On a lighter note, I would like to note that everything is always changing and yet the same. For instance, I recently dropped my eldest at college. She is a freshman. What got me was not only the devastation (I put up a good front but cried for the first 2 hours of the drive home, then pulled myself together, worried that crying while driving was about like texting while driving in terms of danger to self and others), but also the generally overweight and old appearing parents. I kept looking at myself and thinking, dang am I like that? And I think maybe I am, but it is a hard pill to swallow. And for as long as they have made colleges, the parents of students have looked out of place. It is written in some book somewhere, I know.
Tomorrow, school starts for one of my still-at-homes. Back to school he goes, after a hiatus of independent study. Here is what has changed in my view of education since I started parenting. If you are a new parent or not yet a parent but plan to be in the future, feel free to take notes.
1) Rich people who can send their kids to private schools with a lot of resources, small classes, and a high standard for academics will get a better education. I used to think public schools were where it is at, and I continue to use them, but the harsh truth is they, by necessity, cater to those who are already going to be successful, not those who need that extra something. And I am as about as liberal as they come.
2) Boys are not welcome in public schools, unless they act like girls. I used to think boys and girls were more a societal pressure difference than an actual difference. But boys make guns with hands and sticks before they ever watch a TV show and they make things drive like cars before anyone teaches them to, and they are, in general, bewildered by the rules of school, which largely include keeping your hands politely on your lap and yes-ma'aming a lot. God help you if you are a boy with an engine that needs to stay revved during all waking hours.
3) I love public school teachers. Just to be clear.
4) I had better change the subject as this is no longer qualifying as "on a lighter note".
5) I dropped out of high school at age 16 and went to college. Little known fact.
6) No, I will not be making up those lost PE credits. I burned that uniform long ago.
My other still-at-home has 2 more weeks of summer, as there is a late start for some of our schools in town. She is off at camp and is generally the busiest human being I know. Anyway, I have 2 more weeks to try to talk her into cross country as the sport of choice. Wish me luck.
And what does any of this, aside from pushing my child into the best sport ever, have to do with running? I have noticed that about 3 months ago I made a goal for myself, regarding marathon times and pixie dust. Actually really it was just about marathon times, but I am now in search of pixie dust because without it I am not sure if I can believe. I am almost never injured. In high school, a stress fracture put my tibia out of commission. A few years ago, my achilles tendon screamed at me for awhile. And for awhile my iliotibial band rubbed me the wrong way. But since I declared a goal for the 26.2, my body has been in full rebellion. Head to toe, actually: depression. Back pain (thank God for Molly, masseuse extraordinaire). Hamstring tightness. Plantar fasciitis. And most recently what was surely, in my mind, a stress fracture, though now I think most likely just garden variety shin splints. It is like the Field of Screams. If you declare the goal, they will make you succumb.
As long as they have made runners, they have made injuries. But they have also made dreams. And spandex. What did we run in prior to spandex?
I want to briefly discuss the iliotibial band, known also as the ITB. I have seen it up close and personal in my anatomy class. It is like a really big, long piece of beef jerky. How can it possibly be stretched? Have you ever tried to stretch a piece of beef jerky? What, exactly, is beef jerky anyway?
Tinker Bell was supposedly created from the laugh of the first baby (Adam? Caveman? Was it a girl? Who came first, the baby or the Mom?), which broke into a thousand pieces and went skipping about, starting the whole fairy thing. The first Tinker Bell model was Margaret Kerry. She had to wear a swim suit for 6 months so the animator of Tinkerbell could draw her and her "slender cute figure". OMG.
All I am saying is that Peter Pan could not fly without the Pixie Dust. And I want some of that.
Modern Day Pixie Dust for Marathoners and other Miscreants:
1) A Coach,
2) Adequate Sleep.
3) Zen and the Art of Musculoskeletal Maintenance.
4) A Sense of Humor.
5) A Dog Who Will Not Tolerate a Day Without a Run.
6) Daily Stretches of the Beef Jerky and Such Tendons.
7) Realization that Being a Master Means You Might Be Old, But Damn Are You Ever Wise!
8) Knowledge that the Kids will be What They Will Be. Now Go For a Run, For Heaven's Sake.
9) Shoes. Stop Going Barefoot. Unless You Weigh 12 Pounds.
10) Belief.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Hope
I wrote about depression recently. Of course it is on everybody's radar now, at least for a few minutes.
Robin Williams was so funny. Nay, the funniest. He used to scare me a little back in the 70's and 80's when he would just get going on some stage and the host of whatever show he was on was clearly no longer in the driver's seat, but sat back in awe, probably thinking something like "I used to be funny too." Over the decades, RW mellowed a bit. Probably more sober, maybe less manic.
He rode bike to feel well. He talked about this a little last year on The Daily Show. Also, in "Night at the Museum 2" (yes I watched this and I enjoyed it, so there) he, as Teddy Roosevelt, said the key to happiness is "daily physical exercise". The key to so much in our health is daily physical exercise: I do not care if you are 5 or 95, wobbly or an elite athlete. When I tell people this as a doctor, their eyes generally glaze over. It is not B.S. though, it is science.
So maybe if Robin Williams had just gone for more bike rides? Ah, if only. And yes, maybe. But it can be hard to get in the saddle when you are pinned under despair, and particularly if that despair is accompanied by a whiskey chaser. Or whatever the drug of choice (video games? meth? our local personal favorite, weed?).
