Sunday, August 30, 2009
On getting lost
There are long stretches when I run that feel like meditation, or at least there are minutes of calm that get strung along as my feet beat a rhythm into the trail. I find this so addictive, this quieting of my full mind, that brings me back to running again and again.
If you had told me three years ago those words would ever apply to me I would have had a good long laugh. Three years ago I weighed 222 pounds and told anyone who'd listen that I would never run. I was active and healthy and happy and fat, and I would never be a runner. I knew this like I knew I'd never be a man. And yet...
Today, on one of my rare nods to my half-marathon training, I was in this blissed out state on an 8 mile run when I decided, on a whim, to take a finger trail I've always run past in favor for the trail I know. Before today, each time I sail past it, I've thought I'm gonna take that someday. Today, I just didn't have an excuse not to. No work to get to, or friend to hang out with, so to the left I went. My heart began beating a bit faster and anxiety rose up in my throat, as my body anticipated something new and unknown. Quickly, like the new and unknown always does to me, the nervousness slid into thrill.
There's something so alluring about adventure, even a little one like this, and I glanced around, taking in the redwoods and maples and oaks sifting sunlight like sugar on a cake that I'd never run past, the soft, green fern fingers that had never tickled my calves, the poison oak vines with their ominous jaggeded-edged leaves jumped over for the first time, the pebbles that had never scurried away under my footfalls, and I felt taken in by it all. The whole trail saying, "Hello, there, new runner! We're glad to have you here."
A few minutes later, I had a choice of three trails to continue on and all were basically the same size, and seemed to go in the same general direction, away from where I wanted to go. Uh-oh. Maybe I should have just stuck to what I know. I groaned audibly with that thought. How many times have we all had this thought? How much time have I spent in regret and wishing I could go back and make the right decision, the one that wouldn't waste time or divert me from where I thought it was I wanted to go. Why do I so often doubt that taking a risk is worth it and why do I suspect I've fucked up at the first sign of not knowing for sure?
I could have doubled back and returned to my well-trodden path. I could have, but I so resented my insecure self dominating the unsureness of the moment that I rebelled, and headed off on the trail closest to my general destination with a deep inhale and a rush of faith. I repeated this being lost and finding my way scene two more times before rounding a hill and seeing the Westside of campus, where my new home holds watch on the southern edge, each time with less worry and more assuredness.
And isn't this how it always is when we're finding our way? For every risk I've taken -- moving to Mexico without a job, friends, or a place to live, traveling without more than a list of places I'd like to visit, the LONG process of giving up atheist-infused agnosticism for a god I now treasure, taking voice lessons in order to prepare for soloing with my choir, letting Thomas move in a few weeks after we started a relationship (which didn't work out the way I thought I wanted, but the way I needed), losing 70 plus pounds -- there has been those "What the hell did I do?" moments, followed by achy indecision and thoughts of imminent failure, all eventually eased and the moment of triumph resurrected by taking the next step, by just deciding this WILL work and I don't need to know HOW.
And all I meant to do was get in a long run so I could say I'm prepping for my half marathon.
If you had told me three years ago those words would ever apply to me I would have had a good long laugh. Three years ago I weighed 222 pounds and told anyone who'd listen that I would never run. I was active and healthy and happy and fat, and I would never be a runner. I knew this like I knew I'd never be a man. And yet...
Today, on one of my rare nods to my half-marathon training, I was in this blissed out state on an 8 mile run when I decided, on a whim, to take a finger trail I've always run past in favor for the trail I know. Before today, each time I sail past it, I've thought I'm gonna take that someday. Today, I just didn't have an excuse not to. No work to get to, or friend to hang out with, so to the left I went. My heart began beating a bit faster and anxiety rose up in my throat, as my body anticipated something new and unknown. Quickly, like the new and unknown always does to me, the nervousness slid into thrill.
There's something so alluring about adventure, even a little one like this, and I glanced around, taking in the redwoods and maples and oaks sifting sunlight like sugar on a cake that I'd never run past, the soft, green fern fingers that had never tickled my calves, the poison oak vines with their ominous jaggeded-edged leaves jumped over for the first time, the pebbles that had never scurried away under my footfalls, and I felt taken in by it all. The whole trail saying, "Hello, there, new runner! We're glad to have you here."
