I walked away numb. It wasn't real to me yet. I'm still in Germany. My lips still taste of his. My hand is still warm where he had been holding it. He had turned to walk away and so had I, but it felt like any other time we'd parted ways only to fall into each other's arms hours later.
It was only as I neared the subway station that I realized that this is it. My time with him is over, and we won't be meeting for dinner, dancing, or even a cup of coffee this evening. I passed a busy intersection where a dark man with messy curls and a mischivious grin played the acordian. He was playing quite a melancholy song.
Something about the music made me stop in place and turn around. I couldn't leave yet. I needed to feel close to him for a few minutes more, so I crossed the same place where we had crossed hand in hand both yesterday and today, and entered a cafe to enjoy the sullenly sweet sounds of the acordian.
As I entered, I realized I had gone into a Portuguese cafe where I could get by in Spanish as opposed to the ever difficult frantic hand waving and mumbling I've tried to pass as German. Aventura's "I'm sorry" was playing softly above me as I sat down in front of a wide open full length window. I felt a part of two worlds as I sat motionless at the small square mohoghany table listening to both a heart wrenching bachata and acordian simultaneously. Spanish here, German there. I felt a pressure building in my throat, and a single tear made its easy escape, leaving a sleek trail of remembrance on my cheek. I smiled though my heart was in pain.
And so, here I sit, at the Delta Cafe in Hamburg, living with one foot in each world for the moment. Inside the walls is warm and well taken care of. The floors are swept, the tables spotless. Portuguese and German flags hang from the ceiling. A giant red lobster perched unflinchingly on the yellow wall seems to be watching me from his one remaining plastic eye. Maybe he's empathizing. Is his love on another wall in the restaurant that he can't reach?
Meanwhile outside the acordian has stopped. The musician is walking around with a small, broken plastic container requesting coins for his music. Across the street is an entire brick wall covered in street art. Grafiti of all colors, of all styles. There are several sleeping bags strewn about in chaotic order. There are three sets of old, torn shoes sitting on a step, placed carefully, heels touching, toes all facing forward, and a few dusty young men sit nearby idly chatting through shattered teeth while passing a cigarette and bottle of cheap wine.
My heart is not breaking. It's not broken. It hurts. It's bursting. It's happy. There is so much positivity and not enough space. There is perfection, and although he had turned to walk away and so had I, he remains with me in every moment, in every action. Every sound. Every smell. I've known him for lifetimes. Maybe then I was his husband and he was my wife. Maybe I was his dog or he was my cat. I can't help but smile through my tears at the thought of being a dog in a former life. As I sip my cafe con leche y mucho mucho azucar, I remember how as a child, I used to believe I had been a dog in past lives. Maybe he was my master then, my equal now, my soulmate forever.
A calm comes over me, as forever is a long time, and as long as we walk this world it will be hand in hand, in whatever capacity. I've found a home in his arms, and although I feel a bit homesick, I've got a bit of work to get done before returning to where I belong. And so, I smile through these tears of happiness, contentment, and assuredness of fate. I smile because our paths will cross again in October, and until then, we will be apart, but only physically.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Totally Trapped Attempting to Toss Tomatoes
They push. I push back. It's thirty to one. We are all feeling desperate to gain ground. Every inch is recognized. Every inch appreciated. I spread my feet and lean forward for a stronger position. My palms are flat against the sun warmed metal. My arms are flexed, but my hands are only inches from my chest. My back is aching from the strain. If I lose, I could be easily be crushed by approaching rubber. I'm looking left and right, all the while pushing with everything I have. I can't feel angry at those pushing me forward. They are only trying to gain space to breath more easily. The tire is a coming. I crinkle my toes and try to slide my feet back, if only a centimeter. There are pieces of rotten tomatoes roasting in the sun. They are everywhere. (They're in my raccoon wounds!!!) In my hair, on my face, between my toes, and on the truck. Little pieces of rotten fodder.
For a moment, I consider releasing a hand to snatch at a tomato. I momentarily envision grabbing the semi-fermented fruit as I'm simultaneously pushed helplessly under the truck. Needless to say (or maybe not if you know me better than most) I didn't go for the tomato.
I guess your next question is how did I end up so close to the truck, right? I had been in a nice, tight spot with a comfortable 3 or 4 feet between myself and the path of the tomato bearing dump truck when suddenly the girl who had been standing behind me fell. La Tomatina is a grand festival in Buñol. The last Wednesday in August, people from around the world come together to take part in the largest food fight they've ever seen. It's ultimately a combination of a lot of alcohol, not a lot of sleep, a lot of heat, and a lot of people in not a lot of space. There are times where you struggle to stand straight because so many people are pressed against you. I saw several people break down, flailing about to get free from the unforgivingly dense crowd.
That being said, this girl fell unconscious, and her ailment could have been any number of things, heat stroke being my main concern. I cleared a path for her, leaving my place on the secure sidewalk and helped bring her to the truck, where I was able to ensure that she was going to get medical attention. The problem with that was when it was time to return to the side, there was nowhere to go.
So, I'm now inches from a dump truck, pressing against the sides as hard as I can to avoid being pushed under by the people behind me having trouble breathing. I thought of my tombstone: Survived OIF/OEF but not La Tomatina. I smiled through a clenched jaw. Then I laughed, a quick, impulsive, high pitched, nervous laugh. I found my laugh so odd that I laughed even harder. The truck rolled by, and as it did, I was nearly pushed to the ground by the hordes of people gasping for air behind me.
The fight continued. I was hit in the head once, twice, three times, but now I was completely surrounded by bodies. There was an elbow in my breast. I asked the woman to my right if she could manage to shift her weight if only a little to alleviate the pain.
Suddenly the crowed surged back like the tide crashing to shore, guided by gravity. I was pulled with them. Then front. Then left. Then back again. My chin was digging mercilessly into a young man's shoulder, but I couldn't move it. Someone stepped on my left flip flop as the throng moved back again.
Is everyone trying to follow the last tomato truck?
Now, with my left foot bare, I searched with my toes for my sandal.
OOH! I got it!
The crowd moved left.
Damn, I lost it.....
Wait! There it is again!
The crowd moved forward.
I guess not.
A woman appeared in front of me. A frantic apparition. She was crying, screaming, flailing her arms this way and that. Her elbow connected with a faceless body, her hand hit another.
"I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!!! LET ME OUT! I CAN'T BREATHE!!!!!"
Her voice faded into the cacophony of distressed non lethal combatants. A man shot a glance at me. Our eyes connected. His face was painted crimson. He had an unnaturally crooked nose.
How incredibly uncomfortable the next few minutes were. I found myself taking slow, shallow breaths because the pressure on my chest and back was so great that I couldn't expand my lungs but a little at a time.
"Survived OIF/OEF but not La Tomatina."
And then a mortar.
Wait. A mortar?
I flinched as the sound resonated in the crowded streets.
Instantly the pressure was lifted. I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity. Tomatoes continued to fly through the air after the fight "ended," but the intensity took a skydive in a matter of seconds. I quickly scanned the streets for my rogue flip flop, but when I was sure I had walked past the place where I lost it, I settled for what felt like a men's size 10. Royal blue. Awkward.
I worked my way out of the labyrinth, wading through ankle deep gazpacho. Everything in sight had a red tint to it. The air reeked of vinegar, sweat, and vomit. Or maybe it just smelled of 14,000 people throwing over 25,000lbs of rotten tomatoes for an hour on the last Wednesday in August. I laughed randomly as I was hit in the shoulder by a flying camiseta. I tossed it across the street at an unsuspecting blond.
SMACK!
A girl next to me was hit in the head with a sandal.
Anything that was loose and able to be picked up was fair game. Soaked hats, towels, shoes, even pieces of tomatoes that clung to the sweaty folks heading towards the locals with hoses. Even from those heading away from the foul smelling tomato sauce covered streets.
I moment later I found myself jumping around, waving my arms at a twelve year old girl, trying to entice her to PLEASE hose me off with her garden hose. I couldn't help but laugh at myself. I flew to Spain for a FOOD FIGHT! I survived OIF/OEF AND La Tomatina! However, I've got a bone to pick with a greasy pole, a ham, and 25,000 lbs of tomatoes.
