Anger Is A Gift

"Your anger is a gift." - Zack de la Rocha

The music coming though my headphones at the gym is usually the same music that I was listening to as an angst ridden adolescent. At home or in the car, my music preferences have broadened significantly over the years. There's still some metal here and there, but it's no longer a staple in my music diet.

But at the gym, the music is loud and aggressive. Sometimes there's a swagger. Sometimes there's a chip on the shoulder. But there is always a sense of certainty about it. I put the playlist on shuffle once it's going, but it always starts with Hell's Bells. I love walking out of the locker room and up the stairs with those bells in my ears. And that opening guitar riff just oozes inevitable destruction. Then Brian Johnson's scratchy opening lines. "I'm rolling thunder, pouring rain. I'm coming on like a hurricane." There is no second guessing oneself when you're a fucking hurricane.

When I was 22 years old, I lived in Houston Texas. I had an apartment in a pretty rough neighborhood near Hobby Airport. That apartment was furnished with a sleeping bag, a pillow, and a small stereo. I had a pet rabbit named after Huey P Newton. And I had a job making copies of legal documents at an office downtown. From 10 pm to 6 am, I stood over a Xerox machine listening to music on my Walkman and making copies.

I'd come to Houston, via New Orleans, from Denver.

I was a ninth grade dropout. In Denver, I was drinking heavily and I was doing drugs more and more often. Fights were commonplace. I'd lost a few friends to violence. And I'd seen plenty more sent to prison. I'd had numerous scrapes with the law, but I'd managed to avoid any trouble that would stick with me long term. And then, literally in an instant, I just knew I had to get out. In one lucid moment, I saw the pit that I'd sunk into, and I knew that if I didn't get out immediately, I might not ever get out.

A couple of months later, I got a one-way ticket to New Orleans. I had a backpack full of clothes and $450. New Orleans didn't last. I couldn't even find day labor work. And $450 didn't last long. So I used the $35 deposit on the room that I'd rented for a bus ticket to Houston. I had an Aunt and Uncle there, and they were gracious enough to take me in.

I got the job making copies. Then I found the apartment. The job didn't pay much, so with no friends and limited options for my free time, I started making good use of my library card.

I can remember where I was the first time I heard Rage Against The Machine. I'd already found plenty of music that gave expression to my anger and frustration, but never so perfectly as Rage. That was exactly how it felt. I didn't always understand the references in the lyrics. They were clearly a well-read bunch. And I clearly was not. But the music grabbed me by the gut and gave clarity to my feelings.

On the inside sleeve of Rage's second album, there's a picture of a pile of books. Early on in that first year in Houston, I took that picture to the library. And I discovered a whole new world of people that were as angry as I was. And they'd found a way to direct that anger. They'd found a purpose for it.

There's a line in a Rage song that always stood out to me. In a song filled with screams that come from deep in the gut, one line is whispered quietly. "Your anger is a gift." I was finally ready to take that idea to heart.

I made a ten point platform for myself, modeled after the ten point platform for the Black Panther Party for Self Defense. Ten promises to myself. Things that I was going to change. Not just my actions, but my thoughts and feelings too. I wanted, needed, to end the self destructive ways of thinking and being that I'd developed throughout my adolescence and early adulthood. I needed to stop hurting others around me too. And I needed to start making a positive impact on my world. I needed to take my anger and make it work for me, rather than against me. I spent the better part of the next decade wrestling with those changes on an almost daily basis.

Today, I don't have nearly as much anger as I did at 22 years old. I get angry, but I don't generally walk around with it. I get sad too. And frustrated. Lonely. Afraid. Confused. Uncertain. And I know that those feelings are also gifts.

About seven years ago, I discovered that I could take those gifts to the gym and transform them into something entirely different. With running and lifting and swimming, I can turn fear and anger into peace. I can take uncertainty and confusion, and create strength and confidence. And while so much else has changed over the years, the soundtrack of those transformations remains the same. And I like that. It's a nice reminder of where I've been. And a wonderful suggestion of where I can still go. 

Slow Education

"When god was young - He made the wind and the sun - And since then - It's been a slow education" - David Berman

I've been going to the suburbs a lot lately. Sometimes on my own, just to explore a new area. Other times for my second job, doing beer tastings for an importer.

The suburbs that I knew, growing up in and around Denver, felt bland and dull. A wasteland of fast food chains, strip malls, gas stations, and pawn shops. I remember a suffocating lack of imagination that numbed the senses.

But some of these suburbs, outside of Chicago, feel different. There's a definite cosmetic difference. Many of them have the look and feel of a lively small town. They have a main street with shops and bars and cafes. The sidewalks are filled with people. It feels like there's life being lived there.

And as I visit Libertyville and Lake Bluff and Geneva and La Grange, I wonder if maybe the suburbs never were as terrible as I remember them. Maybe I'm the one that's changed. Maybe I was suffocating from my own lack of imagination.

I turned 40 this past summer. I've been a late bloomer in a number of ways throughout my life. Another way to put it is that I'm a slow learner. And after years of working in restaurants and bars, I'm just now preparing to make the shift into a professional career.

I'm excited about the challenges in my immediate future. And it feels great to know that I'm setting myself up for a wide range of options down the road. I'm excited to know that I'll have a chance to help hard working small business owners grow their dreams. And I'm excited to know that I'm moving towards a point in my life that will include more financial stability than I've known in the past.

And while none of that is inevitable, the likelihood of the transition and the new found confidence that I have in my long term future, probably plays into my changing perspective on the suburbs and the things that I've always associated in my mind with suburban life. And while I don't know whether I'll ever find myself living in the suburbs, I suddenly find myself considering a lot of what I'd for so long written off.

Home ownership won't happen this year. But in five years? Probably. And then there's the big question. The question that I've always been too scared to really honestly ask myself. Do I want a family?

I've been scared for a couple of reasons. I knew that, as a server, I didn't have the financial security that I would want to have for my family. And I didn't want to get locked into a restaurant management position that I'd feel obligated to stick to for the sake of knowing that the bills were paid.

I was also scared because nothing in my romantic history suggested that anybody was in a hurry to create a family with me. And nothing in that history would suggest that I was even capable of a long term relationship. As of my mid-thirties, I'd had only one relationship that lasted more than a few months. And that lasted only a year. Not exactly enough time to build a foundation for a family.

But I feel different now. I've had a relationship that lasted three years. Most of that was wonderful, and even the parts that weren't wonderful were incredibly illuminating. I know myself better today, than I did even a year ago. I still have plenty to learn. I'm still clumsy with my emotions. I still get frustrated and scared. But it all feels manageable.

So now I'm starting to ask myself that big question. Do I want a family? I think about my age. But that doesn't have to be an obstacle. If I take care of myself, there's no reason I couldn't be a healthy and active part of my children's lives. Of course, since I'm single, there's also the question of a mother. But those are secondary questions. The first question is whether I want to have children.

I went home to Denver last month. I have nieces and nephews ranging in age from 2 months to 19 years. As I spent time with them, I wondered how I, for so long, associated suburbs only with fast food chains, strip malls, gas stations, and pawn shops. How did I forget the kids running through water sprinklers. The awkward adolescent dates at bowling alleys. The soccer games and summer barbecues. How did that well of life seem bland and dull.

I've been a late bloomer in a number of ways throughout my life. Another way to put it is that I'm a slow learner.

The Hunt

"The heart will always stay one day too long." - Carl Newman

"He not busy being born is busy dying." - Bob Dylan

"Problem solving is hunting. It is savage pleasure and we are born to it." - Thomas Harris

"I used to be the antelope. But now I'm the lion." - Wise 5th Grader

Everything around me feels old. Not old in the comfortable and familiar sense. But old in the sense of dead. Maybe that's a better way to say it. Everything around me feels dead.

My home doesn't feel like home. It feels like dead skin that I've waited too long to shed. I'm living in dead skin. Have been for a while.

