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.

serious runners are always ready to run

Physical therapy appointment today, and my usual PT was out of town. She set me up with another, a strapping young guy who is the running guru. She told me to bring shorts and running shoes, because she would have him watch me run to determine if I do something stupid (my words).

I follow directions most of the time.

This morning, I packed a set of running clothes, and due to a laundry back-up, had to choose between a tight tank or the super fancy technical shirt from the Amy Thompson 8K in Kansas City (a cool shirt and super comfortable, but covered with sponsorship tags and... Well, when you wear it, you might as well also begin every conversation with "HelloI'marunner."). Reasoning the tank would be too cold and too... boobalicious... I decided to look like I was trying too hard.

Fast forward, and I arrived at my PT appointment with my running clothes in a large plastic bag. I also brought my knee wrap. I excused myself to the bathroom to change, thinking, "I will be on top of it. I will change and be ready and not keep the strapping young PT waiting." I felt mildly stupid when I put on the race shirt. Plus, strapping young men always make me feel shy. Always. I am 36, but I am 12 when it comes to strapping young men.

Then I returned to the waiting room to sit in a chair in full running gear (complete with knee wrap), my work clothes inside the plastic bag I held on my lap.

I was not wearing sweat bands around my head or wrists, but I would like to go ahead and pretend that I was, because I think that makes it funnier.

Oh, I would also like to pretend that I was carrying the water bottle that straps to my hand and that it was full of Gatorade.

Strapping young PT fetched me from the waiting room. In the exam room area, he stretched my knee cap, talked to me about some stuff, checked my squat form, talked to me about some more stuff, taped my knee, and then I realized he was wrapping things up.

I said, "Weren't you going to watch me run?"

He looked confused. "No, we don't need to do that today."

I looked down at myself, my running shorts, my technical race shirt, running shoes complete with toe tag identification, [sweat bands and water bottle], knee wrap, knee tape, my real clothes in a plastic bag on the floor, and I started to laugh. "Did you think I was taking things just a little too seriously?"

He smiled and said it was easier to see my form when I squatted. [Let me translate that for you: "Yes. You are weird."]

I laughed all the way out of the office, through the parking lot, to my car, and to the grocery store, where I then exited my car -still in full running gear, now with knee tape- and paraded around the produce aisles as if I was just about to go run some serious miles just as soon as I bought up some pineapple and turnip greens.

This might be as nice as I get.

My character has some unsavory nuggets. I get really annoyed with adults who make stupid decisions [Translation: I am judgmental and want everyone to have the exact same values and sensibilities that I have. When they don't, I think they are morons.]. I hold onto irritations like I'm protecting a big red button to the universe. I would like to let go of these ugly tendencies for the sake of a sparkly soul and improved relationships.

To my favor, I also believe that every problem under the sun has a solution, and I'm pretty sure I can figure out what it is. So yesterday, I devised a strategy to fix my broken junk. Every time I entered my familiar irritation dialogue (Which usually starts with "Gah, jackass.") I would imagine a patient, stoic, teacherly sort saying, "Give that to me, please," as if I were a clumsy child with scissors.

This morning was Day 1 of the new "Be Nice" plan. I spent 85% of the morning hearing, "Give that to me, please.... Give that to me, please... Give that to me, please..." By 2:00, I hated the patient stoic teacher sort, told him to go eff himself, gathered all of my broken junk, held it to my chest, and decided, with some regret, that this might be as nice as I get.

a letter to God in the spirit of Hafiz

Dear God,

Thank you for loving me enough to beat the shit out of me

When that's what it takes.

You're a benevolent badass

With a fiercely loving left hook.

Humbly,

Patresa

[in the spirit of Hafiz]

obedient to benevolent forces

Revisiting old journal entries here, I have settled into March of 2008 sitting alone on a hotel balcony in Litchfield Beach, South Carolina. I was on walkabout, something I do (did) when everything in me sets to jitter (Oh, and it does. For the life of me, I cannot keep this roar at a hum for any lengthy extension. I don't know what part of me malfunctions; I only know it does.) I rented a car and drove south and west for 10 days.

I had a moment with a dead jellyfish that I thought was kind of important, and I think about it off and on. It was washed up in the sand like a gelatinous blob, really not so attractive when dead and motionless, tentacles not so much like cool dreadlocks when they're still. And I thought about many years before when I read an article about jellyfish in a Natural Geographic. I gave a presentation to my students at the juvenile detention center where I worked at the time. I used it as an example for how you can make your own curiosity, how everything is interesting and nothing is boring if you inventory its details. The jellyfish has no central nervous system, and yet it is one of the longest surviving species and most efficient predators in the ocean. How can something without a brain be so good at what it does?