Watch out Buñol.
Next year, you may rest, but La Tomatina 2012, here I come!
For a moment, I consider releasing a hand to snatch at a tomato. I momentarily envision grabbing the semi-fermented fruit as I'm simultaneously pushed helplessly under the truck. Needless to say (or maybe not if you know me better than most) I didn't go for the tomato.
I guess your next question is how did I end up so close to the truck, right? I had been in a nice, tight spot with a comfortable 3 or 4 feet between myself and the path of the tomato bearing dump truck when suddenly the girl who had been standing behind me fell. La Tomatina is a grand festival in Buñol. The last Wednesday in August, people from around the world come together to take part in the largest food fight they've ever seen. It's ultimately a combination of a lot of alcohol, not a lot of sleep, a lot of heat, and a lot of people in not a lot of space. There are times where you struggle to stand straight because so many people are pressed against you. I saw several people break down, flailing about to get free from the unforgivingly dense crowd.
That being said, this girl fell unconscious, and her ailment could have been any number of things, heat stroke being my main concern. I cleared a path for her, leaving my place on the secure sidewalk and helped bring her to the truck, where I was able to ensure that she was going to get medical attention. The problem with that was when it was time to return to the side, there was nowhere to go.
So, I'm now inches from a dump truck, pressing against the sides as hard as I can to avoid being pushed under by the people behind me having trouble breathing. I thought of my tombstone: Survived OIF/OEF but not La Tomatina. I smiled through a clenched jaw. Then I laughed, a quick, impulsive, high pitched, nervous laugh. I found my laugh so odd that I laughed even harder. The truck rolled by, and as it did, I was nearly pushed to the ground by the hordes of people gasping for air behind me.
The fight continued. I was hit in the head once, twice, three times, but now I was completely surrounded by bodies. There was an elbow in my breast. I asked the woman to my right if she could manage to shift her weight if only a little to alleviate the pain.
Suddenly the crowed surged back like the tide crashing to shore, guided by gravity. I was pulled with them. Then front. Then left. Then back again. My chin was digging mercilessly into a young man's shoulder, but I couldn't move it. Someone stepped on my left flip flop as the throng moved back again.
Is everyone trying to follow the last tomato truck?
Now, with my left foot bare, I searched with my toes for my sandal.
OOH! I got it!
The crowd moved left.
Damn, I lost it.....
Wait! There it is again!
The crowd moved forward.
I guess not.
A woman appeared in front of me. A frantic apparition. She was crying, screaming, flailing her arms this way and that. Her elbow connected with a faceless body, her hand hit another.
"I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!!! LET ME OUT! I CAN'T BREATHE!!!!!"
Her voice faded into the cacophony of distressed non lethal combatants. A man shot a glance at me. Our eyes connected. His face was painted crimson. He had an unnaturally crooked nose.
How incredibly uncomfortable the next few minutes were. I found myself taking slow, shallow breaths because the pressure on my chest and back was so great that I couldn't expand my lungs but a little at a time.
"Survived OIF/OEF but not La Tomatina."
And then a mortar.
Wait. A mortar?
I flinched as the sound resonated in the crowded streets.
Instantly the pressure was lifted. I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity. Tomatoes continued to fly through the air after the fight "ended," but the intensity took a skydive in a matter of seconds. I quickly scanned the streets for my rogue flip flop, but when I was sure I had walked past the place where I lost it, I settled for what felt like a men's size 10. Royal blue. Awkward.
I worked my way out of the labyrinth, wading through ankle deep gazpacho. Everything in sight had a red tint to it. The air reeked of vinegar, sweat, and vomit. Or maybe it just smelled of 14,000 people throwing over 25,000lbs of rotten tomatoes for an hour on the last Wednesday in August. I laughed randomly as I was hit in the shoulder by a flying camiseta. I tossed it across the street at an unsuspecting blond.
SMACK!
A girl next to me was hit in the head with a sandal.
Anything that was loose and able to be picked up was fair game. Soaked hats, towels, shoes, even pieces of tomatoes that clung to the sweaty folks heading towards the locals with hoses. Even from those heading away from the foul smelling tomato sauce covered streets.
I moment later I found myself jumping around, waving my arms at a twelve year old girl, trying to entice her to PLEASE hose me off with her garden hose. I couldn't help but laugh at myself. I flew to Spain for a FOOD FIGHT! I survived OIF/OEF AND La Tomatina! However, I've got a bone to pick with a greasy pole, a ham, and 25,000 lbs of tomatoes.
Watch out Buñol.
Next year, you may rest, but La Tomatina 2012, here I come!
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Shared Silence
A mist sat over the water, making the mountains’ reflections on the silent surface a shadowy neutral as if the world had been sketched in detailed gray scale. It looked like it was going to be a chilly day. I sat on my porch a while longer watching the tide subtly rise, moment by moment. It was nearing time to head to work. However excited I was to head to a job I enjoy, I was hesitant to leave the perfect secluded silence of my sanctuary. My home. I slowly stood, called the dogs, and started my day.
Things began normally enough on the job. I look forward daily to groups of cruise ship passengers interested in seeing Alaska from a different perspective. Some crowds are told that I was a veteran before they meet me, some are told I’m a salsa teacher, some are told I have a purple heart, some are told I’m Rita, wearing a shirt in red hot Latin flavor, but this group had been told my name was Karl, and I was tall and funny looking. They definitely walked past me at the dock, and seemed thoroughly confused as I reeled them in. I tried to convince them that they were with the right person, and the jokes ensued.
No. My name is not Karl.
Yes, I’m funny looking.
No, I’m not tall.
On the river, I had seven on my raft. There was a family of four in the front, including two daughters 21 and 23, an older pair of sisters in the back, and a single woman from Pennsylvania that sat directly to my back left. Inevitably, as I introduced them to my office, I was asked what I was doing in Alaska if I’m from Pennsylvania. I gave an abbreviated version of my story. I told nobody about my service, about my purple heart, about my passing up jobs for freedom, nothing. I said simply that not everyone has as much time as they think they do in life, and so why wouldn’t I spend mine in a place as breathtaking as Haines, rowing down a calming river with magnificent views like that as much as I could?
I then turned the question on them. The family in the front responded with a simple, “Why not Alaska?” The sisters in the rear said that they wanted to get there before they ran out of time because they were tired of waiting. But it was the lady from Pennsylvania that truly caught my attention with her response. As soon as I cheerily asked her for her story, I realized that subconsciously I already knew the answer. There aren’t many reasons an elderly woman would be found alone on a cruise ship and alone on a rafting tour of the Bald Eagle Preserve in Haines, Alaska.
“My husband and I always wanted to come to Alaska. He, too, realized he didn’t have as much time as he thought. He would have enjoyed this so very much,” she nearly whispered with tears welling, “This trip is for him.” She looked into the distance. The boat went silent. For several moments, nothing was heard but the soft rustle of silt against rubber, the soothing sound of the river gently caressing the bank, tempting it to let go, tumble down, and be swept away, and finally a quick slide and a splash. A small shelf freed itself from the confines of structure and embracing freedom, riding the current in a million separate particles. There was nothing to be said. We all understood. I understood better than they could ever have imagined.
I fought back tears as my mind raced through memories of friends who would never again get to see something so incredible as the Cathedral Peaks, Kicking Horse Valley, or a twelve pound bald eagle shredding and devouring a salmon within feet of the raft. There were four young men that came to mind instantly. The picture used at their memorial still weighs on my mind. Four bright eyed, healthy men…boys really, who loved each other like brothers, always insisting on being in the same truck with one another, posing for the camera in different tough guy positions. One with both hands in the air, looking to the sky seemingly asking for deliverance, another with only his right fist in the air looking diagonally away from the camera. All four of them radiating youth and promise. All four of them no longer on Earth. Their truck was barely recognizable when it was towed back to the FOB and left in the “graveyard.” A young father who lost his life two weeks from before seeing his newborn son for the first time over mid-tour leave. A boy, now over five years old who never had a chance to meet his father. A boy shot by a sniper through his temple on his 20th birthday. A boy next to whom I sat, discussing how lucky he was to be coming to our FOB as opposed to his COP. I told him he was lucky to get to work with the CIED team. It sure would beat his other job. Days later he was crushed under the vehicle when it hit an IED. A group of young men burned alive inside an MRAP. A boy who thought he could stop a truck from tumbling down a cliff and keep himself out of trouble, but ended up going down with it. A suicide towards the end of the road with less than a month left in Afghanistan. None of these guys will ever be able to celebrate life as we can. They can only live on in our memories.
