Artful Construction of Nothing

I often begin a writing project and end making faces at a blinking cursor.
For inspiration, I pull out the journal, the one with the gold-flecked trees, and stick a pencil behind my ear. Sometimes, I curl my hair around the pencil, and yes, the pencil-tight curls stay in place.
The next step -- run--I run. And if I begin a run, it's no less than 11 miles. I've been going 20, consistently, a couple times a week. Someday I'll construct a belt for the run-- one that will hold notebooks and pencils, because, often, while inspiration fills the brain during a run, a smoky form of amnesia pervades afterwards. I blink my eyes in time with the cursor.

I've been taking masters classes in business since January. After receiving an BA in English Literature, I am often tempted to imagine the business professors absent of an internal life. Satirical images ditty across tile floors. Business professors become thin as playing cards, the exterior matching the presumed interior. I scold myself as Thoreau applauds business,

"I have thought that Walden Pond would be a good place for business... it offers advantages which        it may not be good policy to divulge."

Tomorrow I will buy some green coffee beans. I'll put them on the stove, turn up the heat as though boiling a frog, and stir the beans. After a few minutes they'll brown. They'll jump, sound like popcorn, the first crack. I'll lift the pan and throw the beans in the air as a dense fog of husks fills the kitchen. In Ethiopia they use these husks to make a drink called buno. In the United States, I take them outside and watch them float into the wind to speckle the surrounding snow.  Once again, a loud crack and I'll throw them onto a cookie sheet. They'll cool in the snow we raked off the roof.

"In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and the future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line." -Thoreau

Thoughts On Wigs

Once a week when we were little, my sister's and I attended piano lessons. I have five sisters, so we'd spend a minimum of three hours at the piano teacher's house every Thursday afternoon. One by one we'd join Mrs. Olsen in the piano room and sit, stiff, suffering through 30 minutes of scales and prods. My oldest sister, Carrie, practiced often. She'd sit down at the bench and play anything set before her.  I squirmed and itched through the half hour lesson. Mrs. Olsen would cock her head, squint her eyes and ask how many times I'd practiced last week. Then she'd watch as I twisted and swung my feet under the bench. Most weeks I'd lie and say twice.  She'd inhale and exhale deeply and tell me to practice more the next week. I'm sure that her ears hurt. Even so, I never practiced more than "twice."

Although I didn't enjoy the half hour lesson, I did ultimately enjoy piano lessons. If I could just sit through a half hour with Mrs. Olsen, I'd be rewarded-- 2.5 hours of adventure. My sister, Mollie, also a squirmer, would head up our expeditions through the woods around Mrs. Olsen's house. There we found old tractors, broken canning jars, rotting pieces of felt. Once we found three pieces of an old porcelain sugar bowl. Mollie, being a year older, kept two pieces and I kept one. We could put them together like a friendship rock if we so desired, though I don't recall we ever did.  Once we turned over a piece of old leather and found a Northern Black Widow. Mrs. Olsen didn't appreciate us snooping around her yard, so she made invisible boundaries. Unfortunately, she didn't make us wear the shock collars. We crossed the boundaries and set our watches so as to return to the house by the time Mrs. Olsen called our names, usually with dirty knees and stick-filled hair. 

Eventually, Mrs. Olsen discovered us in our exploratory shenanigans and forced us to stay inside while the other girls played. She gave us coloring books.  Rather than blackening the cloud-shaped outlines, we took to exploring the house. We were told not to go upstairs, so naturally, we challenged each other as to who could go up the furthest. Mollie won-- ascending all twenty steps. She then frantically gestured,  mouthing the words, "You'll want to see this." Tiptoeing up the staircase, and around the corner into the hallway, we peaked into Mrs. Olsen's bedroom. To our delight stood a row of wigs. They were the exact shape and color of Mrs. Olsen's hair. Finding these wigs exceedingly fascinating, we spent most Thursdays sneaking up the staircase.

Intense study of Mrs. Olsen's hairline often carried me through the half hour piano lesson. I was sure I could see where the fake hair met her scalp. I often imagined what her real hair looked like. Was it a bad color? Was she bald? I sometimes imagined her with a covert lifestyle. Perhaps, under the white, curly wig, she hid a mohawk or better yet, dreadlocks for her secret band life. Maybe, her piano bench contained, not just pieces by Beethoven and Bach, but also Beetles covers, or better yet, Spice Girls.  The wigs gave me hope that she could break the piano teacher stereotype. One Thursday, Mollie and I forgot to set our watches. We panicked as she called Mollie's name and clambered down the stairs like a couple of elephants. After that she allowed us to play outside, once again attempting to enforce the invisible boundaries. Once again, Mollie and I took to the woods.

