teeny tiny frozen frames

Moments, periodically, where I am still and you are still and the world is still
Still still still, yet we are
Driving
Walking
Waiting at red lights.

I love these moments, feel them peculiar, important. They frame us in our
most beautiful light, and
I think we might be art.
Not in the way of pastel lillies and vibrant blues, but on occasion,
when we are stilled in our pixels,
the very details of us are simply:

charming.

At the red light

1. Middle aged man in an old pickup truck hauling a large box of oranges in the passenger seat.

2. 20-something man with messy hair and a beard, big congo drum in the back seat.

Running

3. A pink striped hula hoop in the grass under a tree swing.

Driving

4. Single jar of Jiffy peanut butter on the counter of a watch repair shop.

I want to know the details of you:

piano lessons in the 3rd grade
right foot slightly bigger than the left
a weird fascination with scratch & sniff stickers
you love the smell of rubber bands
you whisper to yourself in accents
that bandaid in your pocket

Give me one.

superfly fresh

Today is a good day to wander, shoeless maybe, skirted for sure. It's warm and breezy, light and airy, and tomorrow I get fresh with my bad self. I love--with reckless, giddy abandon--superfly fresh starts.

Superfly.

I've been like a little seed in a dirt trench the past year, waiting for water, for light, to germinate. (What an awful word: Germinate.) I knew something was up; could feel the tides in me sloshing, trying to change direction. I never lose trust, per se, in the universe. I just get impatient, frustrated, that I see the signs, feel the turns coming, but cannot read the route clearly like a map. I can't measure the distance precisely with my finger and a ruler. A decently smart cookie, if I may say so, but I cannot for the life of me understand the mind of the creator...only that He/She/It/They is totally badass and generous and seems to like me (even though I suck in a million different ways).

The more I offer my elbow, the more I get the tug, the better things go. Such a big, full body tug this time. I am filled with an almost shocking amount of optimism about tomorrow's new beginning (new career--completely and totally new new new--begins tomorrow morning)...so much so, that behind the optimism is a whispering worry that I'm being naive. I want to be pure and go into the world open, but I do not want to be stupid.

There is no real point to this blog entry. I wish I had maintained better anonymity here, so I could speak more directly. I have so many things to say, all relegated to code and ambiguities.

But today feels like a good day to be open, to drift and listen. The 100-degree heat and humidity has mellowed. I hear windchimes and leaves in breeze, pigeons on my neighbor's roof. The sun is out. The art festival is in its final day. Tomorrow I climb out of the trench and get started on this new, surely divined path. All things points up.

cat cam

My niece, Julia, turned 8 on Tuesday. She's crazy about animals, so I gave her a pet collar cam--a small digital camera that hooks onto a pet's collar and takes photos at random intervals throughout the day. Julia and her mom--my sister, Pam--have been tracking the comings and goings of Sabrina, one of their two cats. This is what the world looks like to a cat:

Self-portrait

Sucks to be you, Fluffy.

Lounging

Feet

Jungle cat

Something about these photos really makes me laugh a lot.

spirit stew in a lidless kettle

Life is good for me. Ridiculously good. Embarrassingly good. Like I should write several impassioned thank you notes, but I don't have addresses. Or stamps.

New career begins Monday. I am no longer worried about no summers off, about cubicles, brown carpet, collared shirts, or all the stuff I'll have to learn. I know this new direction was carefully orchestrated by the universe, and I have everything I need already. It's a good feeling to become increasingly comfortable with leaping. Big freedom with all that air in your britches, don't you know? [I am 100% okay with the multiply entertaining ways that sentence can be read.]

It is still my nature to look for the worry spot, though. I wonder when I'm going to get over this.

The dramatic contrast of the awesomeness of my life against the tragic backdrop of the world is never--at any point--lost on me. I'm never quite sure how to reconcile the inequity of the world. Do you worry about this, too? I keep tailoring theories to make things sensible, and the best guess I have is that the unjust is not really unjust at all, just outside of my brain power. I worry a lot about all the things that go wrong with our bodies, our minds, our communities, our countries, our planet.

Every day on my way to the gym I drive past a large apartment complex, most of the residents of which are immigrants from Asia and Africa. Small children in mismatched clothes with dirty faces ride down the sidewalk on thrift store big wheels. They hold hands and run screaming across the busy street while adults in native dress fan themselves under trees around the parking lot. The children look joyful; I don't think they understand their lot just yet. The adults look tired, sad, worn. Everything is a struggle.

