sacred shoe ceremony

I got new running shoes Friday. This morning I hosted the Changing of the Shoe Ceremony. It was touching. I set old and new side by side on the living room floor by the couch. I thanked old for her service, for her unwavering dedication to supporting my rickety frame and keeping rocks out of my toes, for staying relentlessly tied. I apologized for all the water she had to take in at Dam to Dam and during a few other training runs that turned into monsoons. I apologized for not always airing her out properly and letting her get smelly. I apologized for how painfully slow I am. If she had landed on the feet of a faster runner, she would not have to work nearly as long.

Old looked tired. She was ready to retire, to pasture, to transition to easy walking-the-dog shoes, and occasional mowing and gardening shoes. (Chris will scoff at that, because I only mow about once every 2 years.)

New was very eager and crisp, like a young hunting dog or a kindergartner with a new dress.

And then I gave them a few moments alone so Old could advise New on my short, slow, lumbering stride and my tricky knees. I'm sure Old also had some advice about: persevering through the storm of vulgarities I unleash with some regularity around mile 13; enduring cat calls when I choose to run through our neighborhood; and I'm sure Old also impressed upon New the importance of not giggling when I perform the chant about being a powerful warrior horse.

Then I ran 17 miles. (I was only supposed to run 16, but I got my route wrong and accidentally ran 17, which is probably the first and last time I will ever utter those words. Accidentally ran 17. That's ridiculous.)

like walking through wedding tulle

I was trapped in the far corner of a very small room listening to a webinar about confidentiality policies and infectious disease reporting. The woman next to me was the perpetual frowny face who reeks of bad soul health (I don't work with her; I just see her around all the time.)--icky energy, and she was eating Burger King onion rings with electric orange cheese sauce, and they smelled horrible. It was an unpleasant way to spend two hours.

I believe that bodies are temples that house spirits, that they are divine vehicles for exploration and soul growth, and that our bodies are connected, that our inner pulsings feed a godly environment and a universal energy, and that our bodies filter our experiences with the "external" world and with each other... which makes listening to an explanation of laws that protect your right to keep your disease a solitary experience very weird.

It's not that I think every warbling of our physical form should be published on the front page of tomorrow's newspaper. That's not what I'm saying at all. I just think it's one of those cases where we have to create laws to accommodate our garbled sociology. And that it's kind of like making a law that prohibits the merging of water molecules in a public fountain.

Jill Bolte Taylor. I kept thinking of her and how our neurology, our consciousness, defines the parameters of our bodies-- our right hemispheres separate us, and our left hemispheres unite us. That we really are all part of one big universal body, it's only a brain trick that convinces us we're separate.

So as Frowny Face kept munching on her smelly onion rings, polluting her innards and, by way of godly energy feeding, everybody else, I thought, "This is too much." Some days the world feels thicker than others, like I'm walking through a giant vat of tapioca pudding and wedding tulle. It's really quite a lot to take in, and I'm not sure how I can be expected to drive a car or carry on a conversation.

until the spots stopped

I spent an unnatural amount of time trying not to pass out this morning. Bad run. It was a "back-off" week, and I may have been over-confident. 12 miles just seems silly now. 12 miles is for children and puppies. 12 miles is for heels and skirts while eating pie.

Not so much, no.

I ran 6. It was hot. My body didn't feel right. I kept having to pause in the shade and squat until the spots stopped. So I walked the rest. It took a while, so I had time to think on things.

I thought:

Music--really, when it comes to running, whatever works, you know? If you want to listen to a bunch of 90's Pantera, nobody can revoke your hippie card. Same for Britney Spears and Fergie. But if you're 36, and Miley Cyrus's The Climb has snuck into your iPod, you should make sure you have plenty of Grace Potter and Eminem to balance things out.

Grace Potter--Totally badass. I want to sing and write songs like that.

Foresight--Foresight is funny business. I can't look ahead 10 minutes to say, "Hey, P, if you eat these potato chips, you're going to be sick." But put an idea in my head, and I will--in an instant-- project 20 years ahead to some kind of fantastical outcome that usually includes an interview with Diane Sawyer and a Grammy. Seriously. Give me any idea. Any idea and all. And I will tell you how it leads to Diane and a Grammy.

It's All In Your Head--I hear this about running, that at a certain point, it's just a mind game. I'm on the fence on this. It seems like kind of a dumb thing to say, because it's only a mind game if your body is already on board. My brain is a pretty magical place, but no amount of fantasy is going to put fluid in my body when I'm dehydrated.