I thought of this looking at the dead jellyfish. It was dead. It didn't give a crap that it was dead, because it never over-thought its life. It didn't sit around drinking coffee with its friends and bemoaning its watery existence. It didn't fret over what to do next. Didn't make plans. Didn't stare into mirrors all day long. Didn't get anxious. Didn't act out of selfishness or guile or wayward psychology. Didn't feel insecure or threatened or superior. It didn't evaluate anything or anyone. It just existed. It gave itself to the tide and to instinct, totally obedient to a bigger plan.

And I thought, "Good on you, Dead Jelly." That must be very peaceful.

Not that I want to be mindless. I just want to release and float and be obedient to benevolent forces and then sting crap with my tentacles, I guess.

my body wants a spinach omelette

Here is what I have to say about my gardening and that giant unfinished landscape project I started 2 months ago: Nothing has its space, everything is overgrown, and it's all completely out of control.

I will also say the same about my desk.

And the kitchen.

And the bedroom.

And my government issue windowless tan cubicle.

And my brain.

And the whole f*cking world.

My right knee is out of commission, marathon training stalled for another week or so while I rehab it. And I've been so ... angry about it. Are you kidding me? I felt like everything had finally clicked, and I knew what I was doing, and I felt really confident, and I slipped into my schedule and was committed and obedient. I had a plan! I'd even composed a motivational speech I recited to myself while I ran. It was brilliant! Plus, I just finished training for the 20K, and didn't have a single problem. Not one single issue. So, I thought, what the hell is the difference? Why now?

I also believe, as I may have said a time or 1600 before, that our bodies are geniuses and they talk to us. Every sprain and strain, every bump, scar, tumor, rash, ache, and every good thing, too, is a direct and important message--not just about things like, "Hey, stop huffing paint, Dumbass!" I really think it gives us messages about how we should be living, emotionally and psychically and how we should be treating the planet and each other.

I really do think that. And it makes me feel very reverent toward my physical form, like my mind and my spirit are being ushered around life by this very kind, very old, and very wise shaman woman who doesn't speak very good English.

Believe this as I do, when I get angry about my knee, I try to replace it with gratitude. Thank you, knee, for delivering this important message (now translate and shut the hell up). I've been trying to figure out what it's telling me. Last night my knee used English (via my massage therapist), and said, "Dear sweet, dense woman: Let go let go let go."

My knee is screwed up, because my quads are insanely tight and the IT Band on the side of my leg is irritated and pulling my knee junk out of alignment. I find this remarkable, because I stretch more than anyone else I know. And really good stretches, too. I stretch like a freakin' Olympian, I'm telling you. I could win contests!

Last night I went to my massage therapist, Kate, who is awesome and a healer who sometimes says f*ck in the middle of a massage, who chops her own wood, and roofs her own house, and who looked at my new bird tattoo a few weeks ago and said, "Hm. She is very composed. Look at how tightly she's holding her feathers." I told Kate I was having problems with my knee. She said, "It's not your knee, dear."

Kate was bending me into all kinds of funky stretches. Each time she held one of my limbs, she said, in her patient, smoker's voice, which is just as comfortable dropping f-bombs as it is talking chakras, "Let it go, please. Give this to me, please. Patresa, let it go, dear." And after each direction, I would think I was letting go, I would dip my hip, exhale, sag my shoulders, make a frowny face, whatever, and each time, she would say, "You're still working, dear. Give this to me, please. Let go, dear. Stop working. Release. Stretching doesn't work if you don't let go."

I stretch, but I don't let go. I don't let go, ever. I'm pretty sure I don't even relax in my sleep. I don't even move in my sleep. I wake up in the same damn position I held when I closed my eyes the night before. Every tissue in me is a guitar string about to snap; God save me if the winds pick up.

Which brings me back to everything that is completely out of control. It's only "out of control" because I'm trying to keep it "in control." You can't be out if there's no in, you know. I think I'm supposed to just let it be it, and for my part, be okay. That's what my knee says, anyway. And the clenched bundle I carry around in my left hip.

I don't know what my body has in mind, it's really become very particular over the past year--very insistent. It's like a woman who turns 50 and starts telling people exactly what she thinks and exactly what she wants. Or like I'm being prepped for a mission (scary). Over the past year, my digestive system has eliminated 3/4 of my previous diet, and now my muscles and tissues are demanding I free my fuzzy bunny soul. Basically, my body has become really insistent on purity and freedom.

Right now, my body is insisting on a spinach omelette and some more coffee. And even though my insecure mind wants to apologize for always writing such weird, goofy posts, I'm not going to. I'm not going to apologize for always writing such weird, goofy posts. You're just going to have to deal with it. Please. Please, just deal with it.

dogs wag cats meow winds howl knees ping

I don't know why I'm not writing. I'm just not.