My job is something that I stumbled into at 23 years old. I'm 40 years old, and just now moving on. I feel a little bit more dead inside every time I walk through that door. I let that happen.

My cat is 19 years old. I thought she'd be dead by now. She moves slowly. She pukes up her dinner often. She's not dead. But she's a constant reminder of the death all around me. A fitting companion for this moment in my life.

I've stayed in relationships after they died too. Sometimes they die after only a couple of dates. Other times it takes months or years. Either way, I've always stayed too long.

But I'm getting better about that. In my most recent round of single life, I've done a better job of recognizing death and walking away from it. I've also seen women instantly recognize the death in me and choose to walk away. Fair enough.

I'll have a new job soon. One that will be genuinely new to me. One with work that I can feel good about. New challenges. Plenty of room for growth. Without that room for growth, it's too easy for death to find room to squeeze itself in.

I'll soon find a new home too. New skin. Skin that fits me as I am now.

No telling how the long the cat will hold out.

And the relationships... Well, I'll try to keep walking away from death. The slow death of compromise and guilt and shame and fear. I'll walk away from any relationship that doesn't allow all of me to live. But I'll try to do that with an open heart. An open mind. Without fear. I'll try not to assume rejection before it happens. That's all quite a bit more tricky than a new job or a new apartment. But the more I make conscious and confident decisions, the more simple it becomes. Maybe it's not as tricky as I've led myself to believe.

I feel good right now. I feel healthy and alive. Everything around me feels dead. And for the last couple of years, I was dead too. A dead man. In a dead home. Working a dead job. Living with a dead cat. In a dead relationship.

But I'm alive now. I'm itching to shed that skin. Eager to run. To dance. To celebrate. To hunt.



 

Alone

"Not forever. Just for now." - Jay Farrar


I walked into my apartment at 1:00 am. My thoughts were swirling and jumping through a mix of anxiety and comfort. Frustration and ease. I was thinking about work, and family, and love life, and friends. Thinking about what I do and don't have in all of those realms of my life. Thinking about how I got here. My stomach was a little knotted. I was aware of the knot, but mostly okay with it. I could see the knot, but I wasn't in any rush to untie it.

I fed my cat. My needy, cranky, 19 year old cat. Her food placated her for a bit. But it wasn't long before she was back to her never ending search.

I poured a beer and sat down at this laptop. Ready to write about those swirling and jumping thoughts and feelings. Ready to finally sort it all out and make sense of it. Ready to turn the corner. Finally take that big leap into a giant pool of understanding and peace.

I checked Facebook first though. Maybe I had some new Likes. I'd like some Likes. Then email. That's fair. There could have been some important news there. Something I really wanted to know. There wasn't. I glanced at the basketball scores too. Nuggets win.

The knot is gone. It slipped away while I was distracted. I still remember what it looked like. But I don't know that I could pick it out of a lineup of similar knots.

I was thinking about all of the changes in my life right now. Big changes. And I was thinking about a text from my old friend Glenn.

It's been almost a year since my ex-girlfriend and I broke up. It was our third break up. Pretty sure she'd call it our second, but that's another topic. A topic related to our breakup, and our relationship too, but not exactly related to the topic here. Though I don't know that I've really established a topic here.

Big changes. And the little details in between. Topic and subtopic. Or maybe the other way around. The breakup was one of the big changes. Whether we agree on the number of breakups is one of the little details in between. So that detail isn't on topic. But it's on subtopic. Or maybe the other way around.

It was a good relationship. Even with all of the difficult, painful, ugly, and unhealthy aspects of it. On the whole, it was still pretty wonderful. And so is she. I don't regret it for a second. But I don't regret the fact that it's gone either. I can't imagine going back to it. It was time. We both knew it, but she called it. I knew it, but I couldn't say it. She's stronger than me in that sense. So I left the heavy lifting to her.

My friend Glenn sent me a text tonight. Following up on a text that he sent two days ago. One that I didn't respond to. Am I going to make it to Austin in early January? I'm not. I can't.

That's what got me thinking back to the breakup.

I was thinking about all of the more current things swirling around my head. Work being front and center. More big changes. Hopefully. The very thing that makes it impossible, or at least incredibly irrational and irresponsible, for me to go to Austin. And I was thinking about how much I'd like to unload those thoughts, and a million others too. I was thinking about how Austin is exactly where I could go, to find the people that I needed to talk to. Old friends. People that could hear my now story, without needing any back story. They already know the back story. They were there for a lot of it. And I was there for a lot of theirs.

So then I thought about how I got to this place. This place where nobody in my day to day life knows my back story. So I walked it back. First stop. One year ago. Break up. The Final Episode. No potential for a part four. Just dead bodies on the ground. Nothing left. And both of us finally able to see that.

I didn't have anybody to talk with then either. Just the ex. And she's the one that I'd created that carnage with, so maybe not the best ear to bend.

Jumping forward. Last June. I was in Alton. Grandma. Mom. Little sister with her family. We had a good visit. But when it was over, and I pointed my car north for Chicago, I felt this immense gulf between me and my family. I didn't feel closer because of the visit. It just reminded me of the distance between us. Miles. Years. Lives.

Last winter, when I didn't have anybody to talk to about the breakup, I looked back on the relationship itself. I considered the ways in which I'd let some old friendships drift away, as I made a new best friend with the woman that I was in love with.

But as I drove away from my family in Alton, the broader view of my life and my relationships came into view along with the wide open plains of central Illinois. This has all been here for years.

So I'm here now.

I spent several wonderful hours tonight with a delightful woman. I still smell her. She's soft and thoughtful and beautiful and vulnerable and strong. Our lives, on the surface, couldn't have taken more different paths. But there's an underlining commonality to it, that feels warm and comforting.

I practice yoga now. I went to my first yoga class about seven or eight years ago. But this year, it changed. I don't so much go to "a yoga class" as I do just practice yoga. Sometimes in a class room. Other times in my car or at work or at home.

Running is coming back too. I feel strong again. It's been a long time since I've felt strong. This running experience feels a lot different. It's not like before. But it's familiar. Comfortable. Like coming back to a childhood home. Sleeping in your old room. You can't have a second childhood, but you can still come home. You can still be at home.

I'm alone through all of this. I'm alone in my life right now. I don't say that with sorrow or self pity. I'm not sad. I'm just alone. Not forever. Just for now.

Ledger

   We owe. We all owe. We owe ourselves. We owe others. Our lives are intertwined with so many other lives. We exchange thoughts, feelings, abuses, affections. All of our interactions involve an exchange. And all of our dealings with ourselves involve deals and compromises. The ledger is created before we can even imagine its' contents or purpose. But it's there none the less. And so we owe. All of us. Nobody gets a zero balance. Not while breathing anyway.

   All that we can decide is who to pay, and who to ignore. Which collection calls go unanswered. Which calls do we acknowledge.

   If I focus too much on what I owe myself, I choose to ignore the needs of others. I choose to look inward. And the price I pay is the loss of others. The experience of others. I fall into myself. I fall away from the warmth and comfort of companionship.

   If I focus too much on what I owe others, I choose to ignore my needs. I lose my anchor and I'm set adrift. I can enjoy the companionship and affection of others. But I pay the price of knowing that the person receiving that affection isn't really me.

   Maybe the best that can hoped for is a balance of debts. To owe as much to myself as I do to others. Seems at once disheartening and peaceful.

Chutes and Ladders

"What is needed, rather than running away or controlling or suppressing or any other resistance, is understanding fear; that means, watch it, learn about it, come directly into contact with it. We are to learn about fear, not how to escape from it." - Jiddu Krishnamurti

   When I experienced my first significant running injury, I was able to shrug it off pretty easily. I'd been luckier than most of the people that I knew that ran comparable distances. I'd gone from couch sloth to my first marathon in 9 months. And I'd continued to pile on miles and speed from there, with no major setbacks, for several years. But my luck had run out. I was running on the lakefront on a cool fall night and something popped in my ankle. I'd felt similar sensations in my ankle before, but nothing this severe. Running another step wasn't an option.