“I need to travel more before I, too, run out of time,” my passenger from Pennsylvania told me as she stared in awe, mouth slightly agape, at the small salmon stream that opens up into a view unparalleled of the vast alluvial fan and towering mountains capped with fresh snow. “I need to do many things.” We all do. Many things need to be done.
Everybody dies. Only a handful of people truly live. This woman from Pennsylvania cried for her husband as I cried for humanity. She touched my heart as I can only hope to touch others in time. We shared a moment on the raft, eight of us, contemplating the beauty of being capable of living each day how we choose. It is truly a gift to live, and that day everyone with me understood that. Embrace each moment as is it’s your last, as you never know when the last may come.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Success and Sexy Secretions
I began by eating a bagel. Toasted. Butter. Strawberry jam. Perfection.
Hot chai.
Fair time!
I arrived to hear Swing Set play in the middle of the afternoon. Barely anyone was dancing, but the music was live, and I couldn't help myself. As I swayed, jumped, and kicked I was approached numerous times.
You're a celebrity!
Nice article!
Wow, and I thought you were just a NORMAL person!
I guess you never know who you are talking to, huh!
Huh.
At least the age old, "Have you ever killed someone?" wasn't thrown at me.
I ate freshly picked cherries, danced my last song, swaying to the base like a willow in a hurricane (no, really) before jogging rapidly to my car to speed off to work.
Not to work. To pay while I play.
After I got off the river, I picked my friend up at the airport and promptly returned to the fair, dressed in a smile so large my cheeks ached.
Debauchery ensued. Much dancing, some drinking, much socializing. Around 1:00, I thought I should go to sleep. I was going to race the next morning. Then I thought about the live music at the bar downtown. I quickly made the right decision.
Music it is.
More dancing, a little more alcohol, a lot more socializing.
The night (morning) ended at 4:30.
The half marathon started at 7:30, and I wasn't registered yet.
I had two people in my bed, two upstairs, and I slept on the couch. Couchsurfing's great.
I woke up at 6:30, and nobody else wanted to come out in the dreary, grey Saturday light to watch me start and finish. Surprising.
Race time.
A cool misty morning, a slight breeze, and NINE HARD CORE runners. None of us had a watch. None had a GPS. None had competitive spirit. It was cool, raining, grey, and somehow absolutely perfect.
The town was still sleeping as we trotted from the starting line in response to a commanding, "On your mark, get set, GO!" I felt OK for the first 2 miles. They were on pavement, and I convinced myself the alcohol and burrito from the evening prior would sit well in my stomach.
Sneakers slapping the pavement, small sprays of muddy precipitation were sent each and every way. I felt water on my toes.
Blisters?
As I hit the trail, my feet got comfortable pounding on the soft leaves and slippery mud. I simultaneously forgot the blisters and remembered the alcohol and massive burrito.
Uh oh.
I looked around anxiously. I stepped out of the way for a few runners to pass. I swallowed. Chills ran up my spine, my neck tingled, my hands felt numb. It was coming.
I gave in after powering up the mountain just a little bit more. I felt better thinking I was contributing to the environment. I'm convinced I fed a bear a yummy beef and bean burrito that morning. Although, I may have encouraged alcoholism in that same bear. I prefer to think only the former. Negativity's not my style.
I like description when I write, but I'll spare you the details of color, consistency, and smell.
Once wasn't enough. I made another mile marker/bear donation about a mile later.
Then I lost the trail.
Laugh it up. I've never been great with directions, so why wouldn't I have my head down, duck under a fallen tree, jump over another, climb part of a mountain, and then suddenly realize I'm in waist high brush with no trail in sight?
I queasily backtracked, never once regretting the fun I had the night prior, and eased (gracefully I might add, I just about face planted on a root) back onto the trail.
By the time I hit mile 8, life was good again. The last 5 miles were spent cruising. I skipped over rocks, ducked under branches, gained new scrapes and scratches, chafing my inner thighs on my running shorts while I continued to pick up speed, but I still didn't see anyone. I'm sure I didn't finish last, but I'm not sure I was even in the first half of finishers! Percentile-wise, it may have been the worst race I've ever run in my life!
It was THAT AWESOME!
The day was spent dancing, eating, and laughing at that morning's race.
More of the same:
Hey, celebrity!
You're famous!
I've lived here 7 years and haven't gotten my picture in the paper! You've been here FOUR months and got a front page article!!!
No. I've only been here for THREE months.
Thank you for....you know.
I do know.
I'm not sure if I've been able to adequately express the positivity gained from knowing people are supportive. I try with words, but it's hard to capture the true gratitude in recognizing true gratitude in others.
I tried that day to get that point across. I may have succeeded, but one thing's for sure.
I danced.
Before I knew it, it was 6:15. I told myself I'd be on the road to Whitehorse by 5:00.
Typical Rita.
8:30 - Finally, on the road. Kerouac would be proud.
2:30 - Arrive in Whitehorse
3:30 - Fall asleep
6:30 - Alarm rings. Time to get ready for the race!
7:00 - Finally coherent enough to eat breakfast
7:30 - On the road to the starting line (no directions)
8:00 - Stop at a gas station to get directions to starting line
8:01 - Find I accidentally went the right way
8:15 - Arrive at race start to pick up my goodie bag with PLENTY of time until the start.
8:26 - Returned to the starting line with my number pinned, bowels emptied, no watch, and no GPS
8:30 - The gun fires, and we're off.
I forgot about the gun. Oops.
I had no idea what I was facing course-wise. I did know that I had ABSOLUTELY NO alcohol in my system at the start of this race, although I worried a bit about the coffee I downed in order to make the drive to the starting line. I tucked in behind a group of slower guys. I was convinced I was in the WAY back of the pack. When they asked me if I'd like to pass them on the single track, I politely refused.
No passing anyone not walking in the first 10 miles.
That was my rule.
There was an impatient girl behind me. I asked her if she'd like to pass. She scoffed at my pace and said she would. She sped down the trail. I smiled and told her kindly I'd see her in a few miles.
It didn't take that long. A mile and a half later I passed her. (She WAS walking.) I didn't see her for the rest of the race.
Around mile 13 (kilometer 21), I started to get a little bolder. I felt pretty good, and knew I could pick up the pace. That's where things can get dangerous in a marathon. As I jogged up to the rest station at the midway point, I told the volunteers I was out for a Sunday jog, and would prefer they didn't tell me how I was doing.
They complied.
Around mile 15, I realized I had chafed my thighs again. Not super important, but uncomfortable.
A few more miles...
Then it happened.
I've read about it happening. I've laughed about it happening to other people. I've seen horrifyingly embarrassing video clips of it happening, but I'd never experienced it myself.
My bladder let go.
Don't judge me.
It wasn't an all out pee a quart at a time, but it was a decent flow. Enough that it ran down my legs to about my knee. Down my chafed legs.
The stinging brought me to an abrupt stop.
I stifled a scream of disbelief and utter pain. I started to jog again after a few seconds of contemplation.
OH HOW IT BURNS!!!!!!
I sucked some water out of my camel back, put it on my hands, and wiped down my legs a little. It seemed to help, if only slightly.
I kept running.
I stopped thinking about the little "accident" after a bit.
Then, at a crossroads....
It happened AGAIN!
This time with more flow, and merciless burning on the inner thighs.
Hmmm...I just pissed myself in a marathon. THAT JUST HAPPENED! TWICE!
I thought it would be a good idea to "pull over." Luckily I had toilet paper in my camel back, because all at once, my gut gave me a telltale rumble, and my "situation" became an emergency quite quickly.
I handled it as fast as I could, then got back to the trail. I only had another 5K or so left in the race.
This time I didn't forget about it as quickly as I had the first time because I could smell it. I knew if I could smell it, so could whoever else was around. I was a bit embarrassed. I was preparing my response. It went something like this:
"So, have an accident?"