I'm obsessed with running and nutrition and how all of my parts function. And I do not use the word "obsessed" lightly. But you know, I'm not really sure how anyone (anyone like me, rather, who is not a natural runner) runs a marathon without getting obsessed. I woke up this morning, and it was raining. My training calendar didn't give a crap about the rain. It still said 11 miles. So you know what I did? I'll tell you: I said, "Hey, P, those 11 miles aren't going to run themselves." And then I noted the lack of torrential downpour, noted the lack of lightning, noted the lack of hail, put on a hat, laced up, and ran. And it was good. I was strong this morning. My lungs and my heart feel like they could go forever. My knees, hips, and ankles... ehhh, not so much.

Two days ago, my knees and I had a meeting and decided to knock our training program down to the novice level instead of intermediate. We did not allow Pride to attend the meeting, because Pride is a huffy jackass who makes repeatedly bad decisions. I don't know why I thought I was an "intermediate" marathoner. Probably the same reason I think I am a novelist. (Oooh, ouch.)

I keep waiting for grand epiphanies to strike while I'm running, but they don't. Is there anything more exciting than an epiphany? Although it wasn't an epiphany, I do think running is fine-tuning my body barometer. I feel every ping in every place. I wish I did not feel all the pings in my knees, but I suppose they're telling me things I need to know--like, "Hey, P, your quads are puny little girl quads, and your stride sucks." I think my knees are actually much nicer than this. I'm paraphrasing. But the message has been noted, and I'll work on it.

This idea of knees and kneecaps and ankles and spleens telling me things I need to know has really helped with my mission to cure my gut disease, too. I know I've said this 1,000 times before, but I really believe our bodies communicate with us, almost like separate entities, and likely every answer to every question already exists, quite literally, in the crooks of our elbows. If you're of the belief that bodies are vehicles, soul transporters, or as I've written about in the past, "exploratory submersibles," then it's not too farfetched to think of them (bodies) as separate from our mind-thoughts.

It reminds me of this dream I had the other night. (And here is where I reveal more of my weirdness.) Sometimes, if i have a thing or two on my mind, before I go to sleep, I say something to the effect of, "Hey, please talk to me in my dreams tonight." The implied you in the sentence is up for interpretation: Sometimes I'm talking to God, sometimes to spirit guides, sometimes I keep it anonymous. At any rate, before I went to sleep a few nights ago, I asked, and then that night I had crazy weird, obscure dreams, about dogs and dinosaurs and houses being crushed.

I woke up thinking, "Hey, how about using your words next time?" It was not particularly clarifying. And most of the images and concepts in the dream I could trace back to conversations that had occurred that night, like someone talking about their kid liking dinosaurs. So it all just seemed sort of... blalkjdf;lkasjd;l fj.

But then, later I realized just because it isn't English doesn't invalidate the message. You know what I mean? Dogs wag, cats meow, wind howls, knees ping, stomachs churn, and dreams rearrange the images stored in your melon. I don't think dreams are intentionally obscure anymore than a dog is intentionally obscure. It's just how the thing works. It all means something. And I think maybe that's my umbrella obsession: figuring out what dogs and cats and wind and knees and dreams mean (and everything else)--because they all communicate something important.

Okay, that's it. Time for lunch.

it is 9:06 on a thursday night...

...and I feel like I should write something. Many thoughts back-logged. Don't feel like editing or arranging or being overly eloquent or prophetic. Don't even feel like double-guessing my use of the word prophetic (in fact, I don't think it's what I meant to say, but I'll leave it. Maybe it really is what I meant to say, and I just didn't know it. Sometimes I don't know what I mean until it comes out.).

Week 1 of marathon training is over. It was fine. The long run was only 8. But I ate a bunch of crap and didn't hydrate well. I have recorded that in my Mistake Log.

Oh, I'm training for a marathon. Did I tell you? I am. The Des Moines Marathon in October. This is my plan.

But I've been learning about plans and how easily upturned they are, and I've been nervous. My plan is to train for a marathon between now and October and to run the marathon in October. My plan is to live long and happy and healthy, and have some kids who also live long and happy and healthy with a spouse who lives long and happy and healthy. And my plan is to work a good job and write a few good books and play some good music and eat and drink and have long happy healthy times of fun and frolic and awesomeness. That is my plan.

But I don't know if it matches the big honcho cheese nugget of the cosmic plan. I have no idea what that plan looks like, and I hope I am not horribly off, because as free-spirited as I would very much like to be: I don't like surprises. The anticipation of a surprise twists my guts and makes me breathe funny. I do not like it at all.

You can't live without plans. I mean, I suppose you can, but it seems like if you never made a plan, you'd just sit on the front porch and never experience anything. People make plans. Even people who say they don't make plans... they make plans. Maybe they don't plan further out than an hour, but they make plans. They buy bus tokens and pay phone bills and make meals. All three of those are indicative of plan making to one degree or another.