   I had no insurance. So I decided to trust, that with a little rest, my body would take care of the healing on its' own. In my mind, it was nothing more than a minor obstacle that might require a little patience. I'd still run the marathon in Memphis that was just a few months away.

   I didn't run that marathon. That was two and a half years ago.

    I've spent a good deal of that two and a half years thinking back to that injury and everything leading up to and following it. The injury happened in the fall of 2011. I'd started running in the spring of 2008. So my mind has had plenty of ground to cover.

   Discovering running changed me in ways that went far beyond fitness. For the first time in my life, I'd found a passion for something that was all mine, from start to finish. I'd been influenced and inspired by others along the way. But I owned the miles that I ran. I owned the process of lacing up my shoes, day after day, and building. Building strength and speed. Building confidence. Building purpose. Building a connection between my thoughts and actions, and the flesh and blood of me that was moving and breathing down the street.

   For a long time, I looked at that ankle popping on the lakefront as the moment that I began to lose that connection. I saw that moment as the moment that all of those things that I'd worked to build, began to crack and falter.

   One of the biggest frustrations of the two and half years following that injury, was the confusion and uncertainty about what was actually wrong. There were days and weeks on end when I felt fine. Even good. And then out of nowhere, that same pop. It went on like that for a year and a half. And as I write this, it's hard for me to understand why I didn't find a way to see a doctor. But I didn't. And little by little, slowly over time, I got weaker and slower, and my will and my confidence withered as well. It happened so gradually, that I never really noticed it. One day I was confident that I'd work through everything. The next I was wallowing in self-pity and despair. I felt like the guy in an old cartoon from my childhood. I remember him being sound asleep as a river carried him miles away, only to leave him confused and abandoned and full of fear, in a foreign land.

   I did have moments of hope and respite in that first year and a half as well. I signed up for two marathons in 2012, and I was able to finish the second one. And I felt good about that, even though it was at the slowest pace I'd ever run. But then the bottom dropped out.

   In early February of 2013 I had a hamstring strain that dropped me completely on my ass. I couldn't walk. I couldn't sit. Even laying down was painful. I finally went to the doctor. But that was only good for immediate relief. I still had no insurance, so he gave me a two minute examination and determined that I just needed pain killers and rest. I took both and I sank. I wasted away on my couch. I couldn't work, so I fell behind on bills. I was embarrassed by the state I was in. I was depressed. And I only got worse.

   In late May, I hurt the same hamstring. This time even worse than the last. And at the same time, several other parts of my life began to unravel. Some directly related to the state that I'd let myself fall into. Others well outside of my control. All of which I'll choose to leave out of this post.

   The cumulative weight of it all was crushing. The one thing I most wanted to do to work through it, was run. And that was out of the question. I'd owned my miles. But I'd had no idea of the extent to which they'd owned me. It was as if I'd never known another positive outlet.

   The bottom's most useful quality is also its' most devastating. Time. It moves like a snail through molasses. I spent most of my time at home alone, or on a bar stool in varying degrees of solitude. Lost in my own thoughts and feelings, I had no choice but to search through the wreckage. I felt my way around some pretty dark places. Picked up the things that I found. And I tried to get to know them.

   I thought about what I'd been getting from running while I was healthy and I tried to consider how I could find that in other ways. That's not to say that I ever gave up on getting back to running. I didn't. But I had to reconcile myself to the fact that losing it was a possibility. And as frustrating and frightening as that was, I had to consider what that might look like. I considered other physical releases that might create less stress on the body, like swimming and yoga. They didn't excite me in the way that running does, but they can help fill that void a bit. I also considered the challenges available in my personal life. I considered the ways in which I'd failed to put everything into, and therefor get everything out of, my relationships with those closest to me. And I considered the challenges and potential fulfillment from investing my energy into my work, in ways that I've never really tried.

   I considered those things in part, so that I could begin to see a way forward. But also to see more clearly where I was already at. To understand what it was that I'd been so afraid of in the first place. And I still don't know that I fully understand that. I have some abstract notion of a fear of loss. A fear of losing what I love. A fear of losing love itself. A fear of my clumsiness with my passions and loves.

   But there is a fear too of putting myself into the world as I am. Flaws and weaknesses and all. And while running has helped me build so many positive things, it's also helped me build something to hide behind. And when I lost that cover, I cowered in the corner.

   This past October, I flew down to Austin to visit some old friends. By then, I was in a better place mentally and emotionally and, for lack of a term that feels exactly right, spiritually. But that trip seemed like a significant turning point. I didn't run one step, but I felt more light on my feet than I'd felt in ages.

   I spent my afternoons swimming through creeks and under waterfalls in the Texas hill-country sun. I spent my nights in outdoor beer gardens. Enjoying tacos and beers and easy conversation with friends that seem like they've always been there and always will be. And they seemed as happy to see me as I was to see them. People whose company and wisdom and care had carried me through other rough times. It was a long overdue trip home, and one that helped push me forward out of the malaise that I was finally leaving behind.

   When I came back to Chicago, I set to work on getting back into shape. Slowly, and without putting the weight of my peace of mind on the results. I started with lifting weights, in the hope that I'd be better equipped to handle the miles when that time came. And little by little, I began to find comfort again on the yoga mat. And now, the miles are coming back.

   For the most part, I've stayed true to that slow and steady pace. For the most part, I've stayed true to running and working out for the joy of the movement. I've also used it to weather a few storms, and I'll allow myself that. But I'll try to remember too, that I have other things to fall back on when I need them. And I'll try to remember that I've got friends to fall back on too. Though I still have a lot to work on, when it comes to letting that last one happen.

   I was supposed to run ten miles this evening. But I strained my back earlier today. I told myself that I could run through it. But once I laced up the shoes and ran a few steps, I knew I was in too much pain. I don't know how it'll feel tomorrow or the next day. I still hope to get that ten mile run in this week. But if that doesn't happen... well, we'll see. This is still a work in progress. But for right now, sore back and all, it feels good.

   

 

A Few Blinks

   A few weeks back, I received a Facebook friend request from somebody that I hadn't seen in roughly 15 years. We'd been close friends as teenagers and young adults, but our paths eventually diverged after I moved out of state. After reconnecting on line, we exchanged a couple of brief messages, but that was it. I'd love to sit down and hear about what the last decade and a half have been like for him, but it feels like something that has to be done in person.

   Since that initial exchange, it has been interesting to read his posts and to see his picture. It's interesting to see how much of the young man that I knew is discernible in the middle aged man that I can see now, albeit through a limited lens. But it's not something that I'd given a ton of thought to. Until tonight.

   When I logged on tonight, I noticed that today is his birthday, so I clicked on his name, thinking that I'd wish him a happy one. But I never got around to that. Instead, I started scrolling through his posts, looking mostly at his collection of memes, and then I clicked on his friends list. And it was there that I saw dozens of middle aged versions of young people that I'd once known. Some people that I'd been friends with. A couple of guys that used to push me around. A couple of gals that I'd had a crush on. And plenty more that aren't much more than a familiar name to me now.

   But seeing them all gathered in that space, struck me. It took the process of aging/changing/growing/shifting, a process that I tend to think of as slow and gradual, and made it seem very quick and sudden. I was filled with the feeling that 38 years of life had gone by in a few blinks. And I don't mean that in a remorseful way. I'm more than happy with the way that most of that time has been spent. But right now, at this moment, it just feels like it's happening so fast.

   Maybe that'll pass. Maybe it won't. Maybe I'll blink a few more times and be 76. Time appears to pass without any notice of my perceptions or preferences. But I notice time. And tonight I can't seem to notice much else.

Tulips

   The city of Chicago plants thousands upon thousands of tulips throughout downtown every year. It's one of the many signs that winter is fading away, and that summer is around the corner. I've never actually seen anybody planting them though. They always seem to simply appear. One day the downtown sidewalks and medians are bare, and the next day they are singing with color.