Although we never climbed the stairs again, I often wondered about the wigs. Mrs. Olsen became something of a mystery where before she was simply the boring piano teacher. In fourth grade, I acquired braces. They came with little hooks so that I could attach headgear at night. She shook her head and muttered about how kids are getting braces younger and younger. I studied her hairline. Every week she asked how often I'd practiced. I answered and studied her hairline. That year, I also wore socks with bells on them to the big Christmas piano recital. She called my name to play Jolly Old St. Nicholas and I walked up, slowly, awkwardly. My sisters giggled in the background as the bells rang out with every step towards the piano. During the next lesson she rose her eyebrows and smiled, "Perhaps next year you can play the Carol of the Bells?" 

Odd, she jokes. 

Sadly, for me,  Mrs. Olsen never really broke the boring stereotype. Eventually, she moved into a smaller house. To our dismay, the new house had a white picket fence--a real boundary.  When she caught us playing outside of the fence she again bound us to the house. This house was small enough so she could watch us during each sister's lesson. Eventually, I forgot about her wig. When I remembered it, I pictured her bald. 

One year, Mrs Olsen grew too tired to keep us on as students. We attended piano lessons with another lady. My oldest sister, Carrie showed up for a few weeks and then discontinued. Under Mrs. Olsen's care, she'd grown too talented to be taught by the new teacher. Eventually, the piano playing fizzled out around our house. The clumsy scales grew silent and I no longer attempted to save face by claiming to practice twice a week. A simple, "I didn't practice" sufficed. The piano grew older with us, going more and more out of tune. Keys stuck. The foot peddles stuck. Dust settled. 

Now, when I blow the dust off the piano and sit, I recognize the keys, the notes. I can easily read music, but my fingers are just as clumsy with scales and rhythms. I pick up where I left off. Mollie, having taken a few more lessons during college, can, with a little practice, pick up some piano music and play.  Carrie doesn't own a piano but when music is placed before her she studies it like one studies an old friend. Then she places her hands on the keys and she plays. Muscle memory from thirteen years ago echoes through her fingers, a sort of ghost of the grandeur while under Mrs. Olsen's teaching, but still strong, still beautiful.

I wish I could say that I heard Mrs. Olsen play and the beauty of Beethoven changed my perception about her cranky persona.  Perhaps if I could hear her play now, I'd be paralyzed by her talent and sad that I'd wasted her time with lies, clumsy fingers, and thoughts on wigs. When Carrie plays, I still picture Mrs Olsen's dreadlocks and share the secret smile with her, the barely noticeable smile that showed when she pursed her lips, looked at me through the corners of her eyes, and did something I thought unattainable for the old lady: she'd contrived a quip.

Jumping on Mushrooms

You may be interested to know I've made the transition. Before I admit this, I must apologize to winter runners everywhere, especially the treadmillers who I've judged in past years. But I look outside, see the grey skies and rain, hop in the car and drive to the gym for the daily run. And guess what? I thoroughly enjoy it. I've found that I enjoy the people by whom I'm surrounded in the gym. I run, they pass by, I smile, they smile, and then I feel like Mario must feel after he jumps on a mushroom.

The Staccato-Style Undertone

Anna was impressed that I learned all 20 names in 45 minutes.  What she failed to realize:  I already knew the students. Eric’s the curious one, always asking her questions; there are two April’s, one silly one and one serious; Doug is more interested in Parkour and runs to stay in shape; Bailey has a stress fracture, but should be healthy again for track season; Mark is running his first 5k this season; and the list continues.

She told me their stories before practice that day. When she’s passionate about something, her voice crescendos. Sometimes I look over my shoulder for the band director. He must be around somewhere, raising his arms as she bounces from student to student, quick, staccato style, a half-laugh brimming over and spilling out in her voice.  

She cares…and because she cares, I care. 

So I tap her on the shoulder, “Hey Anna, where’s Shawn, the show-tune singer? And the silly April? I haven’t seen the silly April.”  She laughs and introduces me to Andrew (if you tell him to “get that guy”, he’ll “get that guy!”).

Sometimes, I imagine God talking about His people the same way Anna talks about her cross-country team. “Ella’s hair is straight, except for the piece she spins around her finger while reading; Jared makes Ali laugh when he himself laughs maniacally; Elizabeth adopts children with severe disabilities, sometimes with only a few years to live; Brad’s life is a soundtrack. He makes up a song for everything he does!” And His list continues, an eternal crescendo. 