Sometimes people plan the births of their children. They work with midwives and rent birthing tubs and set up birthing rooms off living rooms and read books and go to natural child birthing classes. And then they labor for 30 hours before they have to have drugs and C-sections. And then they go to their homes with their babies and their scars and they return the tubs and put their rooms back in order.

Sometimes people plan to go get some medicine for a twisty abdomen and come out a week later with cancer and no hair.

Sometimes people plan to see their dad again, but then he dies, and they don't. Jesus! Or they plan to have a beautiful outdoor wedding, but then a hurricane blows away the cake and the dance floor. Or they plan to run marathons and then break their legs in freak walking accidents.

I want everyone I know to just stay inside eating oranges so they can't get sick and they can't blow away and they can't disappear and they can't have goofed up births and they can't get hurricane cake face. It will be fine. We can communicate by email and facebook. Please, just stay where you are. It's not safe outside your plan making den.

Is it so much to ask?

If you need me, I will be here with my hands over my face. You'll hear me before you see me, because my breathing is funny and loud.

i ran in the rain and it was good.

I am logging back in long enough to recap Dam to Dam 2010.

My favorite thing about today's race--at the risk of sounding Corn City--was remembering how capable I am of relentless positivity. Oh, I am capable of mind-numbing bitching and moaning, for sure; but ultimately, I'm quite nice adjusted and sunny disposed, and I like that.

Due to some flooding and road closures around Saylorville Dam, transportation to the starting line had to be re-routed. I think they did the best they could, but it caused a bit of a cluster fudge at the shuttle buses. We stood in the cold and the rain and the dark and then elbowed our way onto school buses. But mostly, I just hung out, ate my apple, and people watched. It was good.

Then, from where they dropped us off, we had to walk over a mile (in the cold and the rain and the dark) to get to the starting line. Incidentally, it was a mile over the dam, in the opposite direction we would run once the starting gun went off. And then we stood in the cold and the rain--but no longer the dark--waiting to start. And then, we started late probably 15 minutes late, because latecomers were on the dam walking to the starting line.

So... by the time the gun went off, we were soaked and shivering and had shoes full of mud and water. BUT, I was still happy to be there, and I mean that. I figured cold and wet would make for a more interesting experience.

Plus, people make me laugh. People who make me laugh the most are: 1) people who jog in place; 2) people who close their eyes in concentration; 3) people who wear spandex biking shorts with heavily decorated spandex biking shirts with biking hats and fanny packs... to run; 4) men who wear tiny running shorts with no shirt and carry a towel.

And so we ran. In the rain.

I'm a slow, easy runner; I like to look around. And there is lots to look at. The route, for the first 6 miles, runs through the country and is surrounded by green. And of course, I like looking at all the people. You know, when it comes to running, body type just really doesn't matter. Tall skinny short fat, whatever. You train, your body figures it out, you run, it's okay.

Once we got into town, the energy picked up. There were more spectators, hanging out in lawn chairs under umbrellas and ponchos. I LOVE seeing spectators find the runner they are spectating--love the big yelling and screeching and the fist pumping of the runner. I think that's cool, and it makes me happy. I like people who smile and tell you "Good job!" even though they have no idea who you are and may never see you again. There's a lot of generosity and spirit in the world, and that's cool as ice.

My parents and my husband hung out at the end of my driveway, which was along the route. That made me happy, too. I don't know why anyone would want to hang out in the rain just to see me for 5 seconds (Fine. 10. I'm not that fast.), but I'm glad they did. Plus, I got to take off my jacket, which was soaked with rain and weighed 100 pounds. And I gave up my sunglasses, which keep sliding off my giant melon until I finally tucked them into the waistband of my shorts, which also weighed 100 pounds and kept slipping down my waist.

Now, I understand this is going to sound insane, but... I like hills. Not the super steep ones, but the ones that are intense enough to feel but gentle enough to be nonlethal. I like those. I think I'm kind of good at hills. I actually run hills on the treadmill when I start to get tired. I find something about them very invigorating. I'm reading a book about marathon training and last night got to a part about how important it is to train positive thoughts. There was a goofy note about greeting hills instead of grimacing at them. So at each hill, I said (quietly, to myself), "What's up, Hill?" And then at the top of the hill, I said, "Thank you for rolling gently, Hill." And that kind of made me laugh to myself, because it's a pretty corny thing to do.

I love the moment of the run where you know for sure it's going to be okay--that everything is working and you don't have to stop and your legs know what to do and your breathing is steady. That is my favorite. That happened to me at mile 8. I had 4.4 more to go, and I knew all 4.4 of them were going to be just fine.

And they were.