There is a general malaise that has always accompanied being human, and we have become fairly adept at using technology and busy-ness to avoid it. I am reading This House of Sky by Ivan Doig right now. In that time and place (ranching in the unrelenting wilds of Montana, mid last century and earlier), hard work really does not leave any space for malaise. It is a lovely memoir, a tenderly painted picture and a love story of sorts, love of land and family. It also is about the pain of loss. Their life sort of sucks: I keep imagining my own children being put to the chores, the constant moving, the boarding with townsfolk they hardly know during school months. I cannot imagine it.
The ranchers, with their outhouses and their biting off of the testicles of baby lambs, are not movie stars, nay icons of a generation or three, living in one of the most beautiful parts of Marin County. Not like Robin Williams.
Everyone has their struggle, it is said. I am here to tell you that is a fact, though some people glide through much easier than others, and I am just not sure why that is. We are just made up of all these cells and chemicals and infinitely smaller particles that flavor us just so, and somehow hold us together in the days we are allotted here on Earth.
My father sang every morning, while knotting his tie in front of the mirror of his room in his very modest home. He was a dramatic guy, and funny and unpredictable in his humor, unapologetic to the world for being himself, all full of opinions about justice and peace. You just never knew when he would break into an imitation of Richard Nixon, or break into song in a public place. He had a heart attack in his early 40's, and several after. He lost his wife, he had a heart transplant, he watched his children struggle, he watched the world continue to war with itself. And yet he sang. He walked religiously, and I think he knew religious, being a pastor and all. And he just made this one request to me: leave the world better than how you found it. He rarely swore (at least not in English), and almost never involving God in that transaction. But I did hear him once say "That goddamn depression." He knew that it was real, and not everyone can greet the day with song, no matter how hard they will themselves to do so.
There is an opportunity, in losing such a widely loved man as Robin Williams, for a better understanding and a bit more compassion for the struggles of others. Because that is really why we are here on Earth: to be kind to others.
And to exercise. Seriously, exercise is the strongest drug, the purest medicine, the absolute best high, the ticket to a front row seat in the happy life extravaganza.
Music is good too. As is nature.
My oldest child leaves for college in 2 days. That alone could be cause for complete devastation. And yes, I am sad. But inside of me there is this little burst joy for her. The world, it is out there. Its pleasures and hurts must be deeply mined and there is no time to waste. Read! Write! Learn Latin, go to parties, run cross country, stay up late and study. Fall in love. Learn about your inner strength. Visit often. Call even more often. And never forget, in times of despair, that you are deeply loved. Leave the world better than how you found it. Be kind to others. Notice everything. Exercise daily.
We must not let Robin Williams dash our hopes. He was gifted. He gave us his gift. And he also was human and deeply mired in goddamn depression. The world might have been kinder to him.
Rest in peace.
Robin Williams was so funny. Nay, the funniest. He used to scare me a little back in the 70's and 80's when he would just get going on some stage and the host of whatever show he was on was clearly no longer in the driver's seat, but sat back in awe, probably thinking something like "I used to be funny too." Over the decades, RW mellowed a bit. Probably more sober, maybe less manic.
He rode bike to feel well. He talked about this a little last year on The Daily Show. Also, in "Night at the Museum 2" (yes I watched this and I enjoyed it, so there) he, as Teddy Roosevelt, said the key to happiness is "daily physical exercise". The key to so much in our health is daily physical exercise: I do not care if you are 5 or 95, wobbly or an elite athlete. When I tell people this as a doctor, their eyes generally glaze over. It is not B.S. though, it is science.
So maybe if Robin Williams had just gone for more bike rides? Ah, if only. And yes, maybe. But it can be hard to get in the saddle when you are pinned under despair, and particularly if that despair is accompanied by a whiskey chaser. Or whatever the drug of choice (video games? meth? our local personal favorite, weed?).
There is a general malaise that has always accompanied being human, and we have become fairly adept at using technology and busy-ness to avoid it. I am reading This House of Sky by Ivan Doig right now. In that time and place (ranching in the unrelenting wilds of Montana, mid last century and earlier), hard work really does not leave any space for malaise. It is a lovely memoir, a tenderly painted picture and a love story of sorts, love of land and family. It also is about the pain of loss. Their life sort of sucks: I keep imagining my own children being put to the chores, the constant moving, the boarding with townsfolk they hardly know during school months. I cannot imagine it.
The ranchers, with their outhouses and their biting off of the testicles of baby lambs, are not movie stars, nay icons of a generation or three, living in one of the most beautiful parts of Marin County. Not like Robin Williams.
Everyone has their struggle, it is said. I am here to tell you that is a fact, though some people glide through much easier than others, and I am just not sure why that is. We are just made up of all these cells and chemicals and infinitely smaller particles that flavor us just so, and somehow hold us together in the days we are allotted here on Earth.
My father sang every morning, while knotting his tie in front of the mirror of his room in his very modest home. He was a dramatic guy, and funny and unpredictable in his humor, unapologetic to the world for being himself, all full of opinions about justice and peace. You just never knew when he would break into an imitation of Richard Nixon, or break into song in a public place. He had a heart attack in his early 40's, and several after. He lost his wife, he had a heart transplant, he watched his children struggle, he watched the world continue to war with itself. And yet he sang. He walked religiously, and I think he knew religious, being a pastor and all. And he just made this one request to me: leave the world better than how you found it. He rarely swore (at least not in English), and almost never involving God in that transaction. But I did hear him once say "That goddamn depression." He knew that it was real, and not everyone can greet the day with song, no matter how hard they will themselves to do so.
