I'm still here, honest.

Original image can be found here.

I KNOW.
I KNOW.

Really, I do.

I haven't posted a darn thing since just before I left on my vacation- which was awesome- and I can't even tell you why, except to say that maybe I left a big chunk of my mojo back in Puerto Rico, or that the mojo I tried to find or recapture in Puerto Rico was out of my reach. I guess I lost my map.

Regardless, I've had a less-than-stellar Winter, and have some thoughts that have permeated my brain, made me re-evaluate things, made me remember that ultimately, I am just a passenger on this Universal Life Ride, despite my co-dependent control issues. 

I'll share soon, promise. Until then, I'll keep looking for my map. 
Keep giving, friends.

Pack and Go

Right now, as I type this out, I am supposed to be excitedly zipping up my suitcase. I'm leaving my little rental dollhouse in a few hours for a vacation. To a tropical island location with beachside cabana. Alone.

Aaaaaaaand I can't focus.

This has been my life the past ten months or so; my inability to focus and the ensuing feelings of unsettledness and dissatisfaction with everything have rendered me a wreck. I can't make sense of anything, I have no Clarity. And this Winter, especially, I've been dealing with that stale feeling that comes with too many snowcloud-covered days, the days that tarnish the shiny bits that normally give glint when the Winter sun decides to come out. What's a girl to do? 

Go on another retreat? YES. In the Winter of Her Discontent? YES. Someplace warm, with myriad distractions, but also with myriad stretches of sand and sea for solitude and serenity? YES. Mission: Tropical Retreat? YES.

So it was back in the late Fall when I started planning. This retreat, though, required a bit more planning than a summer camping retreat: there were airlines and car rentals and accommodations to figure out. And it cost more than a tank of gas, campsite fees, and a cooler full of food. Way more. Like, more than I probably should have spent. But hey, there are worse things that could happen besides the cable getting shut off while I'm gone, right? 

These past few weeks have been spent avoiding responsibilities in favor of coming to terms with leaving everyone and everything I know to go away. Far, far away. Alone. 

Yes, Alone. 
Necessarily so.
Again. 
Every time. 

As my departure date has approached, I've had to think about what I'd actually be doing during this sojourn: What would I need? What would I pack? How much could I fit in that small carry on suitcase? Well for starters, I'd need some distractions for the travelling portions, so books (special thanks to Magheen for a particularly poignant selection) were packed and music was downloaded to the ol' iPhone. I knew I'd be spending some time reflecting and writing, so I packed a journal (a beautiful one from my friend, Winga). I'd also be spending ample time on the beach, and in went not one, not two, but five bikinis. (Yes, bikinis. Yes, I'm *gulp* over 40. I'm not that awful to look at, I don't think.) And then some warm weather clothes were rolled up and smooshed in. Flip flops. The smallest bottle of sunscreen. A fleece top to soothe my sure-to-be-sunburned shoulders during the evening hours. Jewelry (girls love jewelry, right?) consisted of some important things: a collection of bracelets- of freshwater pearls, of garnet beads, of prayer beads ("they're the color of your eyes," a friend told me); and of favorite necklaces, reminders of love in silver pendant form. And then the business of everyday life went in, all the soaps and potions that keep me feeling ready for the daily grind, let me feel pretty, sometimes, even. So much stuff for one person!

I stopped packing to switch the laundry around, and during this pause, I consulted my checklist, answered a few text messages, scanned Facebook, and then realized I haven't eaten anything today except trail mix, had nothing to drink except coffee. I'm leaving in only 6 hours now, and it is finally hitting me that I'm embarking on my first real vacation in over 18 years. Eight. Teen. Years. And I can't move from my spot on the couch, can't finish folding the laundry, can't stop whatever the fuck that feeling is that gets caught in my throat and produces tears. Eyes closed, eighteen years of another lifetime gets compressed and moved along behind my eyelids, complete with PowerPoint slide transitions and sloppily edited soundtrack. And again, so much stuff for one person!

Deep breath in, exhale. Hands cover eyes and wipe cheeks dry. Hands push me up off the couch, feet move me towards the kitchen. Coffee maker is set, another handful of trail mix, a gulp of water. Back to the task at hand.