   In those early days of spring, when all of the flowers are new, it seems as though they could never grow old. They're bright and beautiful. They stand tall and proud. And they seem as if they'll be that way forever. There is no sign of fading colors. No limp stems. No fallen petals. Just pretty flowers. And for a moment, it just seems so simple.

Uncertainty

"I always work out of uncertainty. But when a painting's finished, it becomes a fixed idea, apparently a final statement. In time though, uncertainty returns... your thought process goes on." - Georg Baselitz

   I'm 16 days away from the Prague Marathon, and once again I am not healthy. I don't know what my injury is. I woke up last Monday with a sore left knee. By Wednesday it was worse. Swollen and painful. I had a severe limp. It was better on Thursday. Today is Friday and I think it will be manageable.

   I put ice on it and the swelling went down, but I can't rest it forever. I have to work. And I have to be on my feet in order to work. I'm going to go to the gym today. I won't run. I couldn't run if I was being chased. But I can lift. I can swim. I can do the right things to keep the rest of my body feeling good. And I can hope that this blows over. Whatever this is.

   But it is frustrating. I try to remind myself that this is a part of it. People that run long distances will usually suffer through some injuries from time to time. It's part of the package. I was lucky to make it through the first several years of marathon running without any significant injury. And now I just need to weather a few storms. Because the payoff is worth it.

   But I wonder. I wonder if this is just the beginning. I turn 38 years old this summer. And I am starting to feel like the middle-aged man that I'm becoming. I don't have health insurance. I have a job that requires me to have healthy legs. Perhaps this is a warning sign. Maybe I should be "slowing down". Whatever that means. Maybe changing direction is a better way of putting it.

    I don't know. I don't know what to think right now. And I probably won't have it figured out before I finish my morning coffee and this blog post. But I probably should be giving more time to these thoughts. Honest and constructive time.

   So I'm 16 days away from the Prague Marathon. I am also nine days away from a three week vacation in central Europe. So my life is still pretty good, and that's worth remembering. I'll get a lot of time to myself. A lot of time to spend on (hopefully) long walks. Time in beer gardens and sidewalk cafes. Time in art museums and old castles. Time picking through fruit stalls. Time to meet some new friends. Time to catch up with an old friend. And with a little luck, some time to clear my head and sort some of these thoughts out.

Roller Coasters & Do-Overs

   The ankle feels good. I'm finally on the mend. The ankle hurts. I can't run. This sucks. It's been months. I'm never going to run hard again. It feels pretty good. A little sore. But if I take it easy, I can enjoy the run. New shoes. Limited soreness. Ready for the next marathon. Just have to slow the pace. Damn it. I'm never going to be healthy again. I'm just old. 37 years old. Isn't that the time when even Hall of Fame caliber, professional athletes start to hang it up? I'm not a pro, and I'm not hanging it up. People twice my age run marathons. This just won't be my fastest marathon. That was a great run! I felt amazing. Why can't this be my fastest marathon? Get to work! Slow it down. Not 100% yet.

   And the beat goes on.

   I think that this is one of those times when people tend to say that The Truth is "somewhere in the middle". Perhaps what that means is that there is some truth to all of what was said.

   I could indeed hang it up. But that would mean that all of this running that I've done meant nothing. It would mean that I've learned nothing. And it would mean giving up on something that I genuinely love. So that's not much of an option.

   And getting faster? Faster than I've been in the past? Perhaps an option. The human body is capable of incredible things. Especially when the mind is its' ally rather than its' adversary. I could dedicate myself anew. Lock into a strengthening program that would build me up fast. I have had some good strong runs lately. So my ankle can hold up. But even if I set aside the obstacles/excuses of work obligations and a social life, I can't honestly say that I want to put in that kind of work right now. 

   Which brings me back to slowing it down. Which perhaps isn't the right way of putting it. I've all but ground to a halt in the past few months. So any honest marathon preparation will involve more running and cross-training than I've been doing as of late. But the race itself? That will be run at a different pace, and with a different mindset, than that with which I've grown comfortable. And it does feel like slowing down. It does feel like a step back.

   Which brings me to another one of those things that people tend to say: "I wish I could do it all over again." That, of course, doesn't happen. We don't get to go back. But we do sometimes find ourselves in situations that are similar to others that we've experienced in the past. Experiences that ended with the dreaded "shoulda, coulda, woulda".

   So here I am again. Looking at a race that I know won't be my fastest. This realization came to me once during a marathon. And I fought that truth, when I could have embraced it. In the process, I soured what could have been a wonderful experience. I cheated myself out of something great, simply because it wasn't exactly the great thing that I had told myself that I wanted. And I was in this situation on another occasion too. I told myself well before that race, that it wouldn't be my fastest. That I would take it easy. And I took it too easy. I didn't train properly, and by the second half of the race I was miserable.

    So I'm sitting here now with the closest thing to a "do-over" that I'll get. With the opportunity to find The Truth in the middle. I have 62 days left until the Prague Marathon. This will not be my fastest marathon. And it doesn't have to be my slowest. But time isn't the issue anyway. The process is what's important. Honest hard work and preparation, inspired by a love of running, is what's important. An appreciation for the opportunity to run through Prague is important. Finding rhythm and balance. That is important.

   The roller coaster isn't in my ankle. It's in my head. It's in the way that I've chosen to view my injury. Time to get off of the ride, pull my laces tight, and run down the middle of this race course.

Net Positive Impact

   Last week, I asked a friend about his decision to become a vegetarian. I understand that there are numerous reasons that one might make that switch, e.g., personal health, environmental concerns, animal cruelty concerns, and so on. But I nonetheless find myself asking people about their own reasons, mostly out of an interest in what it says about them as a person. And my friend didn't disappoint.

   He talked about a few specific experiences, in which one event or another got his wheels headed down a particular road of thought. And the conclusion that he settled on was this: When his time here on earth is done, he'd like to feel like he's made a Net Positive Impact. It's a noble goal. And one that is worthy of honest consideration by all of us.

   Now this seems simple enough at first glance. Live a compassionate life. Be good to people. Help them when you can. Avoid being hurtful and selfish as much as you can. And there you have a formula for making a Net Positive Impact. But any thinking person living in the Western World should be able to figure out that things are not so simple, because our impact goes far beyond our immediate environment.

   The computer that I'm typing on right now was no doubt assembled by a handful of very poor workers in a very poor country, working under very poor conditions. And the same can be said for the clothes that I'm wearing and the food that I just ate. Those workers, and millions more like them, will never have the opportunity to receive fair financial compensation for their toil. And as a consumer, I bear a chunk of the responsibility for that arrangement. I also consume vast amounts of fossil fuels, the demand for which spills the blood of countless innocents around the world. I fill up landfills with my trash. I waste water and electricity. I accept a government that deploys its' military and economic power around the world in ways that I can rarely agree with. And in spite of my awareness of the aforementioned perils of mass meat consumption, I do still consume a lot of meat.

   And no matter how much I try to remain conscious of the "compassionate life" formula, I can't possibly recognize the indirect, though quite tangible, role that my existence plays in the world, and still convince myself that I am making a Net Positive Impact. I can not look at the quantifiable contributions that I make to the world and stack them up against the things that I take and the damage that I cause, and pretend for a moment that I tip the scales in the right direction.

   Which leaves me with the question: What can I do? I believe that I can still remain conscious of the "compassionate life" formula. While less tangible than many of my actions, I remain confident in the importance of simply being good for yourself and those around you. But what about more concrete efforts?

   I live a comfortable life. By virtue of simply being born on the right patch of dirt at the right time in history, I am afforded luxuries that most people, both at present and historically, could never even dream of. I'm not wealthy by the standards of most Americans. I work in a bar, not a bank. But my income is still far greater than that of most of the world's population. And thanks to modern technology, my resources are far greater than those of even the most wealthy people of years past.

