I love my students.




I love what I get to do every day.

Sometimes I feel so tired.

But, man I love being able to do what gets me this tired.

I guess I just feel lucky.

But that's like saying the sunset is simply red.