As I finished packing all of my things, I thought about how this layering of tangible daily assets into a bag is directly mirrored with our internal assets: the layers we put on our bodies- clothing, jewelry, perfumes? These are the visible marks of Our Memories, the way they are interconnected and layered upon each other; they are Our People, the layers of connections they represent, from the food we've eaten together, the music we've listened to together, the books we've read and discussed- all of it. What is here now and what we've collected on our journeys, what we've kept up in front of our minds for a short while, and what we've branded on our hearts...the symbolism of all of these layers? These things get packed up and get to come along on our adventures whether we like it or not, and so we are really never alone. And my suitcase is filled, and my alarm clock is set for 2:30 am, and I am ready to go on an adventure Alone, but not.

Not Alone.
Not this time.
Not next time.
Not ever.

There is a smile on my face as I cover up with down comforter and quilt, and for the knowledge that all the Loves of My Life are just as excited and anxious as I am for morning to get here. They're packed and ready to go. They've got the big bottle of sunscreen, they've got the FJ fueled up and ready to go. They are wringing their hands. They are reflecting and putting pen to page, they are waiting for me at my cabana, lounging in the hammock, waiting for their turn to use the outdoor shower after sand and surf get all up in their business. They are collecting my mail, eating the perishable food left in the fridge, keeping the sidewalk clear of snowcloud tears. Too much stuff for only one person- thank goodness there are so many of them to help!

Mission: Tropical Retreat is nearing Go Time. The Clarity I've been looking for is maybe the acceptance of Right Now; of going Alone, but Not; of figuring out that I get to choose which memories only stay for a little while as opposed to getting branded on my heart; of falling through the ice and only getting bruised and chilled; of being grateful for so much stuff for only one person; of all the Loves of My Life, no matter if they believe me when or how I say I love them; and of allowing myself to Give Love without promise of anything in return. 

That's my theory, anyway. I'm going to pack and go- I'll let you know what I find. 
Until next time, friends.

It Takes A Village (and a List)

Take what you find and create something meaningful, write a message on the sandy shore,

leave part of your heart there, and yet take back a heart full of joy.

Part II of III

I am a list maker. I love making a To Do list, or a Top 10 list, or a goals list. I love the orderly way the items sit there on the page, each one waiting patiently to be completed and crossed off or read aloud and contemplated in conversation. I love the way that the single items merge to create one new, singular item. As the Queen of Procrastination Nation, it is indeed an achievement when I am finished with a list.

So as I was getting ready for my retreat (go here and here), of course I made a list. Actually, I made four lists: vacation plans, campgrounds, camping supplies, and people. Solo camping trip, though, right? The names on that last list were for meditations and prayers: twelve names, including my own. And so-

Once I got to the campsite, I really tried to let go of my regular routines. After all, that's partly what this retreat was about, wasn't it? Letting go of long-held habits and beliefs and identities? YES. I soon found out that my proclivity for list making was something I would not be able to abandon. 

I made mental lists of where things should go (the tent there, the firewood there, kayak there, backpack there). I made lists of all the ways I wanted to enjoy nature (kayak daily, swim, run Bruno's Run trail, explore the far shore of the lake). I made lists of what I wanted to accomplish creatively (read one book, meditate daily, complete at least three drawings, free write in my journal). I made lists of what to eat and drink (oatmeal and coffee for breakfast, eggs for lunch, trail mix whenever, potatoes and beer for dinner). 

And then, like all best-laid plans, my lists got pushed aside by the internal work I ended up doing, the challenging of myself to tear down my Self to the bare studs and get rid of the Secrets that were weakening my foundation. Damn. Damndamndamndamndamn.

All of a sudden, nothing was going as planned. It was the first full day and I was deeper into my demolition much sooner than I expected. The early morning rain dampened me, figuratively and literally. By late morning, though, the rain had stopped, but my center was lost. A run on the trail helped clear my mind some. A paddle around the lake helped me focus a bit more. Food. A fire. 

And then the stars came out.