There is an opportunity, in losing such a widely loved man as Robin Williams, for a better understanding and a bit more compassion for the struggles of others. Because that is really why we are here on Earth: to be kind to others.
And to exercise. Seriously, exercise is the strongest drug, the purest medicine, the absolute best high, the ticket to a front row seat in the happy life extravaganza.
Music is good too. As is nature.
My oldest child leaves for college in 2 days. That alone could be cause for complete devastation. And yes, I am sad. But inside of me there is this little burst joy for her. The world, it is out there. Its pleasures and hurts must be deeply mined and there is no time to waste. Read! Write! Learn Latin, go to parties, run cross country, stay up late and study. Fall in love. Learn about your inner strength. Visit often. Call even more often. And never forget, in times of despair, that you are deeply loved. Leave the world better than how you found it. Be kind to others. Notice everything. Exercise daily.
We must not let Robin Williams dash our hopes. He was gifted. He gave us his gift. And he also was human and deeply mired in goddamn depression. The world might have been kinder to him.
Rest in peace.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Saints
Every day at exactly 11:30 am, I am treated to a chorus of "Oh, When the Saints". I am seated above an adult day health center, with a window to overlook the daily activities. And that is just one of the daily activities. DAILY. I have thought about taping a poster with requests for new songs on my office window, but it occurred to me that my need for variety in musical tunes may not meet the needs of an elder with significant memory loss. Routine, dependable, unwavering, predictable routine might be the best thing. And delving into the oldies is no mistake. A person with dementia may not remember what they had for breakfast or that they met you 5 minutes ago, but they have the most solid of memories of their young years. It is like the brain shuts one door and opens another. During our relatively youthful years the door to the past is maybe just a bit ajar, but we cannot really access the full experience. This may be good, because if I could spend my day playing in my backyard with my Mom bringing me cookies and Kool-Aid, I would probably never get anything else done.
I am not all that old yet, but I am finding myself craving routine. My work offers that now (insofar as any doctor job can: there are usually a few surprises each day. Not at 11:30 am though). My saint of a husband keeps us all fed and watered. My dog knows when it is bedtime and my chickens know when it is time to get up in the morning. My runner self is completely discombobulated though. I have spent so many years in complete time chaos (college, jobs with changeable shifts, med school, residency, and the last 12 years of work ruling me with no intention of offering me a routine) that I developed a plan for running: do it whenever. Which no longer works for this body and mind.
As I find myself relatively out of shape, and signed up for a marathon in 11 weeks, I wonder if it is wise to waddle to the starting line. I am very competitive with myself, and dislike failure. I also respect the marathon. You gotta invest in the aerobic account, or you will find yourself broke and shattered at mile 20.
All that said, it is time to get serious. I am tired of my brain chemistry putting me in a stranglehold. So what if I go and run slow or (gasp) DNF. I could DNS, but I think that might be the end of me. I will just become one of those characters in Wall-E.
Therefore, come humiliation, lactic acidosis or pain beyond belief, I will try.
But I need to focus on what inspires me:
1) Young Warriors.
2) Old (as in friends for a long time, just to be clear), Speedy friends.
3) Dog.
4) Roxana.
5) Beauty.
6) The Strong Person I know resides within.
Oh, When the starting gun sounds its call, Lord I want to be in that number.
And if I am last, well, at least I showed up.
Come on everybody, sing along!
I am not all that old yet, but I am finding myself craving routine. My work offers that now (insofar as any doctor job can: there are usually a few surprises each day. Not at 11:30 am though). My saint of a husband keeps us all fed and watered. My dog knows when it is bedtime and my chickens know when it is time to get up in the morning. My runner self is completely discombobulated though. I have spent so many years in complete time chaos (college, jobs with changeable shifts, med school, residency, and the last 12 years of work ruling me with no intention of offering me a routine) that I developed a plan for running: do it whenever. Which no longer works for this body and mind.
As I find myself relatively out of shape, and signed up for a marathon in 11 weeks, I wonder if it is wise to waddle to the starting line. I am very competitive with myself, and dislike failure. I also respect the marathon. You gotta invest in the aerobic account, or you will find yourself broke and shattered at mile 20.
All that said, it is time to get serious. I am tired of my brain chemistry putting me in a stranglehold. So what if I go and run slow or (gasp) DNF. I could DNS, but I think that might be the end of me. I will just become one of those characters in Wall-E.
Therefore, come humiliation, lactic acidosis or pain beyond belief, I will try.
But I need to focus on what inspires me:
1) Young Warriors.
2) Old (as in friends for a long time, just to be clear), Speedy friends.
3) Dog.
4) Roxana.
5) Beauty.
6) The Strong Person I know resides within.
Oh, When the starting gun sounds its call, Lord I want to be in that number.
And if I am last, well, at least I showed up.
Come on everybody, sing along!
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Brain Chemistry
Running is about talent.
Running is about physique (skinnier the better, with muscles in all the right places).
Running is about mental toughness.
The End.