A few minutes later, I had a choice of three trails to continue on and all were basically the same size, and seemed to go in the same general direction, away from where I wanted to go. Uh-oh. Maybe I should have just stuck to what I know. I groaned audibly with that thought. How many times have we all had this thought? How much time have I spent in regret and wishing I could go back and make the right decision, the one that wouldn't waste time or divert me from where I thought it was I wanted to go. Why do I so often doubt that taking a risk is worth it and why do I suspect I've fucked up at the first sign of not knowing for sure?
I could have doubled back and returned to my well-trodden path. I could have, but I so resented my insecure self dominating the unsureness of the moment that I rebelled, and headed off on the trail closest to my general destination with a deep inhale and a rush of faith. I repeated this being lost and finding my way scene two more times before rounding a hill and seeing the Westside of campus, where my new home holds watch on the southern edge, each time with less worry and more assuredness.
And isn't this how it always is when we're finding our way? For every risk I've taken -- moving to Mexico without a job, friends, or a place to live, traveling without more than a list of places I'd like to visit, the LONG process of giving up atheist-infused agnosticism for a god I now treasure, taking voice lessons in order to prepare for soloing with my choir, letting Thomas move in a few weeks after we started a relationship (which didn't work out the way I thought I wanted, but the way I needed), losing 70 plus pounds -- there has been those "What the hell did I do?" moments, followed by achy indecision and thoughts of imminent failure, all eventually eased and the moment of triumph resurrected by taking the next step, by just deciding this WILL work and I don't need to know HOW.
And all I meant to do was get in a long run so I could say I'm prepping for my half marathon.
See?
I said in my profile I'd probabaly not keep this up,a nd my last blog entry was... nearly a year and a half ago.
Let's bring you up to speed: Thomas and I did give a relationship a shot. It was a great, short-lived love affair, before which we'd decided he and his son would become my roommates. We went through with this crazy plan, broke up after 4 months, and managed to recoup the sweetness we had prior to the relationship adventure. He ended up living with me for another nine months, and we may be the only successful case of exes living together in history.
Five or six very painful and sad weeks after Thomas and I broke up, I ran into a man in the natural vitamin/health store I recognized form church. We spoke, though I think we both wanted to tear each other's clothes off and make love right there between the soap and probiotics, but it being public and all, and his son being with him (yup, another white guy with a son!), and apparently a female friend (really, just a friend) -- though she'd been invisible to me, we meandered through the sexual tension with forced small talk, until I excused myself to wallow in confusion about being attracted to this man while being heartbroken over Thomas. Then it occurred to me, "Oh! I'm so less in pain about breaking up with Thomas in the last week or so."
New's Years Eve, three weeks after our charged encounter at the store, this man and I had our first date. Looking back on that date, I was awesome (yes, "I"), and he was distracted, and if I'd not made excuses for him that night, I probably wouldn't have spent 6 months trying to fit myself into the tight space he might allow a woman to occupy in his life. He's a good man, and sweet at his core, a great father and a skilled lover, just unavailable for the kind of relationship I'm looking for. We're working on being friends, the biggest (though not impossible) challenge to which is the intense, at times, sexual chemistry that still sizzles when he's around.
I simply WILL NOT do a friends with benefits arrangement. I'm too busy manifesting the love of my life to be distracted by that type of entanglement.
One may conclude, at this point, that my life has revolved around these men in the last 17 months, and well, it has.
This summer, there's been one man I've gone on a few dates with, but the night he pulled a visor with a fake hair velcro attachment on his head, which looked kind of like a ratty old beaver, and drew compliments from the street kids, I pretty much knew it wasn't going to work. I think he gets it at this point, but in fairness, I need to make the time to be explicit. So, I made plans for beers this week with him! This is one thing straight men complain about women, isn't it? That we jerk guys around and string them along. Honestly, I don't mean to. It's just that being upfront about what I'm feeling with men doesn't come naturally to me AT ALL. I'm working on it. I swear.
The BIG news this summer is actually on the job/home front. After working for four years at Cowell College at UCSC, I finally (FINALLY!) had my four-year-old wish granted and have transferred back to MY college, Oakes. The one I graduated from, the one where I first began grappling with my identities, especially as a white person. Being here changed everything. I taught after college because of what happened here. And, in part, I'm back here, working in residential life because of my time here.