Phones--I wish we didn't have cell phones. I wish we could go back to phones with twirly cords mounted on the kitchen wall... and no voicemail. I really do. And letters. I want to write letters. And I want people to write letters to me. And I want them to come in the mail with a cool stamp.

Pride--I think I may have quit this marathon training business a few weeks ago if it wasn't for my personalized race bib. I registered early, so my race bib will have my first name printed in big letters. It is the thought of that lonely race bib laying unclaimed at pick-up--so sad--that makes me too proud to quit. I mean, how many PATRESAs are going to be running this thing?

Swimming--I think I would swim if I could properly execute a flip turn.

Triathlons--I think I would train for triathlons if I could properly execute a flip turn. I don't like riding bikes, but I could get over that. But swimming. No, I need flip turns. And space. I don't want all those elbows and feet in my face. And also, I don't think I like the idea of riding a bicycle with a wet butt.

Running As Life Lessons--It's too obvious. I can't bear to print it--training for the long haul, pushing beyond your limits, slowing down when your body says to, anything is possible with a plan, it's always hard at first, keep going... I know the application. I just don't (apply). But I'm pretty sure if I can yank this marathon out of my buns, I probably have a novel up there, too.

air swimming

I once had a dream that I was a special investigator who could sense the presence of the devil. I found a dead chicken in a shower and knew it was the devil. And then, I knew that I was both the chicken and the devil. I refer to this as The Chicken Devil Dream.

I had another dream that a tall skinny man sat in a dark corner of an empty room holding an old traveling doctor's bag, and Magic Johnson was walking around with his head cut off asking for wooden nickels.

I used to swim through air in my dreams. I once air-swam laps around a giant plantation house.

I am frequently chased. I am frequently running through the dark and jumping over picnic tables and making out with Keanu Reeves under stadium bleachers. A few weeks ago, a giant green dinosaur stomped through the neighborhood and split my house in half.

These are my dreams.

The following are Chris's dreams:

Last night, Chris dreamed that he ordered a new screen door for the back porch and called to have a tree trimmer come out to groom the walnut in the backyard. The end.

One of us has an easier time with the idiosyncrasies of the world than the other.

yo mama don't live here

I shouldn't write when I'm cranky.

But I'm gonna.

First, I will say, as I have 14,000 times before (because I seem to revisit the same themes over and over) is that part of my soul plan is to learn how to let go... of lots of things, but they all likely boil down to perfection. I'm supposed to let go of the idea of perfection. Self, world, others... all imperfect. And that's okay.

I would like to amend that: Imperfection is okay. But it's not okay to just run around being a big jackass with no regard for Other People (They exist! And they really like it when you use your turn signal and say Please and Thank you.)

I've been wrestling with this idea of judgment, and how I really shouldn't--as an imperfect little wrinkled mess--cast it. I keep thinking I need to learn how to "go with the flow." But something about it just doesn't sit right.

And then... this was my Rob Brezsny horoscope last week, and I thought, my my my, what perfect timing, you tricky minx.

Taurus Horoscope for week of August 12, 2010

When they say "Go with the flow," what "flow" are they talking about? Do they mean the flow of your early childhood conditioning? The flow of your friends' opinions? The latest cultural trends? Your immediate instinctual needs? When they say "Go with the flow," are they urging you to keep doing what's easiest to do and what will win you the most ego points, even if it keeps you from being true to your soul's code? I'm here to ask you to consider the possibility that there are many flows to go with, but only one of them is correct for you right now. And in my opinion, it is flowing in an underground cavern, far from the maddening crowd.

Precisely! Which flow? Because I've been observing a lot of really asinine flows, and none of them seem like a very good idea. The trouble isn't the not-going-with-the-flowness; it's that I don't know how to observe asininestry, detach from it, and continue without angst. When I observe a complete lack of sense, to the point of destructiveness, I don't know how to: co-exist peaceably, resist the destructive flow, and/or point out the damage and demand change. I observe acts of disregard, and they stick in my craw, then I become kind of a jerk (which is ironic).