Just Kidding, or "JK" as they say nowadays.
I started running at age 12. I mean, I ran before age 12--all kids run, but usually they get yelled at for it ("no running in school!" "no running in church!" "no running in the house!" "no running in the grocery store!").
But at age 12, I ran intentionally. I ran to start getting faster, to consider the possibility of winning races. I started taping pictures of Alberto Salazar on my wall.
Talent? Not really.
Physique? Nope.
Mental toughness. Well, yes, I guess so. Aye, there's the rub.
I have decided: Running is about Brain Chemistry. Has anyone out there ever experienced depression? I am not talking about: "Geez, I am so depressed that the Giants lost again." Or, "I find that movie "The Fault in Our Stars" rather depressing". Or, "Are you as depressed as I am that the Supreme Court is in bed with a store as stupidly named as The Hobby Lobby?"
I am talking about the crush of despair, for no good reason. There are plenty of reasons to be down and discouraged in life, but depression is pure darkness.
It is challenging to run in the dark. There are head lamps, of course. Last time I used a head lamp, a 15 year old had to lead me out of the woods. My vision is fair by day and abysmal by night. Close your eyes and imagine an abyss. You are not sure if your next step will lead to oblivion or if your last step did and here is where you landed. Oblivion is nothing to crow about. And crows are the darkest birds I know.
Alberto Salazar talked about depression in his book 14 Minutes. He took Prozac and ran faster for it. He got a lot of flak for that. We say depression is accepted, but it is not. Yet here I am writing about it for all the world to see.
Mental toughness? In running, it means you accept pain as a fact. You cope with it. You are capable of telling yourself it is a limited condition. You get in a zone, probably not unlike an accomplished meditator (is that an oxymoron?). But depression completely messes that up. You start to run and from step 1 you question: who am I to think I can do this? Clearly I am too fat and old to do it well. So, therefore, what is the point?
Depression ="what is the point?"
Ponder it: what is the point?
OK, there can be many good answers to this question, normally. But with depression, there is not a single answer worth uttering.
Practice your music, and still not be as good as you want to be. What's the point?
Study your profession and still deal with a broken system. What's the point?
Love your children, and still find your heart broken. The point?
I come from a tradition of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. I believe in hard work, sacrifice, and compassion.
But I am no longer clear that I am a runner.
Running is about physique (skinnier the better, with muscles in all the right places).
Running is about mental toughness.
The End.
Just Kidding, or "JK" as they say nowadays.
I started running at age 12. I mean, I ran before age 12--all kids run, but usually they get yelled at for it ("no running in school!" "no running in church!" "no running in the house!" "no running in the grocery store!").
But at age 12, I ran intentionally. I ran to start getting faster, to consider the possibility of winning races. I started taping pictures of Alberto Salazar on my wall.
Talent? Not really.
Physique? Nope.
Mental toughness. Well, yes, I guess so. Aye, there's the rub.
I have decided: Running is about Brain Chemistry. Has anyone out there ever experienced depression? I am not talking about: "Geez, I am so depressed that the Giants lost again." Or, "I find that movie "The Fault in Our Stars" rather depressing". Or, "Are you as depressed as I am that the Supreme Court is in bed with a store as stupidly named as The Hobby Lobby?"
I am talking about the crush of despair, for no good reason. There are plenty of reasons to be down and discouraged in life, but depression is pure darkness.
It is challenging to run in the dark. There are head lamps, of course. Last time I used a head lamp, a 15 year old had to lead me out of the woods. My vision is fair by day and abysmal by night. Close your eyes and imagine an abyss. You are not sure if your next step will lead to oblivion or if your last step did and here is where you landed. Oblivion is nothing to crow about. And crows are the darkest birds I know.
Alberto Salazar talked about depression in his book 14 Minutes. He took Prozac and ran faster for it. He got a lot of flak for that. We say depression is accepted, but it is not. Yet here I am writing about it for all the world to see.
Mental toughness? In running, it means you accept pain as a fact. You cope with it. You are capable of telling yourself it is a limited condition. You get in a zone, probably not unlike an accomplished meditator (is that an oxymoron?). But depression completely messes that up. You start to run and from step 1 you question: who am I to think I can do this? Clearly I am too fat and old to do it well. So, therefore, what is the point?
Depression ="what is the point?"
Ponder it: what is the point?
OK, there can be many good answers to this question, normally. But with depression, there is not a single answer worth uttering.
Practice your music, and still not be as good as you want to be. What's the point?
Study your profession and still deal with a broken system. What's the point?
Love your children, and still find your heart broken. The point?
I come from a tradition of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. I believe in hard work, sacrifice, and compassion.
But I am no longer clear that I am a runner.
Monday, July 7, 2014
How to Like It. Maybe Even A Lot.
I sat in a couple of fairly decent hotels, drinking coffee in the morning hours while the teens were abed, reading. Currently, my book of choice is called Behind the Beautiful Forevers. This book is about the kind of poverty that makes you feel like a total shit for your irritation regarding your hotel's lack of air conditioning, and the fact that its "pool" is about the size of a bath tub, begging you to do 1000 laps before bed.
Travels with my teenaged daughters made me feel sort of like a kidnapper. I declared "we are going on a trip", and mind you, they were happy enough with the prospect. They never complained (well not very loudly) and they made tremendous adventure mates. I can, and did, rip them from the far more interesting world which they inhabit, and I do not, to spend a few days with a middle-aged Mom. And with the other 17 million people who chose the Central Coast of California as a dandy place to spend 4th of July weekend.