"Yeah, I pissed myself twice...What? Wanna fight about it?"
That's it. That's all I could come up with. :)
Another random thought that kept running through my mind as I finished the race (other than, damn, another hill!? and Damn, measuring the race in Kilometers makes it seem longer) was the episode of Family Guy where Peter gets mauled by the raccoon several times and then his outhouse is tipped with him in it.
He screams, "It's EVERYWHERE! It's in my raccoon wounds!!!"
I thought about screaming it, but the low chances of random trail runners in Whitehorse getting the reference dissuaded me.
I rounded the last turn, and the finish line came into sight. I started to pick up the pace, trailing my scent of triumph behind. If anything, I thought it might prevent other runners from closing the gap. I finished, hard, and in that moment, I had a revelation.
Most of the run was next to a river.
I hobbled to the water, and proceeded to sit down in the water. I casually wrung the material in my shorts, all the while icing my legs.
HA! They'll never know!
And they didn't. At least nobody made a visible yucky smell face in front of me, and that makes me smile.
Nobody would have known my humiliation because I handled it so quickly, so I thought it was definitely necessary to share this on the world wide web. I know it will bite me in the butt when I go to publish my book.
When it's all said and done, this weekend was a great success. I placed 2nd in the open female division at the marathon. I got a trophy, and a finisher's medal (that my couchsurfer proceeded to break the next morning), but most importantly, I earned raw inner thighs, and memories that will make me chuckle for the rest of my life.
I hate to tell you, but If you haven't run to the point of sexy secretions, you have definitely been cheating yourself out of an epic experience.
Hot chai.
Fair time!
I arrived to hear Swing Set play in the middle of the afternoon. Barely anyone was dancing, but the music was live, and I couldn't help myself. As I swayed, jumped, and kicked I was approached numerous times.
You're a celebrity!
Nice article!
Wow, and I thought you were just a NORMAL person!
I guess you never know who you are talking to, huh!
Huh.
At least the age old, "Have you ever killed someone?" wasn't thrown at me.
I ate freshly picked cherries, danced my last song, swaying to the base like a willow in a hurricane (no, really) before jogging rapidly to my car to speed off to work.
Not to work. To pay while I play.
After I got off the river, I picked my friend up at the airport and promptly returned to the fair, dressed in a smile so large my cheeks ached.
Debauchery ensued. Much dancing, some drinking, much socializing. Around 1:00, I thought I should go to sleep. I was going to race the next morning. Then I thought about the live music at the bar downtown. I quickly made the right decision.
Music it is.
More dancing, a little more alcohol, a lot more socializing.
The night (morning) ended at 4:30.
The half marathon started at 7:30, and I wasn't registered yet.
I had two people in my bed, two upstairs, and I slept on the couch. Couchsurfing's great.
I woke up at 6:30, and nobody else wanted to come out in the dreary, grey Saturday light to watch me start and finish. Surprising.
Race time.
A cool misty morning, a slight breeze, and NINE HARD CORE runners. None of us had a watch. None had a GPS. None had competitive spirit. It was cool, raining, grey, and somehow absolutely perfect.
The town was still sleeping as we trotted from the starting line in response to a commanding, "On your mark, get set, GO!" I felt OK for the first 2 miles. They were on pavement, and I convinced myself the alcohol and burrito from the evening prior would sit well in my stomach.
Sneakers slapping the pavement, small sprays of muddy precipitation were sent each and every way. I felt water on my toes.
Blisters?
As I hit the trail, my feet got comfortable pounding on the soft leaves and slippery mud. I simultaneously forgot the blisters and remembered the alcohol and massive burrito.
Uh oh.
I looked around anxiously. I stepped out of the way for a few runners to pass. I swallowed. Chills ran up my spine, my neck tingled, my hands felt numb. It was coming.
I gave in after powering up the mountain just a little bit more. I felt better thinking I was contributing to the environment. I'm convinced I fed a bear a yummy beef and bean burrito that morning. Although, I may have encouraged alcoholism in that same bear. I prefer to think only the former. Negativity's not my style.
I like description when I write, but I'll spare you the details of color, consistency, and smell.
Once wasn't enough. I made another mile marker/bear donation about a mile later.
Then I lost the trail.
Laugh it up. I've never been great with directions, so why wouldn't I have my head down, duck under a fallen tree, jump over another, climb part of a mountain, and then suddenly realize I'm in waist high brush with no trail in sight?
I queasily backtracked, never once regretting the fun I had the night prior, and eased (gracefully I might add, I just about face planted on a root) back onto the trail.
By the time I hit mile 8, life was good again. The last 5 miles were spent cruising. I skipped over rocks, ducked under branches, gained new scrapes and scratches, chafing my inner thighs on my running shorts while I continued to pick up speed, but I still didn't see anyone. I'm sure I didn't finish last, but I'm not sure I was even in the first half of finishers! Percentile-wise, it may have been the worst race I've ever run in my life!
It was THAT AWESOME!
The day was spent dancing, eating, and laughing at that morning's race.
More of the same:
Hey, celebrity!
You're famous!
I've lived here 7 years and haven't gotten my picture in the paper! You've been here FOUR months and got a front page article!!!
No. I've only been here for THREE months.
Thank you for....you know.
I do know.
I'm not sure if I've been able to adequately express the positivity gained from knowing people are supportive. I try with words, but it's hard to capture the true gratitude in recognizing true gratitude in others.
I tried that day to get that point across. I may have succeeded, but one thing's for sure.
I danced.
Before I knew it, it was 6:15. I told myself I'd be on the road to Whitehorse by 5:00.
Typical Rita.
8:30 - Finally, on the road. Kerouac would be proud.
2:30 - Arrive in Whitehorse
3:30 - Fall asleep
6:30 - Alarm rings. Time to get ready for the race!
7:00 - Finally coherent enough to eat breakfast
7:30 - On the road to the starting line (no directions)
8:00 - Stop at a gas station to get directions to starting line
8:01 - Find I accidentally went the right way
8:15 - Arrive at race start to pick up my goodie bag with PLENTY of time until the start.
8:26 - Returned to the starting line with my number pinned, bowels emptied, no watch, and no GPS
8:30 - The gun fires, and we're off.
I forgot about the gun. Oops.
I had no idea what I was facing course-wise. I did know that I had ABSOLUTELY NO alcohol in my system at the start of this race, although I worried a bit about the coffee I downed in order to make the drive to the starting line. I tucked in behind a group of slower guys. I was convinced I was in the WAY back of the pack. When they asked me if I'd like to pass them on the single track, I politely refused.
No passing anyone not walking in the first 10 miles.
That was my rule.
There was an impatient girl behind me. I asked her if she'd like to pass. She scoffed at my pace and said she would. She sped down the trail. I smiled and told her kindly I'd see her in a few miles.
It didn't take that long. A mile and a half later I passed her. (She WAS walking.) I didn't see her for the rest of the race.
Around mile 13 (kilometer 21), I started to get a little bolder. I felt pretty good, and knew I could pick up the pace. That's where things can get dangerous in a marathon. As I jogged up to the rest station at the midway point, I told the volunteers I was out for a Sunday jog, and would prefer they didn't tell me how I was doing.
They complied.
Around mile 15, I realized I had chafed my thighs again. Not super important, but uncomfortable.
A few more miles...
Then it happened.
I've read about it happening. I've laughed about it happening to other people. I've seen horrifyingly embarrassing video clips of it happening, but I'd never experienced it myself.
My bladder let go.
Don't judge me.
It wasn't an all out pee a quart at a time, but it was a decent flow. Enough that it ran down my legs to about my knee. Down my chafed legs.
The stinging brought me to an abrupt stop.
I stifled a scream of disbelief and utter pain. I started to jog again after a few seconds of contemplation.
OH HOW IT BURNS!!!!!!
I sucked some water out of my camel back, put it on my hands, and wiped down my legs a little. It seemed to help, if only slightly.
I kept running.
I stopped thinking about the little "accident" after a bit.
Then, at a crossroads....
It happened AGAIN!
This time with more flow, and merciless burning on the inner thighs.