The other day I attended one of Anna's team's cross-country meets. One of the boys was running his first 5k that day. This particular student attends every practice, grasps for the coaches' advice, and supports his teammates even when not running himself. 

While watching the meet, I grew a little confused. The first guy finished the race, grabbed some water and then ran off, faster than he'd been running during the race. The second and third guys finished the race, grabbed water, and sprinted back onto the course. Again, faster than they'd been racing. The fourth guy finished and vanished back onto the course. 

After their 5k's, they'd all gone back to cheer for their teammate, the one who was running his first full race.

I know, I know...races are metaphors for life. Authors use this constantly...but I can't help but think that most people (myself included), when finished with some great feat or difficult trial, sit on a bench, drink gatorade and watch as others struggle towards the line.     

And then the decrescendo, a few minor chords, the Director's hands move a little slower, smoother. His eyes close as he ushers in waves of music and dissonance. Listening to this part of the piece may prove difficult. 

Sometimes Ella plays a victim of circumstances just to get attention. Jared lies to his family so they think he's okay. Elizabeth talks before thinking, hurting others in the process. Some days Brad's soundtrack ends. He refuses to get out of bed. 

Yet all the while, under the dissonance lies the staccato-style undertone. It begins at a barely audible volume.

And Brad begins to sing about repotting rosemary.

There's a twinkle in the Director's eye.

 He cares, and because He cares…   **

  “It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare.

All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations…

There are no ordinary people.

You have never talked to a mere mortal…

But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.”

-C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

*Names changed throughout (well, except one for which permission was given)

** Disclaimer!!! The implication is “I care.” I often don’t care, but should. He’s still molding this clay. 

Eloping: The Clinical Term

I’ve often mentioned my work in past posts. We recently welcomed a new resident to the house, which, if I’m doing my addition correctly means we now have three residents. Unlike my good friends, Lacey and Bill, the newest man, let’s call him Jonah, can walk. Actually, he has no trouble walking at all. Sometimes he walks when we’d prefer he not… like at 11:00pm when the rest of the world is sleeping.

Jonah grows quite anxious when he can’t control his surroundings. Often the word, “no” sets him off. If you say, “no” to him, he’ll start to nod quickly and say “yes” over and over again. He communicates in sign language and short phrases, so his hands vent his frustration, he starts to pace, and he sweats so much that his hair drips. Eventually, he backs away and marches out the door.  Previously, this has upset me. I’ve been clueless as to how to convince him to return home. Recently, though, I had a breakthrough. 

The other day I went out for a run.  I’ve been known to run everywhere, at all hours of the night. If I’m on vacation, I explore new terrain. If it’s 2:00am and I can’t sleep, I strap on the shoes, figuring that no one else will be out…because wandering the streets at that time would be stupid.

Jonah left the house around 9:30pm yesterday. I grabbed my phone and followed him out, angry. After awhile, the anger subsided and boredom set in. I have no patience for boredom. If you flip through the gospels, you won’t find Jesus bored… quiet, yes, alone, yes, but bored? No. So I wandered over to Jonah and began to talk. He told me to go, then turned his back to me. I walked around to face him. He turned his back. I walked around him again, still talking. He laid down in the parking lot and rested his head on a curb.  I sat on the curb.  He covered his eyes with his hands so I couldn’t see him. I asked him if he was trying to get a tan.

Jesus love is perfect. There’s no way to express this without sounding cliché, so I won’t try. According to C.S. Lewis, “Hell is when the Lord gives us exactly what we want.” Naturally, I don’t want what the Lord wants for me. He makes a request, and I sit on the curb, demanding freedom to do as I please.

Jonah spread his arms out on the cement as if to make a snow angel. He nodded his head and began to smile. “Jonah, this is your problem! This is why you’re so white! You do all your tanning at night when the sun is down. If you want to get tan, you need to lay out during the day!” He stayed still. After a few moments he smiled again and nodded his head, “Yea, me.”

Fortunately for most of us, the Lord is patient, and persistent. We can run from Him time and time again, and He waits. We probably do things that make just about as much sense as tanning at night. We loaf around and waste time, and then we run further.

After awhile, my tone grew more serious, “Jonah, are we friends?”  He sat up, looked at me, and nodded. Then he stood up and walked back to the house. I watched him walking from the curb. I’m constantly running from Jesus’ love… and His love is perfect. How much more would Jonah run from my completely flawed attempt at love?    

So after work, I strap on my shoes and head out to run. He asks me to love people, especially the people that I myself would prefer not to love. Then He waits for my response. 