Seriously, who goes to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk on the 4th of July? OK, everyone, and us. But it seemed to me we were the only legitimate visitors, and everyone else was just foolish and were they REALLY going to eat that deep fried Twinkie? I dropped the girls with some cash and promises to be back as soon as I found parking, which it turned out was all the way back at the hotel, and the 2 mile walk after the 1 hour it took to get from Boardwalk back to hotel was rather a relief. For me, anyway. The Girls were dubious. At least they got to ride the Giant Dipper. It made the day both fun and educational.
Travels to tourist-ridden places brings out the snob in me. Truth be told, that snob is probably not so deep under the surface. But more than snobbery, it brings out the questioning mind, the one who recalls a quote a friend shared recently, "think of the poorest person you've ever seen and ask if your next act is of any use."
Monterey Aquarium is a favorite of mine. I have been there perhaps 10 times in my life. Pre-children, when I was still a teenager myself. Then with my little kids in tow. Then with older kids, and this weekend with two teens. WHO CHOOSES JULY 4th WEEKEND TO GO TO THE AQUARIUM? OK, everyone, and us. Thankfully I had my tickets beforehand and could avoid the 60 minute line, after the over 60 minute 2 mile drive through town in a traffic jam of people dying to walk down Cannery Row. When we got into the aquarium, I felt suffocated by the throngs of unhappy, whining children and obese adults (snob, I know), and the people pointing at these amazing sea creatures and saying "ewww that's so gross". I almost turned around and left, but J just gave me this look like, Mom, you have to be kidding me here, and I pulled myself together and made the best of it. Rewards: sea otters, penguins, sharks, tunafish, ocean sunfish, jelly fish, sardines. All somewhere in the range from awe-inspiring to unbearably cute. But the treasure of my day was this magnificent octopus. It spread itself into its full sail, tentacles reaching and it is just so hard to describe how lovely it was.
After the crush of Monterey (Steinbeck was puking, I am sure of it. Though in reality I bet Cannery Row was pretty disgusting and horrible back in the day), we were driving back to Santa Cruz and I turned off and up this single land road, in the higher hills where the redwoods grow, and into a quiet space that re-inflated my soul. No, seriously, it was like someone gave my soul CPR, though technically the new guidelines no longer involve mouth to mouth/chest inflation. At the end of this road was The Land of the Medicine Buddha. We prayed with the prayer wheel. We hiked (a bit; mind you, two skeptical teens in flip flops are at my side). Prayer flags everywhere, the sky intensely blue and SO quiet. Granted, 2 monks drove by in a SUV and that sort of blew the effect a little, but I guess it also cracked me up. Purity does not exist.
The only proper ending to the 2 days of tourist stew being shoved down my throat was a good cry. Have you seen The Fault in Our Stars? I almost choked to death on my own sob snot.
The next day, we headed up the coast. I say this as if I take it for granted. I do not. The central (and northern) coast of California is my absolute favorite place to be in the whole entire world. I think the teens like to too, though maybe not with the intensity of someone who considers each day precious, and who is deep in her questioning mind. We did hike out to see the elephant seals. They travel approximately 25,000 miles per year, so said the naturalist at our well earned vantage point (deep sand, headwinds, and what J described as "the longest walk I have ever taken in my entire life). And they always come back to this place, where they were born. It was all males that day, head-butting each other and making this guttural growl which V said sounds like a backed up toilet (which is true). After viewing them, the guttural noise and wind was at our back. I was happy, and my kidnappees were real survivors.
A long walk, and oh yeah, there was some running later on, along the coast trail (my coast! I could eat you on toast, I love you so!), and we were so hungry. We had to wait for V to finish writing a paragraph or a chapter or something. Being the wife and mother of authors can be very trying at times. But we made it to dine with The Blue Lady. She haunts the Distillery in Moss Beach. I was wondering if I pinched one of the waiter's asses, then looked away, if I could blame it on the Blue Lady. The girls gave me a panic-stricken, "Mom! Don't!" Like I would. Like, would I? Hmmmmm…
The trip involved bad hotel TV (Naked and Afraid? This is actually a reality TV show, and I may never get the vision of these people's buttocks out of my head). It involved sitting quietly with and laughing with my girls. It involved a lot of sunshine, and a hell of a lot of tourists. Octopus beauty and monks and prayer flags and coffee on the balcony while looking at a great blue heron in the bay. Runs, walks, and food. I am not at all sure any of it was of any use, but I am so very grateful that I know how to like it.
Travels with my teenaged daughters made me feel sort of like a kidnapper. I declared "we are going on a trip", and mind you, they were happy enough with the prospect. They never complained (well not very loudly) and they made tremendous adventure mates. I can, and did, rip them from the far more interesting world which they inhabit, and I do not, to spend a few days with a middle-aged Mom. And with the other 17 million people who chose the Central Coast of California as a dandy place to spend 4th of July weekend.