Hmmm...I just pissed myself in a marathon. THAT JUST HAPPENED! TWICE!
I thought it would be a good idea to "pull over." Luckily I had toilet paper in my camel back, because all at once, my gut gave me a telltale rumble, and my "situation" became an emergency quite quickly.
I handled it as fast as I could, then got back to the trail. I only had another 5K or so left in the race.
This time I didn't forget about it as quickly as I had the first time because I could smell it. I knew if I could smell it, so could whoever else was around. I was a bit embarrassed. I was preparing my response. It went something like this:
"So, have an accident?"
"Yeah, I pissed myself twice...What? Wanna fight about it?"
That's it. That's all I could come up with. :)
Another random thought that kept running through my mind as I finished the race (other than, damn, another hill!? and Damn, measuring the race in Kilometers makes it seem longer) was the episode of Family Guy where Peter gets mauled by the raccoon several times and then his outhouse is tipped with him in it.
He screams, "It's EVERYWHERE! It's in my raccoon wounds!!!"
I thought about screaming it, but the low chances of random trail runners in Whitehorse getting the reference dissuaded me.
I rounded the last turn, and the finish line came into sight. I started to pick up the pace, trailing my scent of triumph behind. If anything, I thought it might prevent other runners from closing the gap. I finished, hard, and in that moment, I had a revelation.
Most of the run was next to a river.
I hobbled to the water, and proceeded to sit down in the water. I casually wrung the material in my shorts, all the while icing my legs.
HA! They'll never know!
And they didn't. At least nobody made a visible yucky smell face in front of me, and that makes me smile.
Nobody would have known my humiliation because I handled it so quickly, so I thought it was definitely necessary to share this on the world wide web. I know it will bite me in the butt when I go to publish my book.
When it's all said and done, this weekend was a great success. I placed 2nd in the open female division at the marathon. I got a trophy, and a finisher's medal (that my couchsurfer proceeded to break the next morning), but most importantly, I earned raw inner thighs, and memories that will make me chuckle for the rest of my life.
I hate to tell you, but If you haven't run to the point of sexy secretions, you have definitely been cheating yourself out of an epic experience.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Posthumous Potluck
The first row of cars came into view around the tight bend. Cars, trucks, and SUVs lined both sides of the road as far as could be seen. Some were parked off the road, some at dangerous angles in the trees, others halfway into the oncoming traffic lanes.
How many cars are there?
Around the next bend they were crammed anywhere they could fit for another quarter of a mile. At least ten people were walking. Some this way, some that. Some smiling, some staring ahead blankly. All carrying plates of food under aluminum foil.
Approaching the beach took longer than expected. Close to the middle of the queue of vehicles, where they were most haphazardly parked, was a trail entrance. An older gentleman emerged, stooping over his plate of steaming halibut, carried idly in his left hand. When asked how he was faring, he looked up, fatigue in his eyes, and replied breathily, "I'd be better if I didn't have to climb all of these steps!" He shuffled past, towards his car, that way.
Down a cleared dirt path, down a flight of stairs, past an open window looking into an immaculate kitchen, across a deck with a beautiful set of wind chimes, down a second flight of stairs, and all the while with the quiet roar of a waterfall guiding the way. Suddenly, the beach appeared.
It's one thing to see so many cars, but so many people! They must have carpooled, maybe some cycled in, maybe some walked from neighboring houses.
What throngs!
At that moment, the sound of a banjo broke through the serene pounding of plunging water.
This is the place.
The first table beyond the path was covered in a light cloth, a picture of a middle aged man smiling out at the beauty of the world placed carefully next to an open notebook and a wrapped box with a slot labelled "Donations" in loopy letters.
"Love and light. - Jen Reid," was written on the exposed page.
Should I?
The second table called loudly. Round and full, almost crowded, it was obviously the desert table. Unmatched tupperware containers of moist brownies, slices of sweet pies, batches of homemade cookies, and full loaves of beautifully baked breads beckoned, teasing and tantalizing tempted taste buds. An array of fruits, cakes, crackers, and muffins asked to be eaten.
The next table was rectangular. It was longer, covered in a white cloth, and equally filled to capacity with treats, although on the non artery clogging side. Salads, pastas, hummus, salmon dips, unnamed side dishes, and store bought cheese platters were strewn about lazily. Some containers had been scraped clean, others were getting there quickly.
Just past this table were two large grills. The smell of freshly caught and grilled salmon and halibut played in nostrils, making the hungry salivate. Norman smiled, asking if anyone wanted some more fish, fresh off the grill.
Could I say no even if I wanted? Probably not.
More spectacular than the food, than the path, than the rock riddled beach, were the people. The sheer amount of people, milling about, discussing this and that. The smiling man in the picture on the first table clearly brought smiles to their faces. Some smiled through tears, but mostly, they just smiled, laughed, and danced.
A banjo, a guitar, a base, some drums and a trombone. That's all there was, and that's all it took. The Fishpickers played their hearts out in the name of the smiling man, spreading the contagious energy he had given them before his sudden and unexpected death. The energy was spread through the crowd, and it could be seen. The energy in the air was so thick it was nearly tangible.
This could be taken and spread to folks who couldn't make the festivities.
Festivities is an odd but appropriate word.
Tommy strutted through the crowd, boasting happily of his books. "Small book, big story." He repeated this at least four times.
In wonder, a passerby expressed without lamentation, "We were just having coffee at Mountain Market on Wednesday! Now he's gone."
The music softened, then quieted. A grizzled man who looked older than his years approached the microphone. He started, "Mike wrote this........." The crowd laughed hysterically at the poem about a polar bear that hitched a ride on a fishing boat, ate the crew's fish, and then dropped them on a dime when he saw a female polar bear waiting for him at his destination. It was noted that the polar bear and fishing crew had a lot in common.
A member of the band grabbed the microphone and told a bit of a story about how silly Michael had been before he gave a gruff, "Shit, ah never mind, let's just play some music!"
As the band played, the beginnings of a rainbow peaked through the overhanging clouds that had engulfed the towering peaks across the Lynn Canal. They parted enough for the colors to break through, and everyone took it in at once. Rainbow Glacier earned its name yet another day.
In that glimpse of light, of color, the moment reopened. Sure tomorrow would happen without Michael, but today; that's what really matters. A celebration like he would have done it.
The band picked back up, playing two waltzes. Two older women danced together, roughly swinging each other one way, then the other, truly enjoying the moment. Pushing and pulling, giggling, and making silly faces. Laughter lit their eyes, and years plummeted from them in their merriment leaving nothing but youth and happiness.
By the calm canal, a single woman wearing a soft crimson sweater with a flowing black skirt stood watching over her little boy play by the water. Her dark hair danced in the wind, as if trying to reach for the adventure of the silent, still, snow capped mountains opposite the celebration.
The crowd was thinning. As if on cue, mother nature sent a visitor from the sky. Swooping in cautiously a bald eagle attempted to sneak some fish from the nearby rocks. Sensing the crowd's shifted attention, it retreated, only to attempt again in a few minutes. The game of chicken, better yet, eagle, continued for close to a half hour.
The spirit of a small fishing town in Alaska was brought to light by the death of a remarkable man. Signs had been put up on storefronts, bulletin boards, and invitations were passed around by word of mouth as well. His beauty needed to be celebrated, shared, and through that he could continue to live.
I did not know Mike Saunders before his memorial potluck, but in seeing the effect he had on the town and the people, I sure wish I had.
How many cars are there?
Around the next bend they were crammed anywhere they could fit for another quarter of a mile. At least ten people were walking. Some this way, some that. Some smiling, some staring ahead blankly. All carrying plates of food under aluminum foil.
Approaching the beach took longer than expected. Close to the middle of the queue of vehicles, where they were most haphazardly parked, was a trail entrance. An older gentleman emerged, stooping over his plate of steaming halibut, carried idly in his left hand. When asked how he was faring, he looked up, fatigue in his eyes, and replied breathily, "I'd be better if I didn't have to climb all of these steps!" He shuffled past, towards his car, that way.
Down a cleared dirt path, down a flight of stairs, past an open window looking into an immaculate kitchen, across a deck with a beautiful set of wind chimes, down a second flight of stairs, and all the while with the quiet roar of a waterfall guiding the way. Suddenly, the beach appeared.