I'm also deeply grateful for my apartment, which is a huge improvement on my old one -- I've got ocean views form every room, a yard, a garbage disposal, a dishwasher, and a gas stove -- none of which I had at Cowell. I've been here two weeks, and I still get teary eyed thinking about the luck of it, and, on a blue note, the sacrifices that were made by someone I love and respect so that I could be here. I am profoundly appreciative for this opportunity.
Of course, much more exciting living has been squeezed out of the last 17 months, but what I want to end with is this: I am going to keep up this blog weekly. My friend LeTa, and I have committed to meeting once a week for an hour to update our blogs. Apparently, if I want to get my writing "out there" a blog is the easiest way to do it.
So here I am, for reals now, people. No more hiding. No more excuses.
Let's bring you up to speed: Thomas and I did give a relationship a shot. It was a great, short-lived love affair, before which we'd decided he and his son would become my roommates. We went through with this crazy plan, broke up after 4 months, and managed to recoup the sweetness we had prior to the relationship adventure. He ended up living with me for another nine months, and we may be the only successful case of exes living together in history.
Five or six very painful and sad weeks after Thomas and I broke up, I ran into a man in the natural vitamin/health store I recognized form church. We spoke, though I think we both wanted to tear each other's clothes off and make love right there between the soap and probiotics, but it being public and all, and his son being with him (yup, another white guy with a son!), and apparently a female friend (really, just a friend) -- though she'd been invisible to me, we meandered through the sexual tension with forced small talk, until I excused myself to wallow in confusion about being attracted to this man while being heartbroken over Thomas. Then it occurred to me, "Oh! I'm so less in pain about breaking up with Thomas in the last week or so."
New's Years Eve, three weeks after our charged encounter at the store, this man and I had our first date. Looking back on that date, I was awesome (yes, "I"), and he was distracted, and if I'd not made excuses for him that night, I probably wouldn't have spent 6 months trying to fit myself into the tight space he might allow a woman to occupy in his life. He's a good man, and sweet at his core, a great father and a skilled lover, just unavailable for the kind of relationship I'm looking for. We're working on being friends, the biggest (though not impossible) challenge to which is the intense, at times, sexual chemistry that still sizzles when he's around.
I simply WILL NOT do a friends with benefits arrangement. I'm too busy manifesting the love of my life to be distracted by that type of entanglement.
One may conclude, at this point, that my life has revolved around these men in the last 17 months, and well, it has.
This summer, there's been one man I've gone on a few dates with, but the night he pulled a visor with a fake hair velcro attachment on his head, which looked kind of like a ratty old beaver, and drew compliments from the street kids, I pretty much knew it wasn't going to work. I think he gets it at this point, but in fairness, I need to make the time to be explicit. So, I made plans for beers this week with him! This is one thing straight men complain about women, isn't it? That we jerk guys around and string them along. Honestly, I don't mean to. It's just that being upfront about what I'm feeling with men doesn't come naturally to me AT ALL. I'm working on it. I swear.
The BIG news this summer is actually on the job/home front. After working for four years at Cowell College at UCSC, I finally (FINALLY!) had my four-year-old wish granted and have transferred back to MY college, Oakes. The one I graduated from, the one where I first began grappling with my identities, especially as a white person. Being here changed everything. I taught after college because of what happened here. And, in part, I'm back here, working in residential life because of my time here.
I'm also deeply grateful for my apartment, which is a huge improvement on my old one -- I've got ocean views form every room, a yard, a garbage disposal, a dishwasher, and a gas stove -- none of which I had at Cowell. I've been here two weeks, and I still get teary eyed thinking about the luck of it, and, on a blue note, the sacrifices that were made by someone I love and respect so that I could be here. I am profoundly appreciative for this opportunity.
Of course, much more exciting living has been squeezed out of the last 17 months, but what I want to end with is this: I am going to keep up this blog weekly. My friend LeTa, and I have committed to meeting once a week for an hour to update our blogs. Apparently, if I want to get my writing "out there" a blog is the easiest way to do it.
So here I am, for reals now, people. No more hiding. No more excuses.
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