The Ultra

There’s a specific group of runners who come together every so often. They’re an unassuming group, humble in their simplicity. Looking at them from the outside, one may notice that they look a little out of sorts—hair a little too long, beat-up clothes, often in barefoot shoes or sandals—other than this they look pretty normal. Most carry water bottles in both hands and stash bananas in their fanny packs. They don’t carry Ipods or cell phones, and they’re not connected to heart rate monitors or GPS units. The sun begins to rise as the runners take off.

These runners don’t surge to the front of the pack. The trail forces them to run single file, which is preferable so as not to start too quickly and die later. We run, 75 of us, silently. Michigan’s Upper Peninsula is stimulation enough without speech. Besides, we’ll need a laugh later this afternoon— to remind us that we love what we’re doing. So we run, hopping over stones, weaving around trees, climbing up boulders. They hike quickly up steep inclines, again, one at a time, and begin to run as they hit the top. One man stops to pull an older one up the face of a large boulder. It’s his dad’s birthday. His dad died last year and he’s hoping to run strong for his mom. Two ladies stop to take off their shoes and shake the sand out of their socks. One smiles as I continue the run, “Hey, don’t be shy to stop and admire at the top of Sugarloaf Mountain. This race is one of the beautiful ones…and we have thirty more miles to worry about speed.”  One of the fellas wearing sandals stubs his toes. He rubs dirt in the wound to clot the blood and continues on. Later, a 65-year-old lady will dig a band-aid and some disinfectant out of her fanny pack, which he takes with repetitive thanks.

Every five to seven miles we stop to refuel, volunteers and family members hand out water, granola bars, and chocolate milk.  While refueling, the runners stretch and delve into the lives of the others. Small talk seems trivial after traversing 20 miles together. These runners often ask the questions with no clear explanations…mostly “why” questions. One man designs office furniture. He’d like to run a vegan restaurant one day. A couple of old ladies, maybe 75, both lost their husbands last year. Running together carried them through. I told them that I’m not a birder, but I’ve been searching for this bird, the Hermit Thrush, all summer, simply because Walt Whitman used it in, “When Lilacs in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” Whitman requests the Hermit sing for him as he can’t summon the words. It reminds me of Luke 19:40 when Jesus speaks of the disciples, “I tell you, if they keep quiet the stones will cry out.” Sometimes, knowing that God, if He wanted, could easily override my stumbling words and actions with His creation allows a greater freedom to live for Him without the fear of bringing Him humiliation. So I like to listen for this ever-elusive bird, Whitman’s chosen speaker—the one that he asks to cover his bumbling’s.

As we near the end of the run, the sun has risen and begun to set again over the surrounding lakes. We’re sheltered by the small Michigan mountains, nothing compared to most mountain ranges, but they’re our own little challenge, and the peaks have served to take our breath away more than a few times. The runners pour each other water and un-stash the remaining bananas, splitting the leftovers with runner opposite. Then, after the race, they slip into their cars, and set off in different directions, wishing one another good health, and hoping to meet again, sometime in the future when they reappear in some other woodsy area to, once again, traverse the landscape, quietly, one-by-one.

5:30am actually exists?!

     It's 5:30am on Saturday morning. I'm awake, voluntarily, and awaiting the start of my first ultramarathon.  I signed up for the 50-miler, though the website now claims it's actually 51-- apparently after 26.2 miles, a little extra mileage doesn't really matter-- but you'd better not short us Mister (49...ppph)!

   So, how does one prepare for a 50- miler? According to my research, you run 4 to 8 miles Tuesday through Thursday of most weeks. You take Friday off. Saturday you run 3-5 hours. Sunday you run 2-3 hours. Monday off. This will keep you fresh while still mocking the amount of time you'll be on your feet during the ultra.

  Now you're asking how I trained? I ran 6-15 miles most days, 0 miles some days, and threw in the occasional 25-30 miler, while quoting Pilgrims Progress when ascending the Hill of Difficulty and searching the trails for the ever-elusive Hermit Thrush mentioned in Walt Whitman's When Lilac's Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd. The bird lives just north of my home in the summer, where I often run the trails and listen for it's haunting melody.

More on that tonight or tomorrow morning. I've got to run! Literally! And when I say literally, I mean literally and not "not literally true but used for emphasis or to express strong feeling"*!


*the new google definition for literally...is not literally. Sounds like an oxymoron to me, but who am I to contradict society!? Or pop culture for that matter!? In fact, I firmly believe that someday, one will be able to answer the question, "How are you?" with the word, "Good" and society will consider it grammatically sound. I move to start this process now! How are you today?