It's one thing to see so many cars, but so many people! They must have carpooled, maybe some cycled in, maybe some walked from neighboring houses.
What throngs!
At that moment, the sound of a banjo broke through the serene pounding of plunging water.
This is the place.
The first table beyond the path was covered in a light cloth, a picture of a middle aged man smiling out at the beauty of the world placed carefully next to an open notebook and a wrapped box with a slot labelled "Donations" in loopy letters.
"Love and light. - Jen Reid," was written on the exposed page.
Should I?
The second table called loudly. Round and full, almost crowded, it was obviously the desert table. Unmatched tupperware containers of moist brownies, slices of sweet pies, batches of homemade cookies, and full loaves of beautifully baked breads beckoned, teasing and tantalizing tempted taste buds. An array of fruits, cakes, crackers, and muffins asked to be eaten.
The next table was rectangular. It was longer, covered in a white cloth, and equally filled to capacity with treats, although on the non artery clogging side. Salads, pastas, hummus, salmon dips, unnamed side dishes, and store bought cheese platters were strewn about lazily. Some containers had been scraped clean, others were getting there quickly.
Just past this table were two large grills. The smell of freshly caught and grilled salmon and halibut played in nostrils, making the hungry salivate. Norman smiled, asking if anyone wanted some more fish, fresh off the grill.
Could I say no even if I wanted? Probably not.
More spectacular than the food, than the path, than the rock riddled beach, were the people. The sheer amount of people, milling about, discussing this and that. The smiling man in the picture on the first table clearly brought smiles to their faces. Some smiled through tears, but mostly, they just smiled, laughed, and danced.
A banjo, a guitar, a base, some drums and a trombone. That's all there was, and that's all it took. The Fishpickers played their hearts out in the name of the smiling man, spreading the contagious energy he had given them before his sudden and unexpected death. The energy was spread through the crowd, and it could be seen. The energy in the air was so thick it was nearly tangible.
This could be taken and spread to folks who couldn't make the festivities.
Festivities is an odd but appropriate word.
Tommy strutted through the crowd, boasting happily of his books. "Small book, big story." He repeated this at least four times.
In wonder, a passerby expressed without lamentation, "We were just having coffee at Mountain Market on Wednesday! Now he's gone."
The music softened, then quieted. A grizzled man who looked older than his years approached the microphone. He started, "Mike wrote this........." The crowd laughed hysterically at the poem about a polar bear that hitched a ride on a fishing boat, ate the crew's fish, and then dropped them on a dime when he saw a female polar bear waiting for him at his destination. It was noted that the polar bear and fishing crew had a lot in common.
A member of the band grabbed the microphone and told a bit of a story about how silly Michael had been before he gave a gruff, "Shit, ah never mind, let's just play some music!"
As the band played, the beginnings of a rainbow peaked through the overhanging clouds that had engulfed the towering peaks across the Lynn Canal. They parted enough for the colors to break through, and everyone took it in at once. Rainbow Glacier earned its name yet another day.
In that glimpse of light, of color, the moment reopened. Sure tomorrow would happen without Michael, but today; that's what really matters. A celebration like he would have done it.
The band picked back up, playing two waltzes. Two older women danced together, roughly swinging each other one way, then the other, truly enjoying the moment. Pushing and pulling, giggling, and making silly faces. Laughter lit their eyes, and years plummeted from them in their merriment leaving nothing but youth and happiness.
By the calm canal, a single woman wearing a soft crimson sweater with a flowing black skirt stood watching over her little boy play by the water. Her dark hair danced in the wind, as if trying to reach for the adventure of the silent, still, snow capped mountains opposite the celebration.
The crowd was thinning. As if on cue, mother nature sent a visitor from the sky. Swooping in cautiously a bald eagle attempted to sneak some fish from the nearby rocks. Sensing the crowd's shifted attention, it retreated, only to attempt again in a few minutes. The game of chicken, better yet, eagle, continued for close to a half hour.
The spirit of a small fishing town in Alaska was brought to light by the death of a remarkable man. Signs had been put up on storefronts, bulletin boards, and invitations were passed around by word of mouth as well. His beauty needed to be celebrated, shared, and through that he could continue to live.
I did not know Mike Saunders before his memorial potluck, but in seeing the effect he had on the town and the people, I sure wish I had.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Indecently Discarded
Before I get tons of questions, no, this is not a personal experience. I was just sitting in a bar this evening musing about the way people treat one another. How often this happens. I got a little carried away. Read on.
Her: Driven, ambitious, quirky, light hearted, and in love with nature, outdoors, fun, and experiencing life. She's soulful; someone who has experienced more than her share, more than she should have for her age. She's 27, and what people tend describe as exotic. Almond eyes, white smile, dimple, olive skin.
Him: Driven, ambitious, accomplished. In love with adrenaline, people, and improving the community. He's attractive, open, spontaneous, and family oriented. He's something of a legend in his community, and has made an impression on the world. He's 44, and what people tend to describe as ruggedly handsome. Laughing green eyes, distinguished, weathered.
The two met by chance, through both of their passions, live music. He caught her eye, bouncing around to the music, travelling the floor, making his presence noticed with less than no rhythm. She sat back for hours until finally asking him to dance. He complied. They laughed, drank, danced. They loved their moments together.
A short while later, the two bumped into each other again, and the chemistry was undeniable. Their concern for people brought them together. They understood each other. They talked for hours, tiptoeing around the obvious age difference, the potential between them. They enjoyed each other's company, and it didn't seem to matter.
He commanded her attention, she commanded his. They found ways to see each other, even for a short bit. A 15 minute smoothie break, a short jaunt by the docks. Their time together was a complement to each.
They chased the moon hand in hand down the center of an empty road, with the sounds of the sea at their backs.
They idled in the dark, chatting, laughing, until there was a rustle in the brush that could have been a bear. They picked up the pace a bit more, laughing all the while.
They kayaked together to a secluded beach, sat against some drift wood, and fell asleep in each other's arms.
He had her over for dinner, and in moments of passion, they became one.
They weren't prepared for each other in this life. He had almost given up on her existence, and while she knew he was somewhere, it didn't cross her mind that he'd be found in a town of 2,500, in a small bar in Southeast Alaska.
They had a serious conversation. He hadn't been with anyone in years. He thought she was incredible, and he had even told his mother. She met his brother. He invited her to have Thanksgiving with his family. He showed her his dreams. He shared with her his fears. He told her how good he made him feel, so good, in fact that he felt as if quitting smoking could be possible. She embraced them, him, his faults, and his passions.
He offered her undying and endless support, told her he'd be there for her, and even offered her a drawer in his house to encourage her presence in his life. He set the pace. He offered his home. He told her to make herself at home, but she couldn't just move in completely.
Then one day, she noticed a change in the weather. Something so abrupt, she didn't have time to react. Suddenly there were no more smoothie breaks, no dinners, no time together but time after work. He still wanted her to come by the house, but their time together seemed loveless. They were no longer one when together, just two people, one driven by lust, one by the hope love would return.
Eventually, she didn't want to visit the house anymore, but she complied because it was their time together. She hesitated to go home with him one night after a particularly cold evening together. She felt used. Sex is nothing but an annoyance without love.
When he ran into her in public, he seemed irritated that she would approach him. He avoided her. Refused to acknowledge her in front of his old friends, and refused to introduce her to anyone new. He even went so far as to turn his back on her upon her approaches.
She was confused. Her heart pulsed, felt as if it would burst out of her throat in a violent gush of tears. After several days, she pulled him aside, and demanded he explain to her the change.
His only response was, "I need to slow down. We can't live together. I'm confused. I need time."
She wanted to scream at him that HE set the pace. HE cleared the drawer. HE pursued her. HE entered her world. HE promised trips, time together, family, future. HE took her by surprise. HE broke her heart.
But she only responded with a quiet, "I'm not in a rush, but you could have handled this better." He had made her feel worthless, like a bother. Like the problem was hers.
They decided she would pull her things from his house, and after that they didn't speak. She decided to wait for him to come around, but he didn't call for several days. When he did, he offered a smoothie break, and some support. She believed him, and he stood her up. The third week in a row.