   But how much of that am I willing to forgo, and what impact will those concessions make? I could stop eating meat, like my friend. But I probably won't. More likely, I'll commit to only eating meat that is raised organically and locally, and perhaps limit my consumption to a set number of meals per week or month. What about fossil fuels? I don't own a car, but I love to travel and I fly often. I fly thousands of miles every year. Could I give that up? Should I give that up? Those flights often land me in countries that are eager for my American money. I don't delude myself that my meager tourist dollars will make any lasting impact on those that receive them, but if they put a couple of meals on a table that might otherwise be bare, isn't that a move in the right direction? Or is it not? Does that simply continue a cycle of dependency? What about my food and clothing? I can afford to buy Fair Trade food. I could even balance that cost by purchasing used clothing, and thereby kill two birds with one stone. And I could easily trim my use of water and electricity. And the vacations? What if I cut out one trip per year, and donated that money to organizations like Oxfam, Doctors Without Borders, or 826?

   But even if I do all of those things and more, I honestly don't know that I can function in modern American society without taking more than I'm giving. But I do know that I should try. And I also know that I want my efforts to be thoughtful and honest, so I'm not going to commit to any specific changes right here in this space, at this time. But I will commit to the task of taking stock of my behavior patterns. I will consider what I can concede, and what more I can contribute. I will continue to give more honest consideration to the idea of my net impact on the world in which I live.

Help From Outside

"You don't understand anything until you learn it more than one way." - Marvin Minsky

   Run head first into the wall. Bang your head against it a couple more times for good measure. And repeat.

   I spent a pretty good chunk of this past Tuesday afternoon doing that. I had a partner. Or perhaps I was her partner. Either way, the wall came in the form of fourth grade math. And we never did break through it. Nor did we wise up and look for another route.

   Fractions and decimals. 3/4 = .75. That kinda thing. I couldn't get it to stick to her. I tried the usual analogies. I pulled coins from my backpack. Showed her some of the ways in which she already converts numbers from one form to another on a daily basis. But she wasn't having it. And as time wore on, she even seemed to regress. Not only was she failing to learn the new stuff, but she was suddenly incapable of doing the more simple work that she'd done just fine with only moments before. Arms folded. Lips pursed. Eyes stared off into eternity. The verdict was in. She had reached her zenith, and there was nowhere to go but down.

   Of course that probably wasn't her zenith. Her next tutor probably found a better way to explain it to her. And she is probably on her way to new challenges in arithmetic as I write this. Or perhaps that was it. Perhaps she's smoking her first cigarette right now. Setting in motion a series of bad decisions that will culminate in a life full of hardship and bad math skills. But regardless of her path, my mistake remains the same. I didn't find another approach.

   It's not that I didn't consider the need for another approach. I did. But I wasn't coming up with anything useful on my own, and I didn't ask for help. There was plenty of help to be had. I was in a room with more than a dozen other tutors. There was another tutor three feet away from me. Hell, I could have even asked an older student. Somebody that had just learned this stuff as recently as last year. But I didn't. I just beat my head against the wall. I acted as though I too had reached my zenith. I acted as though I had nothing more to learn from anybody else. That student and I were two peas in a pod.

   The next morning, I went for a run along Lake Michigan with my friend Ryan. It was sunny and unseasonably warm. We ran at an easy pace. We talked about basketball. We talked about running. And we talked about running injuries.

   I still haven't fully recovered from an ankle injury that I suffered over five months ago. I've tried a few things. I've tried rest. I've tried light running. I've ditched old shoes. I've done some ankle exercises. And then I've repeated those same things. Over and over.

   As we ran, we dodged the holes and ruts that winter weather had worn into the lakefront path, and Ryan occasionally dropped behind me when the path grew narrow. That vantage point offers a view of a runner's form that they're unable to get on their own. From behind, you can see how a runner's feet hit the ground. And if you get just a little to the side, you can gauge their stride and posture. Ryan is a running coach, and naturally engaging and personable, so it made sense that as he dropped behind me while I talked about my injury, that he'd take a moment to assess my form and offer his thoughts.

   He had several things to point out about my form. And he offered a number of suggestions as to how I might make some changes or improvements that might keep me healthy, and perhaps even make me a faster and more efficient runner.

   I took his advice. I started working with his ideas during that run. And yesterday, I got on a treadmill by myself and focused on a couple of specific points that seem to need some work. And while that didn't lead to any immediate miracle cure, it did seem to help quite a bit. I found myself running with a level of physical comfort that I hadn't had in a while. And with that comfort came some hope and optimism that has also been in short supply as of late.

   But there was also a sense of frustration. For months, I've been beating my head against the wall. Fighting this injury with the same failed tactics. Over and over. Folding my arms. Pursing my lips. Staring into eternity. And choosing to ignore all of the help that is readily available for me. Choosing to go at it alone, rather than acknowledge that somebody else can offer a perspective that I'm not seeing on my own.

   This pattern isn't a new one. It's one that I've struggled with for as long as I can remember. And I know that there is not going to be any instant and immediate change in that regard.  I won't walk away from this keyboard and make a dramatic and permanent change in the way that I deal with adversity. And my ankle won't instantly heal, simply because I tried something new. And that student won't magically let go of her frustrations and begin soaking up every lesson thrown her way.

   But I can chip away at it. A moment of humility here. An awkward and embarrassing question there. I can let my guard down from time to time. And hopefully, eventually, come to the conclusion that I never needed to have it up in the first place.

   

Backward and Forward and Right Here and Now

   I haven't had this much down time since I started running almost four years ago. I had an easy summer, and that was planned. But since September, the down time has been due to a nagging ankle injury. The ankle feels like it's working its' way to being fully healed now, but it's been a slow process. And in the meantime, I've let myself fall out of shape. I could have done more to stay in shape, while my ankle was healing, but I didn't. That's done now though, and it's time to look forward.

   I've got fifteen weeks to get myself ready for my next marathon. It's unlikely that I'll PR. Aside from the gap between where I am right now physically and where I'd need to be to PR, I'm also aware that coming back too fast and hard can aggravate the old injury or cause a new one, and land me right back on my butt. So I'm going to ease myself back. Which means a new approach for me.

   I've never trained for a marathon, without the idea that I'd try to PR. And to my surprise, I'm actually liking the feel of this new vantage point. I got my first glimpse of what that might be like a couple of months ago, albeit under significantly different circumstances.

   I went to Memphis for what I initially thought would be a full marathon. But as the injury lingered, I realized that running 26.2 miles probably wasn't going to be a good idea. My ankle was still hurting, and I had been severely limited in my training runs. So I decided to run the half marathon instead, and then get back out to the course to find my girlfriend, Abby, who was running her first full marathon, and cheer her on and take some pictures.

   I was frustrated in the weeks leading up to that race. I'd signed up for the full marathon, and it was hard to swallow the idea that I was going to settle for the half. I knew that it was the best thing for me, but it felt like quitting, and I couldn't get rid of the sour taste in my mouth.

   The morning of the race, my ankle was particularly sore, and in my mind I was questioning whether I should even run the half. I started with Abby. We ran together for about a mile. It was a great morning to run. The air was cool and crisp. Abby was excited, and I was excited for her. But after the first mile, as my ankle pain persisted, I told her that I was going to drop out. I wished her well, and cut my way to the side of the road.

   I sat there for a brief moment. Feeling sorry for myself. Feeling frustrated. And then I took off my left shoe and looked at my ankle. It was stiff and sore, but there was no visible swelling. I could run. I couldn't run fast. And I shouldn't run 26.2 miles. But I could do 13.1 miles at an easy pace. I was in a city that was new to me, and I was dying to run through it. So with the thought of looking at the morning as an opportunity to see Memphis and enjoy an easy run, rather than as a race that wouldn't be what I'd originally hoped, I laced my shoes back up and got back on the course.