Seriously, who goes to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk on the 4th of July? OK, everyone, and us. But it seemed to me we were the only legitimate visitors, and everyone else was just foolish and were they REALLY going to eat that deep fried Twinkie? I dropped the girls with some cash and promises to be back as soon as I found parking, which it turned out was all the way back at the hotel, and the 2 mile walk after the 1 hour it took to get from Boardwalk back to hotel was rather a relief. For me, anyway. The Girls were dubious. At least they got to ride the Giant Dipper. It made the day both fun and educational.
Travels to tourist-ridden places brings out the snob in me. Truth be told, that snob is probably not so deep under the surface. But more than snobbery, it brings out the questioning mind, the one who recalls a quote a friend shared recently, "think of the poorest person you've ever seen and ask if your next act is of any use."
Monterey Aquarium is a favorite of mine. I have been there perhaps 10 times in my life. Pre-children, when I was still a teenager myself. Then with my little kids in tow. Then with older kids, and this weekend with two teens. WHO CHOOSES JULY 4th WEEKEND TO GO TO THE AQUARIUM? OK, everyone, and us. Thankfully I had my tickets beforehand and could avoid the 60 minute line, after the over 60 minute 2 mile drive through town in a traffic jam of people dying to walk down Cannery Row. When we got into the aquarium, I felt suffocated by the throngs of unhappy, whining children and obese adults (snob, I know), and the people pointing at these amazing sea creatures and saying "ewww that's so gross". I almost turned around and left, but J just gave me this look like, Mom, you have to be kidding me here, and I pulled myself together and made the best of it. Rewards: sea otters, penguins, sharks, tunafish, ocean sunfish, jelly fish, sardines. All somewhere in the range from awe-inspiring to unbearably cute. But the treasure of my day was this magnificent octopus. It spread itself into its full sail, tentacles reaching and it is just so hard to describe how lovely it was.
After the crush of Monterey (Steinbeck was puking, I am sure of it. Though in reality I bet Cannery Row was pretty disgusting and horrible back in the day), we were driving back to Santa Cruz and I turned off and up this single land road, in the higher hills where the redwoods grow, and into a quiet space that re-inflated my soul. No, seriously, it was like someone gave my soul CPR, though technically the new guidelines no longer involve mouth to mouth/chest inflation. At the end of this road was The Land of the Medicine Buddha. We prayed with the prayer wheel. We hiked (a bit; mind you, two skeptical teens in flip flops are at my side). Prayer flags everywhere, the sky intensely blue and SO quiet. Granted, 2 monks drove by in a SUV and that sort of blew the effect a little, but I guess it also cracked me up. Purity does not exist.
The only proper ending to the 2 days of tourist stew being shoved down my throat was a good cry. Have you seen The Fault in Our Stars? I almost choked to death on my own sob snot.
The next day, we headed up the coast. I say this as if I take it for granted. I do not. The central (and northern) coast of California is my absolute favorite place to be in the whole entire world. I think the teens like to too, though maybe not with the intensity of someone who considers each day precious, and who is deep in her questioning mind. We did hike out to see the elephant seals. They travel approximately 25,000 miles per year, so said the naturalist at our well earned vantage point (deep sand, headwinds, and what J described as "the longest walk I have ever taken in my entire life). And they always come back to this place, where they were born. It was all males that day, head-butting each other and making this guttural growl which V said sounds like a backed up toilet (which is true). After viewing them, the guttural noise and wind was at our back. I was happy, and my kidnappees were real survivors.
A long walk, and oh yeah, there was some running later on, along the coast trail (my coast! I could eat you on toast, I love you so!), and we were so hungry. We had to wait for V to finish writing a paragraph or a chapter or something. Being the wife and mother of authors can be very trying at times. But we made it to dine with The Blue Lady. She haunts the Distillery in Moss Beach. I was wondering if I pinched one of the waiter's asses, then looked away, if I could blame it on the Blue Lady. The girls gave me a panic-stricken, "Mom! Don't!" Like I would. Like, would I? Hmmmmm…
The trip involved bad hotel TV (Naked and Afraid? This is actually a reality TV show, and I may never get the vision of these people's buttocks out of my head). It involved sitting quietly with and laughing with my girls. It involved a lot of sunshine, and a hell of a lot of tourists. Octopus beauty and monks and prayer flags and coffee on the balcony while looking at a great blue heron in the bay. Runs, walks, and food. I am not at all sure any of it was of any use, but I am so very grateful that I know how to like it.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
What if
Aside from my mother, I worry more than anyone I know. Hopefully, Mom has found a worry free zone in the afterlife. If she is sitting on cloud 9 fretting over whether some angel is home late because she is dead in a ditch somewhere, I am pretty bummed.
I have posted Wendell Berry's poem before. Many times actually. I think of it most days, and the fact that it speaks to me so probably is one of the main reasons I have landed in such a rural, scenic area, despite the lack of things open after 8pm and the tendency for the population to wear socks with sandals.
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry
Today I ran with my eldest on a trail along the Elk River (or stream, really, as it is in this drought). My foot hurt. What if I cannot run?
What if I never actually learn all of the preludes and fugues at once, and the Beethoven Sonatas? What if I never properly learn how to groom my standard poodle?
What if I chose the wrong profession? What if we go back to war in Iraq? What if my kids never call or write after they leave home?