An example: driving to the fair Friday night, we were following a car with a specialty license plate with a U.S. flag and the words "God Bless America!" Two guys in front, smoking with the windows cracked. Little kid in back. Then, out the driver's window: an empty, crumpled cigarette box, tossed into the street. Few seconds later, out the passenger's window: another empty, crumpled cigarette box, tossed into the same street. And I thought, "Really? God Bless America? Just not this particular block of America's East Euclid? This particular block of America's East Euclid can suck it? But the rest? Bless that? God Bless America, but not the kid in your back seat who lives in it? God Bless My Trash? God Bless America, Mother Earth can bite me?" I grumbled angrily about it for many blocks, and felt genuinely... flummoxed. If you're going to drive around with bold exclamations on your bumper sticker, know what they mean, Jackass.

I mean, what is the right thing to do? What's the flow? Hey, okay, people throw trash. That's just the way it is, so don't get upset? But... it's not okay to throw your trash around. "Oh, it's just a cigarette box." How many people in the world, in a day, throw out a cigarette box? How many people throw out their fast food bags? A plastic water bottle? A pop can? A sink? It adds up! We don't live in isolation! And if we say okay now, when does it stop? Plus, what does that say about how you view yourself in comparison to the planet? That you are above it? That you are superior? And if you feel you are superior to the planet, and that your actions have no impact, what else will you do? What happens when the entire world implodes in the center of a giant mosaic of plastic bags and crumpled Lucky Strikes? It's not okay to treat the earth like your own personal toilet. It's just not!

So many things I see in a day, and I think, "Hey! That's not okay!" And some of them are so small. They are woes the width of a hair. But even things that are small are indicative of larger things. Like: not saying thank you when someone opens the door. Small. But big. It's how you view other people (if you view them at all). If you have so little regard for others that when they hold a door for you, you cannot muster a thank you, what else can you not muster to do? How will you treat people, on a larger scale, if you don't think they matter? It's the energy you feed the world. Don't feed the world your sucky, haughty, destructive energy, man! Be nice! Be respectful! Be cognizant!

I'm spending all this time telling myself, "don't judge. don't judge. don'tjudgedon'tjudgedon'tjudgedon'tjudge." But how can some things not be judged? Some things are really quite awful. Am I supposed to pretend they're not? Am I supposed to pretend I don't have opinions about basic, decent human behavior? Because, you know what I really want to do? I want to grab people by the shoulders, and I want to yell at them, "You! You are being an asshole!" I want to sit them down and point into their faces and say:

You. When you are at work... work. Give a crap. Show some integrity. Do it.

You. When someone honest and kind loves you, don't shit on them. Don't.

You. Cats have claws. Period. Stop yanking them out. That's cruel.

You. Stop treating your dog like a thing. Your dog is a gift and a teacher. Cherish, Jerk Face.

You. Stop cutting down all the trees and barfing your junk into the water. Stop mucking up the sky with your charcoal stick. Would you stab your mother in the eye with a fork?

You. Don't sleep with your best friend's ex. That's really bad taste.

You. With your anti-gay marriage rally. Your energy is going the wrong direction. This is foolishness. Lobby for love, respect, and responsibility. Lobby for not-jumping-shipped-ness-at-the-first-sign-of-trouble. Lobby for not-using-marriage-as-a-crutch-for-your-brokenness. Lobby for understanding the power and sacredness of marriage as a vehicle for soul growth and spiritual development. Watch what happens then.

You. With your arms full of plastic grocery bags. Forego your case of Mountain Dew and spring for a few reusable grocery totes. They cost $0.99 each. Have you looked at the ocean lately?Also, Mountain Dew is a horrible choice. Do you hate your own guts?

You. Wherever you're going, I'm pretty sure they have a trashcan. Would it kill you to hang onto that piece of crap until you get there?

You. Contribute.

You. How 'bout you spend the rest of your life trying really really hard not to toss your unexamined life garbage onto other people? Hey, you're not perfect. You'll screw up. But when you do? Apologize. Mean it. And then clean up your mess. Yo mama doesn't live here.

That's what I want to say. But I'm too busy apologizing and cleaning up my messes. My mama doesn't live here.

unabashedly imperfect

It's 9:30. I should be much more tired than I am. I think working out at 5 a.m. every morning has reduced my body's dependency on sleep.

Because I like to observe my own neurosis, and because I believe my neurosis is not unique and likely matches your neurosis, which makes it a shared neurosis between most people and therefore probably really shouldn't even be called "neurosis" but instead should just be called human nature, I would like to recant the frenetic brain activity that happened after my last blog post, the song blog:

Neurosis: This is attention seeking behavior. Stop, immediately.

Rationality: Why is posting a song blog any more attention seeking than posting a word blog?

Neurosis: This song is horrible. You suck. You are horrible. You should be ashamed. Stop, immediately.