So today I drove past tragic figures after reading horrible news in the newspaper and trying to be okay with how lovely everything is for me right now. It can't be as simple as choice and consequence, for even when choices are made, there is a deep ocean underneath it. I worked on a few theories:

1. Inequity doesn't exist.

Our existence is so miniscule that the distance between good and bad is barely detectable from a god's-eye-view.

2. It's more about disparate journies than inequity.

We are all souls in need of lesson, and we get what we need to grow.

3. Spirit is bigger than circumstance.

No matter how the body ails, or the mind ails, or the community ails, the spirit is big big big. I wonder if this is why kids can still be joyful in dire situations: Their edges are blurry, the lid for the spirit stew is still off, and they are bigger than the troubles that contain them.

An interesting irony that we get smaller, maybe, as we get bigger. I think if there is a universal life journey, it might be to grow our spirits bigger than our physical limits. I hope this is true. I do.

thought constipation

I've not been writing--Here, There, or Anywhere. It is a sad state when words are bottle-necked at the soul chute. This happens much too frequently; I should know better than to whine about it.

Novel-Red Shanty on a Frozen Lake: Draft halved.
Novel-Apples for Alessandra: Rewrites on hold.
Novel-The Chili King: Draft suspended.
Narrative-Dwell Here: Stuck, quite simply.
Short-Remember, Senang: Buried.
Short-The Stars Are Out in Trashwood: Buried.

I'm craving some focus and fortitude. I have it elsewhere.

1. 20K: trained, completed, check.
2. New Job: researched, prepared, got the offer on Friday. (More on that another time. But very excited! Very cool opportunity. Life is going to change quite a lot.)
3. Clutter: streamlined.

And so I'm not sure why the really deep soul stuff gets hacked off at the kneecaps. I'm not likely to figure it today. Maybe I'll figure it tomorrow. Or Tuesday. Tuesday will be the very most perfect day for figuring.

At any rate, I've decided to trust the words are going to spill at their time. Have been feeling overpoweringly "led" the past year. Periodic heightened sense of being tugged at the elbow--to opportunities, to new people. I don't know how else to explain it. I think most people can look back at where they've been and see the connections--how one thing led to another thing and to another. And it all makes sense and seems planned and well-organized by the universe. I think the difference for me now is that I am recognizing it *as it's happening.* It's reassuring, and when I think on it, I feel much more peaceful than usual.

Ultimately, I think lots of things line up when you:

a. Believe you are being led by God/The Universe; and
b. You believe that God/The Universe is innately good; and
c. God/The Universe has positive intentions.

And so that is where I am: Word Bottle-Necked at the soul chute, on the cusp of some big changes, sensing I'm being led, and trusting it. Where are you?

***********

In other news: I think you should visit a few of my friends who are NOT bottle-necked at the soul chute. In fact, they are spilling their beautiful souls all over the place:

• Wendy Jans's new CD Simple as a Song is here, and it is incredible.
• Kathryn Magendie's novel Tender Graces is out and getting rave reviews. This is such a beautiful read.
• Jon Baldwin's art is a giant colorful brain party on canvas.
• John Shaffer has launched Bluefeather Gardens and Workshop for your organic jams and starter plants and tools and woodworking masterpieces.

Your New Favorite CD: Wendy Jans

Here is your new favorite CD:



Wendy Jans's Simple as a Song is out TODAY.

I am in awe of my friend. So talented. And she keeps getting better. The songwriting and performance on this album are freakishly strong, and I want you to own it. The world needs good, honest, dynamic music. It's good for the soul.

Be kind to your soul today. GO HERE to listen to clips and order your copy. Do it!

suiting up.

i bought a suit yesterday.

am feeling good about this, optimistic.
suiting up, initially a rattle in my summer-loving psyche
but now some kind of hangered representation of
possibility.

last night, with family, i drank wine until i slid
sideways out of myself.
realigned this morning, the body room is lighter,
brighter. and not so scary afterall.

just a little nauseous. that's all.

momentary distraction from my table at the coffee shop.