First world worries, for the most part. I was thinking today about how much I like water. I mean a good, cold glass of water from the tap. It is miraculous, and even though I take things for granted almost every waking second of my life, I almost always say a little prayer of thanks for having clean, cold water, right here in my home, my workplace, wherever really. I don't have to walk 5 miles to get it while being shot at or threatened with rape and kidnapping. I don't have to then build a fire to boil it so my kids don't die of some diarrheal illness that will turn their guts inside out. Sometimes I worry of course, like, what if the "big one" hits? We have not set up a garage full of water supply for this purpose as we probably should. Despite being a worrier, I am not the type to build a bomb shelter or seriously plan for the next quake.
What if my hens don't lay eggs after my husband has so diligently built them a fortress? I mean a fortress. A bear might be able to get those girls, but every other critter will be thwarted. Even the poodle.
I worry about my patients. I worry about my friends. I worry about my family. I worry about that raggedy guy on the corner who looks like he needs a bath and 3 squares, stat. I have been having some dreams with whales lately, and that usually happens right before something big happens. WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN????
But I digress. This is about running, and redwoods. Today, I ran in the woods, by the anemic but still lovely river, with my daughter. For a time, I rested in the grace of the world, and was free.
I have posted Wendell Berry's poem before. Many times actually. I think of it most days, and the fact that it speaks to me so probably is one of the main reasons I have landed in such a rural, scenic area, despite the lack of things open after 8pm and the tendency for the population to wear socks with sandals.
The
Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in meand I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry
Today I ran with my eldest on a trail along the Elk River (or stream, really, as it is in this drought). My foot hurt. What if I cannot run?
What if I never actually learn all of the preludes and fugues at once, and the Beethoven Sonatas? What if I never properly learn how to groom my standard poodle?
What if I chose the wrong profession? What if we go back to war in Iraq? What if my kids never call or write after they leave home?
First world worries, for the most part. I was thinking today about how much I like water. I mean a good, cold glass of water from the tap. It is miraculous, and even though I take things for granted almost every waking second of my life, I almost always say a little prayer of thanks for having clean, cold water, right here in my home, my workplace, wherever really. I don't have to walk 5 miles to get it while being shot at or threatened with rape and kidnapping. I don't have to then build a fire to boil it so my kids don't die of some diarrheal illness that will turn their guts inside out. Sometimes I worry of course, like, what if the "big one" hits? We have not set up a garage full of water supply for this purpose as we probably should. Despite being a worrier, I am not the type to build a bomb shelter or seriously plan for the next quake.
What if my hens don't lay eggs after my husband has so diligently built them a fortress? I mean a fortress. A bear might be able to get those girls, but every other critter will be thwarted. Even the poodle.
I worry about my patients. I worry about my friends. I worry about my family. I worry about that raggedy guy on the corner who looks like he needs a bath and 3 squares, stat. I have been having some dreams with whales lately, and that usually happens right before something big happens. WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN????
But I digress. This is about running, and redwoods. Today, I ran in the woods, by the anemic but still lovely river, with my daughter. For a time, I rested in the grace of the world, and was free.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Rock Bottom
Rock Bottom.
That was what I was thinking while I sat in the occupational health office getting my mandatory physical exam for my new job. Weight, blood pressure, pulse, all 10-15 points higher than my healthy baseline. Color me shocked? Not really. I can feel it. That is what 15 hour work days for months does to you. I am no CJ from the West Wing.
But now work life is more reasonable. And I am working with a coach to get my ass in gear for a PR and I am doing hot yoga and swimming and, and, and.
It struck me today, as I was walking on Parnassus, past the statue of Hippocrates and across from the Death Star. My very worst health was in residency. At the end of residency to be exact, when every fiber of my being was beaten into a pulp and my soul was barely intact. Or was it in medical school?
As a pregnant first year, I once walked across campus carrying a see through hefty sized bag of condoms to give a talk on birth control. It hit me that I looked a lot like Santa, only a girl, a doctor-to-be, expecting, and how very ironic to be carrying a bag of condoms in my condition. I wish now I had one of those video cameras people wear on their heads when doing extreme sports, just to capture the looks I got from passers-by. At the time, I was mostly just irritable, and probably did not see the humor. My ankles were swollen and I had a test to study for. And who the heck gets pregnant in medical school anyway?
Or was it in high school, when I felt out of place and bored to the point of despair? I used to leave class to practice piano, with mostly a shrug of "OK, whatever" from my teachers. I tested out of this and that and finally decided to just skip the rest of it and head to music school. I still have nightmares that someone comes to my door, pointing out I cannot be a licensed physician without my high school diploma. They then hand me my old PE uniform and send me out for laps. Or worse: golfing. Once in high school a classmate hit me square in the head with a wooden club (accidentally) (at least I think so). I awoke, on the ground, with my fat, toupeed gym teacher bending over me. From then on, he called me "Hard Head Heidmann". It is possible this injury explains a lot of my short fallings in life. It was not amusing.
Or was it in junior high, when I used to walk to the orthodontist from my downtown brick school, which was well in the aroma-sphere of the local brewery, to get my weekly torture, tightening of the wires? My orthodontist was mean in a way that would not fly in today's litigious, helicopter-parenting society. He was an asshole, actually. Once I bit him on purpose. He asked me at one visit what we did in school that day, and I reported happily about the English Muffin pizzas we had made in home economics class. His reply, and I swear he had a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth while he drawled this, was "I wouldn't feed that to my dog." That might've been the day I bit him
Or was it during puberty, when my body rebelled and went from wiry thin kid to slightly curvy, menstruating and gawky (braces-wearing) teenager? I hated myself as a teenager. I wanted to be Alberto Salazar, or Grete Waitz, or any of a number of my cuter friends who somehow went through puberty without the freaks and geeks detour. To my credit: never drank, did not do drugs, and ran and ran and ran with the discovery that running was my bliss and my ticket to health.