Rationality: It doesn't have to be good if it's honest.

Neurosis: Yes, it does. Why do anything at all if you can't do it perfectly, Idiot?

Rationality: But, there is no such thing as perfect.

Neurosis: Maybe, but this is really awful. Be ashamed. Stop.

Rationality: But, isn't it liberating to publicly and freely acknowledge your own awfulness? To bare your limited skill set and failed attempts? Isn't it soul-freeing to bite the dust of imperfection in front of lots and lots of people? Isn't that the only true way to find joy--to release all unrealistic expectations for self and just...be?

Neurosis: No. Stop.

Rationality: But, maybe someone somewhere won't think it's awful. There is an audience for awful things. Just listen to all that weird obscure indie music. They can't even sing, and people love them!

Neurosis: They have horrible taste and their opinions don't count.

Rationality: But it's not okay to cap honest expression based on outside opinions.

Neurosis: Have you no pride?

Rationality: Yes, I have too much.

Anyway, just a sampling.

Another frenetic dialogue is happening right now as I type. But I'm going to just leave it at this.

Good night. Sleep tight. May tomorrow be wildly and unabashedly imperfect, and may you fail publicly and not give a flying tin can of shit.

Swim: a song blog

I really like songs that tell stories -- too-many-words songs. So, with my last beautiful day of staycation, I tried to write one. I found it... hard. And for someone with normally very fine rhythm, kind of... annoying. But I like it, in a not classically good sort of way.

Here is the song:

(And if that doesn't work: Here is the song...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUmL65WPews)

And here are the words:

You know, when I was six I was

sucked in by the ocean

on vacation to the beach and the waves pulled me

under, pulled me under

and sideways.

And I still remember toes

in seaweed, kicking for sand,

searching for land,

But the tide flipped me on my side, and I

took in water

so much water 'til I

couldn't breathe

I couldn't breathe.

Ocean in my ears, I heard what

whales hear

what squid hear

what seals hear

when they're underwater.

So, my uncle pulled me to shore

wrestled me through choppy waves,

and I cried into the castle

my sisters built.

He's gone now, that uncle

Taken too soon, too young

No warning, and

isn't that the way with the tide,

it takes and it gives and

you never know

which or what or when, so you

just swim

and swim

'til you're tired.

Yeah, you never know

which or what or when, so you

just swim

and swim

'til you're tired.

Every summer we went to Minnesota, to

the lake to my grandparents' river, and

we floated downstream in rafts with

turtles and fish

and snakes.

They had a canoe, too, but

between me and you,

I hate canoeing.

There, I've said it.

I really frickin' hate canoeing.

Flimsy, stupid, unstable vessel

wobbling like a drunk on water

just me and a paddle

and a partner, and we tip

side to side, and

spill into the water,

Athough, I'm a good swimmer

a strong swimmer, I still

hate it.

It's just, I want to know when

I'd rather jump than be pushed.

Do you know what I mean?

Boats, they dump you into water &

conspire with the river who drags you

downstream, upstream, sidestream, wherever

she wants. So I muscle through

and scream, "This is not my choice!"

Not my choice.

Maybe I'm too high strung

Never been too good at floating, so I

swim

and I swim

'til I'm tired.

Yeah, maybe I'm too high strung

Not too good at floating, so I

swim

and I swim

and I swim

'til I'm tired.

i like to make things.

It is the last day of my stay-cation, and I feel nervous. It's already 7:48 a.m. Last days of any-cations always go too fast. I will blink and it will be 7:48 p.m. So much pressure to enjoy each moment. This one! Enjoy this one! Focus, P! I froth when I discover moments have passed, and I've missed them, let them slip unacknowledged. I am sweaty and wild-eyed with moment-marking.

An exaggeration. Really, I'm just eating yogurt and fruit and drinking some coffee. But I really do feel nervous, and I really do keep looking at the clock. 7:52. Dammit!

I know that I do not want to spend all day flitting around online. I will make music and make pictures and make food and make stretching of IT Bands. I like to make things. I like to make things more than anything else. I want to spend all day making things. All day. Not just part of the day. Not just periodic 4-day stay-cations. Songs, stories, poems, dinners, pictures. My soul likes it. Craves it. I dare say, I was designed to make stuff, sometimes it's crap, but the process--I was born for that. I also like to make messes. Sometimes I even like to make things clean, but please don't tell my husband.

There is never enough time to make all the things I want to make. And that makes me so awfully nervous.

7:56.