   I was immediately happy with the decision. I found a pace that I was comfortable with, and I settled in and soaked up my surroundings. We ran along the Mississippi River, and I watched the runners around me. I was on the back end of the pack, and there was a different feel back there. There were more people running with partners, whether friends or lovers. People talked with each other. Some were running the half, others the full, but all had settled in for a long morning run. The urgency and intensity that dominates the front end was harder to find in the back, at least during the early miles.

   I spotted Abby somewhere between the 3 and 4 mile marks. I watched her from behind as she smiled and laughed and interacted with runners and spectators alike. She looked like she was having the time of her life, and I was tempted to hang back and watch her all morning. But I made my way through the crowd and ran up to her side instead. She squealed and I smiled, but I didn't stick around. I had found a rhythm, and I wanted to hold it. I just told her that I needed to go ahead, and she nodded and smiled and told me to get going.

    As I ran, I took in the people and the places that I passed. I talked with a woman that had a shirt from a 5k that takes place in my Chicago neighborhood every October. I read the stories of inspiration that people had written on their shirts. I looked at the pictures of children from St. Jude's Children's Hospital, which the race was benefiting. I ran through the Memphis Zoo. I stopped for a quick half-beer with some merry spectators. And I remembered the joy that comes from simply running for pleasure. Something that I'd allowed myself to forget while fighting through my injury.

   Eventually the fork in the road did come. The half marathon course and the full marathon course parted ways, and my pride did feel a sharp stab as I made the turn for the former. But I quickly sat that aside, as I grabbed my bag and went to find Abby.

   I found her quickly and easily, and she was much the same as I'd left her. Smiling and laughing. In the moment. Taking in everything that was there for her. And I smiled as I aimed the camera, and waved to her. When she got to me jumped at me and hugged me hard, and as good as that felt I urged her to go. I wanted her to save that energy, because I knew that there were tougher miles ahead.

   But in hindsight, she was aware of something that I was missing. She knew that she needed to pace herself. She was running responsibly. But she was mostly present in that moment. She wasn't trying to run a race that wasn't there. She wasn't thinking about what could be and what might be and what wasn't. She was there. She was loving her run. And she wanted a hug, so she hugged me.

   And as I gear up for the Prague Marathon, I'm going to try to keep that lesson close. I'm going to map out a training program, and when the time comes, I'll set some general guidelines for my approach to the race itself. But I'm also going to run for fun. I'm going to run because I love to run. I'm going to run at whatever pace feels right at the time. And I'm going remember to forget the big picture every now and then. So that I don't miss all of the little pictures that the big one is made of.

The Project

"If you want to run, run a mile. If you want to experience another life... run a marathon." - Emil Zatopek

"The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air. All I must do is find it, and copy it." - Jules Renard

Perry Coons (My Dad) - Four Marathons

   As I've plunged into the world of marathons, I've met and talked with innumerable runners and marathoners. Runners with a vast array of histories, abilities, and motivations. Runners that have gone far beyond what they initially believed themselves capable of. Runners that have worked their tail off and still come up short of their goals. Runners that run to compete. Runners that run to prove to themselves that they can. Runners that run for sheer joy. I've experienced the incredible feeling of camaraderie that permeates the running world. And, at the risk of sounding hyperbolic, it's one of the most amazing things I've ever come across.

   I also love to write. Though most of the writing that I've done over the years has centered around my own thoughts and feelings. But as running has helped me look at others with a fresh set of eyes, the idea of writing about other runners began to seem like the most natural thing in the world.

   So far, I've talked with people that I know. I've tried to get their stories, while learning what questions to ask, how to listen to the responses, and how to best record and then write out those thoughts and experiences. But the list of runners that I'm going to talk with is now expanding well beyond my immediate circle of friends and acquaintances. This project is already going in directions that I hadn't anticipated. And I'm incredibly hopeful and excited about the possibilities.

   I'm going to focus on marathons, because I believe that particular aspect of running culture is uniquely suited to expressing the more personal elements of athletic competition. Marathons require a great deal of time, effort, and sacrifice. And they are therefor inherently personal experiences. But running a marathon is also something that is within reach for most people. It simply requires an honest commitment to see the task through. Whether you're a 65 year old mother of four, and you finish in six hours. Or perhaps you're a 30 year old veteran runner that is trying to break the three hour mark. The core experience is quite similar. You set a high goal for yourself. Something that you know will be difficult. Something that seems intimidating and gives you reason to doubt. Then you chip away at that fear and doubt one step at a time. One run at a time. 

Abby Smith (My Girlfriend) - One Marathon

   My goal is to find those stories, in all of their beautiful diversity, and tell them as well as I can. I don't know what form the final product will take. I just want to be open to whatever people give me. And I want to present those stories with an honesty that does justice to the effort that the runners have given.

   I'm estimating that this project will take the better part of this year. I'm going to talk to people about past marathons, future goals, and any training that they're doing at the moment. I'm hoping to learn what drives each runner. What first prompted them to run a marathon. What keeps them going. What obstacles they've faced. What reflections they have to offer. Most importantly, I'm hoping to discover what their marathon experience has to say about them as a person. I want to know what it has taught them about themselves, and how it has changed them. And I'm hoping to find a way to convey those things through words.

   If you're reading this, and you would like to contribute, or you know somebody that might like to contribute, just let me know. I can't collect too many stories, and I would love to hear yours.

Chris - marathonsproject@gmail.com

Kevin

   My big brother, Kevin, was born forty-one years ago today. He passed away nearly twenty years ago. I've thought about him often over the course of those two decades. I've thought about who he was, and the impact that he had, and continues to have, on those who knew him. I've thought about the time that I spent with him, and I've thought about the times that I missed out on his company, even though it was right there waiting for me.

   I was eighteen years old when he died. At that point in my life, I didn't have a healthy appreciation for the impermanence of everything and everybody around me. I didn't have an appreciation for my own impermanence. So I took people for granted. I took time for granted. But in a sense, that also helped me get the most out of some of the experiences that I did have with him.

   During childhood and adolescence, I was totally caught up in the immediacy of whatever thoughts and feelings I was experiencing at any given moment. I wasn't concerned with the "big picture" of life. Life was what was going on right then and there. And that helped me see Kevin in ways that I'm not sure I'd have been able to see him, had I known him as an adult. Had I seen him in the context of our mutual mortality, I might have missed some of the more subtle, and most valuable, experiences that we shared.

   Kevin was born with cerebral palsy. He wasn't expected to live long enough to leave the hospital. But he not only left the hospital, he lived another twenty-one years. And to this day I can't say that I've known a happier person.

   Outside of the house, Kevin was usually in a wheelchair. That wheelchair took him to school and church. It took him to Easter Seals Camp and to the park. And when he went to those places he infected everybody around him with his smile and with his voice. He sang loud and often, regardless of where he was. Propriety was never a concern of his. But at home, he was rarely in the wheelchair. At home, he was usually on a thin mat or beach towel, on the floor.

   I remember laying down next to him on innumerable occasions. Sometimes we'd be the only two people in the room. A television or radio might be on, but we were otherwise alone. And I'd lay on the floor with him. Two little boys. Two brothers. And I'd look at him, and he'd look back. But he looked back in a way that nobody else did. He looked at me in a way that nobody else did. It seemed like he was completely free of any consideration of himself. He just soaked up my every movement. Every facial expression, every word spoken, every inflection in my voice. It felt like all of that was being taken in. And in turn I looked at him differently. He wasn't like everybody else. He seemed to be more. When I think about those moments now, I can't help but wonder. I wonder if I can find that place that he was in.  

      The father of three of my cousins passed away yesterday. And on that topic, my cousin Katrina posted this on her Facebook page this morning: "My Dad lost his battle with Pancreatic Cancer yesterday. Everyone keeps asking how I'm doing... Here's what I want to share; I'm okay. I was so blessed to get to spend time with him just last week. While the battle was long and full of highs and lows... It allowed me extra time to pay closer attention to things like, the way his beard felt when he kissed me on the cheek, Or the expression on his face when he told a story that he wanted to get just right. I'm thankful for the time I got to spend and that I was able to have a few more memories to cherish."