Which brings me back to this: rock bottom. I am finally not working 15 hours per day. I am sleeping, I am eating well, and my 10-15 point elevation of weight, blood pressure and pulse is starting to drop. But my foot hurts. Plantar fasciitis, probably. A first for me, or at least the first foot pain in a long while. In the grand scheme of tragic events, this ranks low. But I do find myself wondering what God is thinking. Running for me: my meditation, my mental health, my passion (well, other than Beethoven anyway), my mental health, my drug of choice, my mental health, my lifelong, as long as I can remember, THING. I am not and never will be elite, but running is my non-animate soulmate.
My Dad had a heart transplant. My Mom had breast cancer, twice. My kids are strong and they rise up against the BS of adolescence with grace and humor. My husband writes magical books and has raised our children and has been there, all out, for our family from day one. My dear friend had a baby and traveled across the country. My patients face death with astounding grace. My colleagues continue to fight the good fight in a system that promotes insanity. My dogs offer unconditional adoration. Beethoven and Bach beckon.
Rock bottom?
A little foot pain never killed anyone.
That I know of.
That was what I was thinking while I sat in the occupational health office getting my mandatory physical exam for my new job. Weight, blood pressure, pulse, all 10-15 points higher than my healthy baseline. Color me shocked? Not really. I can feel it. That is what 15 hour work days for months does to you. I am no CJ from the West Wing.
But now work life is more reasonable. And I am working with a coach to get my ass in gear for a PR and I am doing hot yoga and swimming and, and, and.
It struck me today, as I was walking on Parnassus, past the statue of Hippocrates and across from the Death Star. My very worst health was in residency. At the end of residency to be exact, when every fiber of my being was beaten into a pulp and my soul was barely intact. Or was it in medical school?
As a pregnant first year, I once walked across campus carrying a see through hefty sized bag of condoms to give a talk on birth control. It hit me that I looked a lot like Santa, only a girl, a doctor-to-be, expecting, and how very ironic to be carrying a bag of condoms in my condition. I wish now I had one of those video cameras people wear on their heads when doing extreme sports, just to capture the looks I got from passers-by. At the time, I was mostly just irritable, and probably did not see the humor. My ankles were swollen and I had a test to study for. And who the heck gets pregnant in medical school anyway?
Or was it in high school, when I felt out of place and bored to the point of despair? I used to leave class to practice piano, with mostly a shrug of "OK, whatever" from my teachers. I tested out of this and that and finally decided to just skip the rest of it and head to music school. I still have nightmares that someone comes to my door, pointing out I cannot be a licensed physician without my high school diploma. They then hand me my old PE uniform and send me out for laps. Or worse: golfing. Once in high school a classmate hit me square in the head with a wooden club (accidentally) (at least I think so). I awoke, on the ground, with my fat, toupeed gym teacher bending over me. From then on, he called me "Hard Head Heidmann". It is possible this injury explains a lot of my short fallings in life. It was not amusing.
Or was it in junior high, when I used to walk to the orthodontist from my downtown brick school, which was well in the aroma-sphere of the local brewery, to get my weekly torture, tightening of the wires? My orthodontist was mean in a way that would not fly in today's litigious, helicopter-parenting society. He was an asshole, actually. Once I bit him on purpose. He asked me at one visit what we did in school that day, and I reported happily about the English Muffin pizzas we had made in home economics class. His reply, and I swear he had a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth while he drawled this, was "I wouldn't feed that to my dog." That might've been the day I bit him
Or was it during puberty, when my body rebelled and went from wiry thin kid to slightly curvy, menstruating and gawky (braces-wearing) teenager? I hated myself as a teenager. I wanted to be Alberto Salazar, or Grete Waitz, or any of a number of my cuter friends who somehow went through puberty without the freaks and geeks detour. To my credit: never drank, did not do drugs, and ran and ran and ran with the discovery that running was my bliss and my ticket to health.
Which brings me back to this: rock bottom. I am finally not working 15 hours per day. I am sleeping, I am eating well, and my 10-15 point elevation of weight, blood pressure and pulse is starting to drop. But my foot hurts. Plantar fasciitis, probably. A first for me, or at least the first foot pain in a long while. In the grand scheme of tragic events, this ranks low. But I do find myself wondering what God is thinking. Running for me: my meditation, my mental health, my passion (well, other than Beethoven anyway), my mental health, my drug of choice, my mental health, my lifelong, as long as I can remember, THING. I am not and never will be elite, but running is my non-animate soulmate.
My Dad had a heart transplant. My Mom had breast cancer, twice. My kids are strong and they rise up against the BS of adolescence with grace and humor. My husband writes magical books and has raised our children and has been there, all out, for our family from day one. My dear friend had a baby and traveled across the country. My patients face death with astounding grace. My colleagues continue to fight the good fight in a system that promotes insanity. My dogs offer unconditional adoration. Beethoven and Bach beckon.
Rock bottom?
A little foot pain never killed anyone.
That I know of.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)