A little boy in camouflage shorts is wearing a box on his head.
He is marching back and forth past the ice cream case, leaving
greasy trails of thumbs and forefingers on the glass.
He is telling his brother, "Don't push my box,"
And his sister, "Don't kick me."
And he is mapping out holes for eyes and a nose in the
thick waxy wall of his phony fake melon.

I am wearing flip flops and black pants, my favorite
purple shirt with the elephant and the scoopy neck. I am
drinking coffee and wearing my moppy hair like a faceless mask.
Holes precut, mouth amendable depending on my mood.
The table is 75% white paper, small black print of research and
guidelines, ideas and objectives, goals and questions, flow charts
and models of logic. Literally, logic models.

Would we trade places, both of us? Perhaps me (not he).
But when we are small, don't we want to be big?
And when we are big, don't we want to be small?
Why do we forget we are neither and both at all times?
Liquid gas crystals changing shape in the atmosphere.
Today I am an elephant, impossibly enormous, big giant weight from earth;
barely detectable and featherweight from Mars.
I am playing Camera 1, Camera 2, and lilting.

barrium

The house is quiet, the windows open.
I can hear the pigeon on the next door neighbor's roof making
bbbb-noises from his throat.
The pigeons don't visit us, and I don't know why.

My belly is full of barium this morning,
woken early with no breakfast,
no coffee (ye-gads),
to wear a backless gown and swallow
liquid berry chalk juice among strangers
in robot suits.
These guts, I say. I sigh.
They are mine, I suppose.

Everything is fine. Just a little routine radiation
for safety's measure.
No foreign planets have sprouted.
All is where it should be:
My shoulder has not sunk to my pelvis;
Heart and spleen have not swapped seats.

I watch the monitor,
gray tangled snakes in me,
bulky bodies pushing tiny rodents south.
Intestines look like aliens, and eventually,
I have to turn away.

I am always a good patient.
I smile at the right times and laugh at the right times.
I say silly things on purpose
And do not fuss when wait goes long
nor squeal when something hurts.
I remember please and thank you, always and regardless.
Nurses looks at me over mechanical arms and lament,
"I wish they could all be like you."

And I go light.
I do like to be pleasing.
So pleasing, so agreeable,
So steady, low maintainance,
sunshine happy go lucky pixie princess girl.
It is not lost on me that I am
stretched flat on a table in an xray room
with a belly full of holes
where the disagreement pills
swallowed daily
feast on tissue,
eating clean the very
fiber of me.

1,953rd place

Please congralate me on my big 1,953rd place finish in Des Moines's Dam to Dam 20K Road Race. That's out of 3,167 women, so as you can imagine, I'm pretty proud. It only took me 2 hours, 10 minutes, and 42 seconds to run 12.4 miles. That's a 10 minute 31 second mile, roughly, which is basically the speed of lightning. I'm surprised they even caught my speed, considering the way I rampaged across that finish line.

(Incidentally, the winner ran a 4 min. 59 sec. mile. Just before I'd reached mile 6, he finished. I cannot fathom this.)

(Here I am at mile 8.)

Even though I'm slow, I feel pretty good about the whole ordeal. It's really affirming to see training pay off. Not in speed but in a marked lack of struggle. My legs were tired, but I never had to play any games with myself to keep going--even on the hills. It actually felt pretty good to just run. I'm a little sad it's over. My friend, Tanya, ran it with me, and we're already looking for another race. This may become addictive. Like tattoos.

Another thing that felt pretty great was seeing pockets of random strangers cheering on pockets of other random strangers. The Dam to Dam is huge. There were 6500 runners pounding through the streets of Des Moines (including the street in front of my house), and people seemed more than willing to spray their hoses into the streets, hold out cups of water, sing, dance, clap, holler, and encourage. I liked that.

I also really liked the big bucket of ice on 6th Avenue. Genius. Ice! So simple. So satisfying. And I didn't feel it sloshing around in my gut for the next mile.

And the man who ran the whole thing barefoot and in a kilt: Cheers to you, Man.

And the goofballs handing out little cups of champagne instead of water at mile 11. I'm sure you are the reason the guy was barfing at the side of the road at mile 12, but the spirit of the offering was terrific.