   I read those words, and it reminded me of Kevin. It reminded me of those days from my childhood when I could recognize his ability to see other people. To see them without a filter. To see them with curiosity and compassion, rather than with judgement or frustration. To see them without his outward vision being tethered to his vision of himself.

   And I've spent most of today with those thoughts. Thoughts of others and how I relate to them. Thoughts that are at times fragmented and uneasy. And at other times warm and reassuring. And I haven't come to any grand conclusions. I've had no epiphany. I'm just sitting here in front of my computer. Drinking too much coffee. As lost as ever. Trying to make sense of a world and a life that seems so overwhelming at times. But grateful nonetheless, for those fleeting moments of clarity that I receive from others, during those brief moments that I'm able to see what is right in front of me.

Happy Birthday Kevin.

 


  

33. Wake Up And Fight

   I like the idea of New Year's Resolutions/Goals/Rules/Plans. I like the idea of taking a moment to reflect upon what exactly it is that I want to get out of my life. Of course, plans and goals can change. Unexpected opportunities and circumstances can shift the direction that I want to go. And I'll never live long enough to do all of the things that I can dream of doing. But I'm going to try to do them all anyway. And making a list every now and then is helpful.

Woody Guthrie's Resolutions for 1942

   Most of the things that I'll put on my annual list are specific. Such as last year's "Run Three Marathons", "Clean the Apartment on the 1st and 3rd Tuesday of Every Month", or "Blog At Least Once a Month." (I ran two, and I missed the third due to injury. The apartment... Well, there's gonna be a do-over in 2012 on that one. And as for blogging, you're reading Post #52.)  I like to be specific because I'm a cheater at heart. And I need a system that doesn't allow me to convince myself that I've done something, when I actually haven't.

   For other people, the list is more abstract. Do this more. Do that less. Be mindful of this thing and that. And if that works, then that's fantastic.

Feb 2011 - Learning To Ice Skate

   But whatever form the list takes, the process itself is worthwhile. The process of asking yourself to consider what is important. What is fulfilling. And then making the conscious decision to move in that direction. The decision to move with purpose.

2011 Polar Plunge - Lake Michigan
New Year's Day

   It's not so easy as it sounds, of course. And I come up short often. But it beats living life with one hand on the snooze button. So with 2012 just a few hours away, I want to throw a few of my plans out into the internet.

   Writing. Last year, I just wanted to get comfortable with the idea of taking something that I'd written and putting it out into the world. I've done that with this blog. I've posted some random musings from my day to day life, and I've posted other things that have been quite personal. I'm going to continue with that, but I want to do more. I write fiction. I'm not terribly good at it. But I'm not terrible either. Before 2012 is over, I will submit at least three stories for publication. It doesn't really matter where. But I will put them out into the world. I will also complete the project that I've started, which involves interviewing marathoners and writing their stories.

Cleveland Marathon - May 2011

   

   Running. I will run three marathons. Prague in May. Denver in September. And Sacramento in December. I will train my ass off. And by December, I will qualify for the Boston Marathon.

   Travel. Three new countries. Czech Republic. Poland. Russia. Two new states. Oregon and Washington.

   I'm going to fill that list up with some smaller goals too. But that'll do for this post.

   Thank you, whoever you are, for taking the time to read this blog. I hope you've had a great year. And I hope you've got an even better one coming. Happy New Year, Internet Surfers! See you in 2012!  

Preaching and Practicing

"All it takes is all you got." - Marc Davis

   I was on the treadmill yesterday and my thoughts drifted to a friend. I was going to meet this friend for coffee after I left the gym. Our original plan was to meet for pizza. (She is a former Chicagoan. And I would imagine that upon leaving this city, one of the more devastating losses to deal with would be the loss of Chicago pizza.) But pizza was cancelled. Though not because Chicago pizza became any less delicious. It was cancelled because she was at the borderline starvation stage of her seemingly endless cycle of dieting.

   It's a frustrating process to watch. In part, because I know how fruitless and unhealthy that process is. But also because she knows how fruitless and unhealthy that process is, yet she continues with it anyway. However, I've had that conversation more times than I've cared to, and so I just agreed to switch to coffee and I kept my self-righteous rants to myself.

   As I continued to run, my thoughts breezed on through other topics, before eventually settling on my upcoming marathon training schedule. I've been fighting an ankle injury for months. I think that it's more or less healed at this point, but I know that I need to do more to build the strength back up. I need to do ankle exercises on a consistent basis. That kind of stuff is not my strong point though. No part of marathon training outside of the actual running is my strong point. I don't stretch enough. I don't swim enough laps. I should lift weights more often. I should do yoga more often. I should invest in compression socks to help my legs recover from long runs. I should do a lot of things. But I don't.

   And as I thought these thoughts, I began to recognize the similarities between my cycle, and that of my friend. I know what I need to do. I know that doing these things will help me achieve goals that I've been unable to reach so far. Yet I continue my pattern of short-cuts and half-measures anyway. I continue with my fruitless practices even as I preach to somebody else about the absurdity of doing the same damn thing. The hypocrisy is hard to ignore.

   And this pattern exists in other areas of my life as well. In college I rarely missed a good History or English Lit class. But I skipped the hard sciences on a regular basis. Regardless of the knowledge that those were needed for a diploma. When I clean my home, I inevitably stuff junk into a closet or a drawer. Pushing aside an easy task, and saving it for a tomorrow that often never comes. In my private and public life, I often choose to do just enough. Just enough to keep my head above water. Like paying nothing but the interest on an old debt, even when it is within my means to pay it all off.

   Which brings me to here. To this morning. To this keyboard. In just a few days, I will begin an eleven month training schedule. A training schedule that I'm writing out right now. I will run three marathons in that span. The goals are simple. Set the bar high, yet realistic. Train hard. Train smart. Train honest. Skip nothing. Take no short cuts. And cross the Finish Line of that third marathon in under 3:10:00. Qualify for the Boston Marathon.

   Half-measures won't get me there. Nor will excuses. There is no easy route. There is no pushing it off for another day. Either bridge the gap between what I preach and what I practice. Or come up short. Either, or.

Taxi

"...to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell-type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that lit the stars --- compassion, love, and the subsurface unity of all things." - David Foster Wallace


   I took a cab home from work last night. The driver was a middle-aged man and he had a thick accent that I assumed came from somewhere in Africa. He asked me where I was heading, and then he returned to his cell phone conversation. His voice was loud and his demeanor jovial. He had large hands with knuckles like fat acorns, a big soft smile, and deep lines on his forehead. He laughed often and with his whole body.

Sahara Desert

   As the cab took us south on Halsted, I noticed something irregular about the driver's speech. A hitch and a stutter. And I felt a bit surprised by that. I was surprised because I have a preconceived notion, a shallow stereotype, of what a stutterer is like. Anxiety ridden, timid, insecure, etc. And this man seemed to be far from any of those things.

   And then I realized that I was mistaken. There was no hitch. No stutter. The man was using a language that includes clicks and pops and something that seemed to come from the top of the throat and the roof of the mouth. As if he were gathering phlegm. The sounds were more quiet than those that were more familiar to my ears. Just soft and subtle sounds among the louder bits of English, French, and something unrecognizable.

   And as I listened intently to the man's conversation, I became more and more curious about him. I climb into at least a couple hundred cabs a year, and almost all of those drivers are foreign born. But this time, as I listened to these foreign sounds from the back seat, I stopped to consider just how radically different this man's native country may be from the one that he lives in now. And I wanted to know about those differences. Or perhaps there are more similarities than I'd guess. Which I'd also like to hear about. Either way, I just wanted to hear this guy's story.