She started to doubt what she had to offer. She started to doubt her strength as a woman. Did she do something to push away this man? To make him embarrassed enough of her in public that he felt it necessary to ignore her? To cut communications? Was the hunt the only exciting part for him? Was she not a good catch?
She had seen this happen to others. This was the first time she experienced it first hand. She realized in an instant she had become disposable. A toy that had become a hassle on top of other responsibilities after an initial enjoyment.
She lamented. She had sleepless nights. She cursed him. She cried. She laughed at him and herself, but eventually she wished he would just speak to her like she was a human being. He treated dogs better than he treated her. All she wanted was acknowledgement, a sort of truce to become friends, because at that point there would be no reconciliation on a romantic level.
She lives by the saying, "When somebody shows you their true self, believe them." There would be no convincing her he was a better person than he had shown her. She had made that mistake before. He had lied to her, filled her head with empty promises, and decided he could drop her like a bad habit. Or maybe not. He had a MUCH harder time quitting smoking than he had quitting his time with her.
The part that made the hot tears stream down her face when she was alone was how worthless he seemed to think she was.
She recognized what was happening, as in one of her lesser proud moments, she had treated somebody the same way. In private, she had been one with a man that she was embarrassed of in public, and one day she cut him off completely and suddenly with a shoddy excuse of needing time to herself, being confused, needing to think, etc. She had truly enjoyed time with him, but one day things changed. She refused to speak to him because he complicated things in her head, the worries, the stresses. She didn't give him the respect he deserved because it was an inconvenience to her. She had treated him as if he was disposable. He had cried, written her letters, and pleaded with her to talk with him. He even threatened her. She couldn't be bothered. She didn't answer his calls, and was dismissive to his cries. She thought her problems were worth more than his ego. She figured he'd recover, and just wished he'd disappear instead of making her feel bad about the way she was treating him. She just wanted him to move on, and leave her alone.
In that moment of realization, she felt bad for both men. The man who she had stood by and dismissed her without a thought, and the man she had dismissed. She wished with her entire being that she could rescind her wrongdoings, hug him, make a friend of him, and take away his pain. For people are beautiful beings, not objects, not toys. Emotions are not disposable. It is not right to just drop someone because they have become an inconvenience. It's not OK to ignore someone completely. Simple explanations, honesty, and a little courage is all it takes to mend relations, yet we tend to cut them so crudely. It's instant gratification. It's a loss of values over generations.
It hurts. Nobody should have to experience it.
People would be kinder to one another if they could empathize with the feelings of the indecently discarded.
Her: Driven, ambitious, quirky, light hearted, and in love with nature, outdoors, fun, and experiencing life. She's soulful; someone who has experienced more than her share, more than she should have for her age. She's 27, and what people tend describe as exotic. Almond eyes, white smile, dimple, olive skin.
Him: Driven, ambitious, accomplished. In love with adrenaline, people, and improving the community. He's attractive, open, spontaneous, and family oriented. He's something of a legend in his community, and has made an impression on the world. He's 44, and what people tend to describe as ruggedly handsome. Laughing green eyes, distinguished, weathered.
The two met by chance, through both of their passions, live music. He caught her eye, bouncing around to the music, travelling the floor, making his presence noticed with less than no rhythm. She sat back for hours until finally asking him to dance. He complied. They laughed, drank, danced. They loved their moments together.
A short while later, the two bumped into each other again, and the chemistry was undeniable. Their concern for people brought them together. They understood each other. They talked for hours, tiptoeing around the obvious age difference, the potential between them. They enjoyed each other's company, and it didn't seem to matter.
He commanded her attention, she commanded his. They found ways to see each other, even for a short bit. A 15 minute smoothie break, a short jaunt by the docks. Their time together was a complement to each.
They chased the moon hand in hand down the center of an empty road, with the sounds of the sea at their backs.
They idled in the dark, chatting, laughing, until there was a rustle in the brush that could have been a bear. They picked up the pace a bit more, laughing all the while.
They kayaked together to a secluded beach, sat against some drift wood, and fell asleep in each other's arms.
He had her over for dinner, and in moments of passion, they became one.
They weren't prepared for each other in this life. He had almost given up on her existence, and while she knew he was somewhere, it didn't cross her mind that he'd be found in a town of 2,500, in a small bar in Southeast Alaska.
They had a serious conversation. He hadn't been with anyone in years. He thought she was incredible, and he had even told his mother. She met his brother. He invited her to have Thanksgiving with his family. He showed her his dreams. He shared with her his fears. He told her how good he made him feel, so good, in fact that he felt as if quitting smoking could be possible. She embraced them, him, his faults, and his passions.
He offered her undying and endless support, told her he'd be there for her, and even offered her a drawer in his house to encourage her presence in his life. He set the pace. He offered his home. He told her to make herself at home, but she couldn't just move in completely.
Then one day, she noticed a change in the weather. Something so abrupt, she didn't have time to react. Suddenly there were no more smoothie breaks, no dinners, no time together but time after work. He still wanted her to come by the house, but their time together seemed loveless. They were no longer one when together, just two people, one driven by lust, one by the hope love would return.
Eventually, she didn't want to visit the house anymore, but she complied because it was their time together. She hesitated to go home with him one night after a particularly cold evening together. She felt used. Sex is nothing but an annoyance without love.
When he ran into her in public, he seemed irritated that she would approach him. He avoided her. Refused to acknowledge her in front of his old friends, and refused to introduce her to anyone new. He even went so far as to turn his back on her upon her approaches.
She was confused. Her heart pulsed, felt as if it would burst out of her throat in a violent gush of tears. After several days, she pulled him aside, and demanded he explain to her the change.
His only response was, "I need to slow down. We can't live together. I'm confused. I need time."
She wanted to scream at him that HE set the pace. HE cleared the drawer. HE pursued her. HE entered her world. HE promised trips, time together, family, future. HE took her by surprise. HE broke her heart.
But she only responded with a quiet, "I'm not in a rush, but you could have handled this better." He had made her feel worthless, like a bother. Like the problem was hers.
They decided she would pull her things from his house, and after that they didn't speak. She decided to wait for him to come around, but he didn't call for several days. When he did, he offered a smoothie break, and some support. She believed him, and he stood her up. The third week in a row.
She started to doubt what she had to offer. She started to doubt her strength as a woman. Did she do something to push away this man? To make him embarrassed enough of her in public that he felt it necessary to ignore her? To cut communications? Was the hunt the only exciting part for him? Was she not a good catch?
She had seen this happen to others. This was the first time she experienced it first hand. She realized in an instant she had become disposable. A toy that had become a hassle on top of other responsibilities after an initial enjoyment.
She lamented. She had sleepless nights. She cursed him. She cried. She laughed at him and herself, but eventually she wished he would just speak to her like she was a human being. He treated dogs better than he treated her. All she wanted was acknowledgement, a sort of truce to become friends, because at that point there would be no reconciliation on a romantic level.
She lives by the saying, "When somebody shows you their true self, believe them." There would be no convincing her he was a better person than he had shown her. She had made that mistake before. He had lied to her, filled her head with empty promises, and decided he could drop her like a bad habit. Or maybe not. He had a MUCH harder time quitting smoking than he had quitting his time with her.
The part that made the hot tears stream down her face when she was alone was how worthless he seemed to think she was.
She recognized what was happening, as in one of her lesser proud moments, she had treated somebody the same way. In private, she had been one with a man that she was embarrassed of in public, and one day she cut him off completely and suddenly with a shoddy excuse of needing time to herself, being confused, needing to think, etc. She had truly enjoyed time with him, but one day things changed. She refused to speak to him because he complicated things in her head, the worries, the stresses. She didn't give him the respect he deserved because it was an inconvenience to her. She had treated him as if he was disposable. He had cried, written her letters, and pleaded with her to talk with him. He even threatened her. She couldn't be bothered. She didn't answer his calls, and was dismissive to his cries. She thought her problems were worth more than his ego. She figured he'd recover, and just wished he'd disappear instead of making her feel bad about the way she was treating him. She just wanted him to move on, and leave her alone.