What I did not like was the cattle run at the other side of the finish line. Hundreds of runners clogged a very narrow path between metal gates with very few chairs. And it was hot. And I started seeing colors, which is a cue that my body wants to go unconscious. I reached for railings and looked for chairs and water and when I couldn't find anything but other sweaty bodies, I started to get panicky. Tanya, who finished several seconds ahead of me, had to be my caretaker.

I'd like to understand the body science behind this -- being fine while your body is in motion for over 2 hours, but the second you stop, that's when you struggle. It took me a good 20 minutes to stabilize, which really put a damper on the celebration.

I'd also like to understand the body science behind storing its own junk. It took me approximately 2 hours after finishing to get a cold. My husband has had this nasty cold for over a week. Taxed, my body submitted to it, and now I feel like poop.

But only mildly. Ultimately, I feel like a badass. Bad. Ass.

the upswing.

I finally achieved the elusive 10 miles. Big spirit in the run, and again I marvel at parallel cycles. I think there is only one cycle, only one story, and all of the parts of us and our world just keep repeating it in variant forms. I'm waiting for the exception but not holding my breath.

Saturday afternoon I ran ten miles. I had little confidence and tightened my loop, kept myself closer to origin, considering how weird my guts have been (Hello, UC! How nice of you to make an appearance.) and how quickly my body has been chugging its canteen. When the rain and thunder started, I tightened my loop even more.

Around mile 8, things started to hurt. I know this may sound silly, to assign so much significance to jogging. But--And may I be frank for a moment?--I have been tragically disappointed in myself lately, in my falling-shortedness, my not-living-up-to-potential-ness. Sometimes these small, practical feats become larger declarations of soul. The body becomes a mouthpiece for the soul.

I think there is real value in tasking your body. Every part of the day I spend awake, I am ruled by my mind--its biases and limited perceptions, its pattern seeking and foggy rationales. Physical tasks I think hand control back to the body.

When everything started to hurt, and my mind started measuring distances from corners to curbs, from blocks to lights, cars to poles, houses to schools to churches, my body cleared its throat and said, "You know, P, all you really need to do is just keep moving your legs."

I looked at the sidewalk in its tidy, predictable squares, and I thought, "Okay. So, this square. And this square. And this square." And I kept moving my legs. When I stopped worrying about actual travel--forward propulsion--everything got easier. Just keep moving your legs. I may have smiled; life applications so obvious and giant.

The body is such a wise teacher.

In related news, I ran my very first Hordes-O-People race this morning in Kansas City with my friends, Tanya and Megan: The Amy Thompson Run to Daylight 8K. I am slow like tar in a sieve, but I finished fairly easily, got a free tshirt and banana, and felt love and light toward people who cheered on sweaty strangers with jiggling buns.

electrolyte.

I do not want to run today.
Tall string of falling short,
week after week.
I've a new hydration plan
to oil my cogs.
The ocean in me needs time to creep
back to shore.

I suppose it's all about the water.

The earth is 70% (ish) water.
And the human body, well it varies.
Babies are born with 78%.
Men 60.
Women 55.
Fat men
Fat women
More or less.
The average falling somewhere around 70%.
Is that right?

At any rate, the pond around my spleen is parched,
and the rivers to my knees pollute
(tires and bottles and mish mash what nots)
I don't know how anyone survives
drought through a marathon.
I can't even make it to ten.
Ridiculous.
I really must do something about this
negativity I feel the second my heels
hit the sidewalk.

But running is only one endurance
feat draining my pools.
There is also this job hunt
And this writing
And this life partnering
And this turning 35ness.
And my complaints are small,
barely flea-sized on the back of
a camel planet.
Grievance list short and
laughable.
But they're mine,
and although I know that all will
iron out soon enough,
everything fine, Fine fine fine,
I am sweating out electrolytes by the second.

the ego is a delicate construct. (Bonus: Creeping Charlie Tea)

A series of failed runs, and
I am ticking through my list of character flaws.
(Such a long, discouraging list.)
20K training has turned decidedly south.
I lost my groove in a storm drain
or at the corner of 34th and Madison.
Maybe it slipped through the railing of the Euclid bridge.
I don't know which, but it doesn't matter.
I am a gold-medaled Olympian when it comes to
making what I do (or fail to do)
an overlay for who I am (or fail to be).

*************

p.s. How about making tea with your Creeping Charlie and enjoying some of its medicinal properties? This writer tells you how.