Three separate thought slices.
1.
I tried to jump on the blogger bandwagon and give an opinion on prop 8. I even wrote a whole manifesto of sorts about how the church should love and not hate and attend to its own shortcomings before trying to become the moral compass of a secular nation...It went on for quite some time. But I don't feel like posting it: when I read it over, it just sounded angry and pompous and self-consciously wordy. What really irked me about that experience was that I couldn't make my writing powerful. Is that selfish? It feels selfish. But it's true.
2.
I am going to run a 1/2 marathon in a week. Tuesday I finished my last 9 mile run at the Rose Bowl. I pushed myself too hard, and I blame these 3 factors: Van Halen ("Jump") on the ipod, a bag of "magic" (caffeinated) jelly beans, and the annoying old man with ridiculously long spidery legs who kept bounding past me. I got into a sort of magic bean induced haze where every time he passed me I had to speed up and catch him. I won finally, leaving him in my very dust and pounding the pavement victoriously as the synthesizer wailed in my ears.
And then my knee started aching. It was a peculiar feeling. I stopped, I stretched, I kept going. I finished the last loop very gingerly, very slowly. I had lots of energy left but no way to transfer that energy into my legs. Both knees throbbed and twisted. I felt like they might...leave. I know that sounds strange but it's the closest I can come to a description. I have never really considered my knees negotiable before. They were just chubbily there.
I soaked them, I'm babying them, we've reconciled; I've promised to show them the respect they deserve. But it was kind of scary.
3.
I took myself to the Huntington Library yesterday. At first this felt a little strange: I think I was the only one there without an adorable baby or a slightly overdressed date. But I needed to just be, and to be alone, and it was perfect. I took a blanket and stretched out and read and watched other people take pictures and read a book. I walked through the bamboo forest and breathed in and out and became conscious of the effort it takes to breathe. I went to the galleries and "hmmmed" and "ahhhed" and scratched my chin to show my interested in the exhibits. I was awkwardly flirted with by a bushy, bespectacled docent. I had fun.
Somewhere in the middle of my day I felt an amazing peace. You see, most Saturdays I wake up with an incredible knot in my stomach: I am worried that I'm not making the right choices in my life. I don't talk about it with too many people because it inevitably ends up sounding whiny and insipid. But it's always there. Especially on days that should be full of peace and rest. The worry crops up, and I feel this panic, as if I'm supposed to find the perfect solution in the span of one Saturday (the same day I'm supposed to reduce my laundry pile, refill my refrigerator, plan my week of lessons, wash my car, pay my parking ticket, etc).
On my walk I came to a beautiful Eucalyptis tree. It surprised me...it seemed to jump at my from around the corner. It was huge and alive and powerful and very pure. The sun was striking the white bark, the light all concentrated in patches and beams and the green moss at the roots of the tree glimmered. The whole thing was very Narnian.
It was a nice moment full of peace, a reminder to be patient with the present, and the promise that life does not have to be fixed in the span of a single Saturday.
I tried to jump on the blogger bandwagon and give an opinion on prop 8. I even wrote a whole manifesto of sorts about how the church should love and not hate and attend to its own shortcomings before trying to become the moral compass of a secular nation...It went on for quite some time. But I don't feel like posting it: when I read it over, it just sounded angry and pompous and self-consciously wordy. What really irked me about that experience was that I couldn't make my writing powerful. Is that selfish? It feels selfish. But it's true.
2.
I am going to run a 1/2 marathon in a week. Tuesday I finished my last 9 mile run at the Rose Bowl. I pushed myself too hard, and I blame these 3 factors: Van Halen ("Jump") on the ipod, a bag of "magic" (caffeinated) jelly beans, and the annoying old man with ridiculously long spidery legs who kept bounding past me. I got into a sort of magic bean induced haze where every time he passed me I had to speed up and catch him. I won finally, leaving him in my very dust and pounding the pavement victoriously as the synthesizer wailed in my ears.
And then my knee started aching. It was a peculiar feeling. I stopped, I stretched, I kept going. I finished the last loop very gingerly, very slowly. I had lots of energy left but no way to transfer that energy into my legs. Both knees throbbed and twisted. I felt like they might...leave. I know that sounds strange but it's the closest I can come to a description. I have never really considered my knees negotiable before. They were just chubbily there.
I soaked them, I'm babying them, we've reconciled; I've promised to show them the respect they deserve. But it was kind of scary.
3.
I took myself to the Huntington Library yesterday. At first this felt a little strange: I think I was the only one there without an adorable baby or a slightly overdressed date. But I needed to just be, and to be alone, and it was perfect. I took a blanket and stretched out and read and watched other people take pictures and read a book. I walked through the bamboo forest and breathed in and out and became conscious of the effort it takes to breathe. I went to the galleries and "hmmmed" and "ahhhed" and scratched my chin to show my interested in the exhibits. I was awkwardly flirted with by a bushy, bespectacled docent. I had fun.
Somewhere in the middle of my day I felt an amazing peace. You see, most Saturdays I wake up with an incredible knot in my stomach: I am worried that I'm not making the right choices in my life. I don't talk about it with too many people because it inevitably ends up sounding whiny and insipid. But it's always there. Especially on days that should be full of peace and rest. The worry crops up, and I feel this panic, as if I'm supposed to find the perfect solution in the span of one Saturday (the same day I'm supposed to reduce my laundry pile, refill my refrigerator, plan my week of lessons, wash my car, pay my parking ticket, etc).
On my walk I came to a beautiful Eucalyptis tree. It surprised me...it seemed to jump at my from around the corner. It was huge and alive and powerful and very pure. The sun was striking the white bark, the light all concentrated in patches and beams and the green moss at the roots of the tree glimmered. The whole thing was very Narnian.
It was a nice moment full of peace, a reminder to be patient with the present, and the promise that life does not have to be fixed in the span of a single Saturday.