In that moment of realization, she felt bad for both men. The man who she had stood by and dismissed her without a thought, and the man she had dismissed. She wished with her entire being that she could rescind her wrongdoings, hug him, make a friend of him, and take away his pain. For people are beautiful beings, not objects, not toys. Emotions are not disposable. It is not right to just drop someone because they have become an inconvenience. It's not OK to ignore someone completely. Simple explanations, honesty, and a little courage is all it takes to mend relations, yet we tend to cut them so crudely. It's instant gratification. It's a loss of values over generations.
It hurts. Nobody should have to experience it.
People would be kinder to one another if they could empathize with the feelings of the indecently discarded.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Corner Cry
It's hard to put pure emotion into prose. Capturing the true excitement that burns, the overwhelming need to smile at something, anything, anyone, in words is a challenge. The past week has been incredible. I've shared moments with people where in unison we've express that "This is one of THOSE moments that can't get any better."
I spent an afternoon running through a glacially fed river that only went waist deep in 80 degree weather with friends and a dog, grinning like an 8 year old. I laughed at myself as I stumbled over silt bars, slipped, tripped, and leapt through the refreshing goodness.
I followed this with a trip out to a dock to watch the full moon rise over the mountains. The clouds played a lazy game of hide and seek with the light that rested on the rippling water like a luminescent kayak while I turned up the radio and drank in the enticement of night with a side of Irish rock.
I took a morning hike out to Seduction Point, and set up a lunch on the hot, black rocks overlooking the water. I watched two pods of porpoises play carelessly. I witnessed a young eagle being chased by a raven, and after about a half hour of soaking up the sun, I was privied to the spectacle of a humpback whale doing what experts call tail slapping, but I choose to believe was a temper tantrum. This big baby was lamenting his girlfriend's decision to go out to dance instead of staying with him to watch television. He repeatedly lifted his tail out of the water and slammed it down with all the force of a man scorned, sending up what seemed like tidal waves in his wake. The sound thundered like a freight train against the jagged rock and glaciers, echoing like spirits calling to me to stay forever.
I sea kayaked to Battery Point and fell asleep on a beautifully secluded beach while the rest of the town "Beer Fested." The moment was spectacular. Serene. Sanctified. Satisfying.
I've met people who make me smile. It's refreshing to be surrounded by friendly, unassuming folks who share my thoughts about the general public: Everyone is good. Patience is all it takes to see that, and if you wait enough, inevitably a person will surprise you with their goodness.
I am bursting at the seams with what I can only describe as a lightness of being, not unbearable in the least. I finally, truly understand the overwhelming longing to discover a way to bottle it and inject it into the soul of the world. I wish with all my being that everyone could feel as great as I have recently. I wish so hard that it aches.
It seems unfair that it isn't understood as universal. Some truly believe their destiny is to be satisfied, not happy, but complacent. If they could only experience true happiness; liberation from the chains of mediocrity, they'd never return to the lifestyle of the sedentary soul.
I shed more than a few tears today. Every Memorial Day I sit down in a corner and cry like a baby until the hurt seeps away in a flood of salt, leaving only grainy streaks of white on my swollen cheeks. I sob until my shoulders have no more energy to rise and fall. I ask myself, the world, anyone who will listen, "Why?"
Today I didn't get to lose myself completely in my corner cry. Instead, I went on a flight through the mountains, and in complete awe of the jagged peaks surrounding Haines, I shed a discrete tear. I took a walk through the town and wore sunglasses to hide the evidence. I had a wonderful lunch under a gazebo by the water, and used my napkin to wipe the salt laden drops cascading towards my neck.
I remembered. I cried. I had not the chance to sob, but my heart broke nonetheless.
When I was a young Sergeant, a mother sobbed uncontrollably on my low quarters when I worked the funeral detail for her 19 year old boy, and it still haunts me. I hear her wails when I least expect it. The sound of pure agony and loss. A parent who has outlasted their child. A realization that nothing will ever be the same. An awareness of the unfairness.
The memorials haunt me. The empathy for the families, who surely don't celebrate with beer and burgers, but with a longing for the beautiful person who has left behind an empty seat at the picnic table, breaks my heart.
I wish for them to be able to feel my excitement. I want to spread it, pass it around, getting as many people infected with liberation from misery as I possibly can. I want them to be able to smile through the day with positive memories after a good cry, because we all know the cry has to happen in one form or another. Maybe a corner cry, maybe just a tear on a small plane in the mountains of Alaska. Cry. Let it all be flushed out. Then take the day to celebrate life instead of mourning death.
As Gen George S. Patton said so eloquently, "It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God that such men lived."
I spent an afternoon running through a glacially fed river that only went waist deep in 80 degree weather with friends and a dog, grinning like an 8 year old. I laughed at myself as I stumbled over silt bars, slipped, tripped, and leapt through the refreshing goodness.
I followed this with a trip out to a dock to watch the full moon rise over the mountains. The clouds played a lazy game of hide and seek with the light that rested on the rippling water like a luminescent kayak while I turned up the radio and drank in the enticement of night with a side of Irish rock.
I took a morning hike out to Seduction Point, and set up a lunch on the hot, black rocks overlooking the water. I watched two pods of porpoises play carelessly. I witnessed a young eagle being chased by a raven, and after about a half hour of soaking up the sun, I was privied to the spectacle of a humpback whale doing what experts call tail slapping, but I choose to believe was a temper tantrum. This big baby was lamenting his girlfriend's decision to go out to dance instead of staying with him to watch television. He repeatedly lifted his tail out of the water and slammed it down with all the force of a man scorned, sending up what seemed like tidal waves in his wake. The sound thundered like a freight train against the jagged rock and glaciers, echoing like spirits calling to me to stay forever.
I sea kayaked to Battery Point and fell asleep on a beautifully secluded beach while the rest of the town "Beer Fested." The moment was spectacular. Serene. Sanctified. Satisfying.
I've met people who make me smile. It's refreshing to be surrounded by friendly, unassuming folks who share my thoughts about the general public: Everyone is good. Patience is all it takes to see that, and if you wait enough, inevitably a person will surprise you with their goodness.
I am bursting at the seams with what I can only describe as a lightness of being, not unbearable in the least. I finally, truly understand the overwhelming longing to discover a way to bottle it and inject it into the soul of the world. I wish with all my being that everyone could feel as great as I have recently. I wish so hard that it aches.
It seems unfair that it isn't understood as universal. Some truly believe their destiny is to be satisfied, not happy, but complacent. If they could only experience true happiness; liberation from the chains of mediocrity, they'd never return to the lifestyle of the sedentary soul.
I shed more than a few tears today. Every Memorial Day I sit down in a corner and cry like a baby until the hurt seeps away in a flood of salt, leaving only grainy streaks of white on my swollen cheeks. I sob until my shoulders have no more energy to rise and fall. I ask myself, the world, anyone who will listen, "Why?"
Today I didn't get to lose myself completely in my corner cry. Instead, I went on a flight through the mountains, and in complete awe of the jagged peaks surrounding Haines, I shed a discrete tear. I took a walk through the town and wore sunglasses to hide the evidence. I had a wonderful lunch under a gazebo by the water, and used my napkin to wipe the salt laden drops cascading towards my neck.
I remembered. I cried. I had not the chance to sob, but my heart broke nonetheless.
When I was a young Sergeant, a mother sobbed uncontrollably on my low quarters when I worked the funeral detail for her 19 year old boy, and it still haunts me. I hear her wails when I least expect it. The sound of pure agony and loss. A parent who has outlasted their child. A realization that nothing will ever be the same. An awareness of the unfairness.
The memorials haunt me. The empathy for the families, who surely don't celebrate with beer and burgers, but with a longing for the beautiful person who has left behind an empty seat at the picnic table, breaks my heart.
I wish for them to be able to feel my excitement. I want to spread it, pass it around, getting as many people infected with liberation from misery as I possibly can. I want them to be able to smile through the day with positive memories after a good cry, because we all know the cry has to happen in one form or another. Maybe a corner cry, maybe just a tear on a small plane in the mountains of Alaska. Cry. Let it all be flushed out. Then take the day to celebrate life instead of mourning death.
As Gen George S. Patton said so eloquently, "It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God that such men lived."
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