   I didn't get his story though. He did finish his phone call a few blocks prior to pulling up in front of my building. So I was able to ask him where he was from. But that was it. I decided to be content with that.

Algiers

   He is from Algeria. The largest country on the African continent. Home to vast stretches of Saharan Desert. Home to the Atlas Mountains and Mediterranean coast lines. Large cities in the north. Oil reserves in the south. Home to obscene wealth and widespread poverty. Home to Berbers and Arabs. Home to despots and civil wars. Home to countless tribal groups and the cultural stamp of English/French/Italian colonial powers. Home to fishermen and blacksmiths. Beggars and thieves. Home to mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters. And home to cab drivers.  

   And I wonder where this cab driver's story fits in. He was born in Algeria. A little baby. Probably some time in the 1960s. Probably into one of the densely populated cities in the north. Perhaps Algiers? Maybe Oran or Constantine? How long did he stay there? What was his experience like? What was his family like? Did he leave them behind when he left the country? Or were they here in Chicago with him today? Were they even alive? Does he miss home? Does he lay awake at night and think of somebody that is half a world away?

Atlas Mountains

   Obviously I'll never know the answers to those questions. Our paths crossed briefly. I won't be more than a slight gust of wind in the story of his life. But I want him, even if it's just a small piece of him, to be a bit more than that in mine.

The Great American Road Trip

"The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page." - St. Augustine

   Hitting the road in one week. Packing a bag on Wednesday night. Getting up early on Thursday morning. Loading a cooler with some snacks. Picking out some good driving music. Heading south from Chicago. Driving down the length of Illinois, across a chunk of southeastern Missouri, passing through a small patch of Arkansas, and landing in Memphis.

   A view of middle America from behind the windshield. Small towns, expansive farms, and a few remaining wooded areas. Giant trucks and sprawling gas stations under a big open sky. Many things in the less populated regions of this country seem massive. Caricatures of their urban cousins. Enormous churches, billboards, and tractors, all dwarf their condensed urban equivalents. Yet they remain small ornaments on the landscape of their rural home. Pieces of the quiet beauty that blankets the roads and fields and homes of the region.

   There may not be an American tradition that I am more in love with, than The Great American Road Trip. Some of my favorite childhood memories come from just such trips. Wood paneled station wagon. Mom behind the wheel. Cans of pop and bologna sandwiches. Four kids sprawled out in the car. Windows down, with feet hanging out in wind. Pumping our arms at the trucks we passed and the gleeful laughter that followed the blasting of their horns. Laughter derived from the idea that we knew of a secret language. One that belonged to children and truck drivers alone.

   We carefully noted the license plates from different states. Some clue seeping in. A clue of the vast world outside of our small one. And special reverence was reserved for those plates from the furthest corners of the country.

   There will be no small children in the car for this trip. But the feeling is similar. The feeling of exploration. Me and Abby. Exploring the countryside. Exploring Memphis. Exploring our sense of what we can and can not do. Questioning boundaries. On the road. The peaceful hum of steady movement all around us. A quiet engine. Rubber tires on asphalt. A reclined passenger seat. Slowing the world down, while simultaneously rocketing through it. And embracing the feeling, even if only for a little while, that maybe we could just keep moving forever.

(Thanks for the road trips mom!)

Alvarez Hardware Store

   I walked down to my neighborhood hardware store about a month ago to get some keys made. It's a small store, and it seems to be run by just one man. I've tried to bring him whatever business I can over the last six and a half years that I've lived in this neighborhood, but that isn't much. I bought a new toilet seat a few years back. And I've directed a new neighbor or two to the store. But other than that, I've just gone there for keys.

   The man was never unfriendly with me, but I usually felt like I picked up on some sense of frustration mixed with resignation coming from him. I figured that his store had to be struggling. It was usually empty, and my occasional need for keys wasn't going to keep him afloat. But there wasn't much I could do about that. I am a renter, rather than a home owner, so I only tend to the most minor repairs in my apartment.

   It wasn't until this last trip there that I spent any significant amount of time thinking about the store, what it may mean to the man that owns it, and also, what it meant to me.

   I arrived to find that the door was closed. The windows were covered from top to bottom with plain brown paper. And the iron gate that was typically pulled aside during business hours, was closed and locked. Alvarez Hardware Store had finally gone out of business.

   I took a step back and took a moment to look at the store. I'd walked by it over a thousand times. I'd walked into it about a half dozen times. But I think that that was the first time I'd noticed the name.

   This was presumably the name of the man that had owned and operated the store. I have no idea what his first name is. I never asked. But I immediately thought back to that aforementioned sense of frustration and resignation that I thought I got from him. And for the first time, the irony of his key making services struck me.

   This neighborhood, Pilsen, has seen a significant demographic shift since I first moved here in the spring of 2005. The shift started before that. But even if I stick to the changes that I've witnessed first hand, the contrast between "what is" and "what used to be" is stark.

   In 2005, I moved into a neighborhood that seemed to be comprised entirely of Hispanic families. That summer, I saw front porches crowded with friends and families every night. I saw kids playing in the spray of a fire hydrant. I saw mammoth 4th of July block parties. I heard an ice cream truck every 30 minutes. And there was even a small family circus that set up in the park every September.

   Of course Pilsen was not an Hispanic Mayberry. There was a notable gang presence, and it was relatively easy to recognize the houses from which drugs were being sold. And on one evening I found myself frighteningly close to a shooting.

   But on the whole, I felt like I'd moved into a tight-knit community of families that had laid down roots in the neighborhood. People knew one another, and I always got the sense that they looked out for one another.

   Much of that feeling is still here in 2011. It just isn't as strong. The packs of children are thinner. The block parties are fewer and farther between. The songs of the ice cream truck less frequent. And I think 2008 was the last time that circus came through.

   Today's Pilsen, while still predominantly Hispanic, is also home to people that look like me, and live lifestyles that are similar to mine. Single people in their twenties and thirties. Mostly white. Students and artists and hipsters and aimless wanderers. We came here, just a trickle at first, and then a steady stream. We provided a clientele for a few new restaurants and bars and coffee shops. Thrift stores became vintage clothing stores. We drove up the rent and fattened the pockets of the area landlords and real estate investors in the process. And we probably influenced the increased police presence and the improvements on the local CTA routes. (At a time when both of those public sector services are being defunded.)

   But we didn't go to Alvarez Hardware Store. Except of course to get some spare keys for our new apartments. It must have felt something like making a weapon that you know may very well be the instrument of your death. Grinding keys for the new residents of what is soon to be your old neighborhood.

   And as I looked at that closed storefront, I wondered, for the first time, about the man that used to stand behind that counter. I wondered how long Mr. Alvarez had had his store. I wondered if he has a family to support. I wondered if he has had to take a job at some big box store, making keys for low wages. Or if perhaps he found his way to something else. Maybe even something better?

   I also considered the irony of my own role in the demise of this business, and that of other small businesses in the neighborhood. The small bakeries and taquerias. The tailor and the corner drug store. They are a part of the identity and the appeal of the neighborhood. They're a part of what attracted me to the place when I first walked down 18th street, just days after moving to Chicago. But their inexpensive goods and services can't handle the rent increases that I help to bring about. And the new demand for higher end commerce will continue to push them out. And some day down the road, I will wake up to see that the process is complete. That by my mere presence, I've helped to sow the seeds of the destruction of something that I once found beautiful.

   And as these thoughts collected in mind, I didn't experience them with any sense of guilt. Nor did I feel any call to arms. The world changes. And I don't want to fight the dying man's fight against change, as long the living man's embrace of it is an option. I will probably leave a world that looks little like the one I was born into, and I wouldn't have that any other way.

   However, I do want to be conscious of my active role in the world. And I want to be aware of those around me. I couldn't have saved Alvarez Hardware Store. But I could have known the man's first name. I could have taken a closer look at that particular piece of the neighborhood that I am so fond of. I could have taken a closer look at another man, and my relationship with him.