It was one of those nights where you first look up in the sky and see only a few stars, only the major constellations, perhaps: Ursa Major and Minor, Sagittarius. And then you stoke the fire and look up again, and there are more stars than before. Take a drink of your beer, and there are more stars. Each time you look, the spaces between stars are filled in with more stars, and the sky is filled with bright star clouds. 

And then you see a shooting star. And then another. And another. You will see five in all, and after each one you'll say out loud: "Oh! Did you see that?!" or "Oh God, _______. I hope you saw that one." And you'll catch yourself smiling and crying at the same time.

Once I was certain the shooting stars were done with their show and the fire was only embers, I made my way to my tent for the night. And then the rains came again. And I quickly made another list of what was still outside and where: my beach towel, my life jacket, my coffee cup, my kayak and paddle. And then I held up the lantern inside my tent and inventoried more: my quilt made from race t-shirts, my Escanaba Eskymos sweatshirt, my Starbucks Via coffee packets for the morning, my bird wing necklace. 

And then I stopped. And I thought: these things, they are what helps define me, they forge my Core Identity, not the socially constructed one. The individual elements of what I brought with me are tangible symbols of my journey, of my Life So Far. They've helped shape me and helped define who I am and what I need and what I can offer. 

The tent and its somber colors, used once previously on an ill-fated camping trip with the wasband. The coffee cup, a gift from one of the girls I mentored. The coffee packets, a last-minute add-in from my training partner. The towel, bought on an excursion with a trusted confidant. The life jacket, borrowed from another lifetime. The sweatshirt, an advertisement for my newly embraced home. My necklace, a gift- an urging, really- from a friend wanting me to fly. My quilt, stitched from race t-shirts, all journeys taken before now, all a search for a challenge, all a reminder of my daily struggles on that date. The campsite itself, even. The place, the trail, the solitude, gifted to me by Fate in more ways than one. 

What to call these things? What is the heading on this list? Mementos? Touchstones? Souvenirs? Talismans? 

totem (noun)- an object or representation of such an object serving as a distinctive mark or symbol.

These items made up my totem, representative of the people and related experiences that helped me define Self, helped sharpen the focus on my True Identity- not the socially constructed one that up until this point, I'd simultaneously fed into and fended off. These items were a Visual List.

I was content with this revelation, laying in the tent, listening to the rain hush through the trees. My mind began to wander again and I began to dream in images of these items, stacked one on top of the other, bringing a message to the viewer. Did they serve as a warning or a welcome? Which did I want it to be? What was the approach?

That demolition, that nakedness, that discovery could only lead me to a place where I could rebuild. My foundation was stronger now, and my next list would consist of what I had left, what I was willing to pick up and embrace, and what I wanted to incorporate. What kind of story did I want to tell?

I fell asleep with my thoughts wandering further, asking what our stories reveal about Self. I had already learned about telling stories to myself, betraying my own confidences. Was it keeping secrets, or omitting the truth? How much do semantics matter? What is the lesson? We listen to reason and don't repeat mistakes and sometimes still fail to grow. It comes back to Balance and figuring out what works best for all of the Loves of Your Life, Self first. 

Until next time, friends.

The Secrets We Keep

I love how that one curved branch is gathering the others in- a protective gesture of sorts.

Part I of III 

There are times throughout a person's life where everything gets to be too much; the confluence of work, family, partners, friends, and the Rest of Our Lives all seem to vie for the bulk of our attention, and we scramble to keep up and maintain. I'm sure that we've all experienced this in some form at least once, no?

Well, what happens to me when these stresses hammer down is that I take what's bothering me, what's going wrong, the words spoken and then winced at later, and hide them. And maybe these Secrets stay hidden forever, or maybe they get purged, but often they are just there and start to act like crabs in a bucket: crawling up on each other's backs to escape, but then pulling each other right back in at the last second: Oh, no. If I'M not getting out, neither are YOU. You stay right here and help make her miserable.

This summer has been less than stellar for me in terms of emptying my bucket. I've felt a constant low-level stress for quite some time, even having a mini breakdown not too long ago. That episode really made me step back and ask some hard questions of myself: What is true about you, Self? What makes you whole? What makes you happy? What do you need to Be Rachel everyday?

Heavy stuff. What's a girl to do?

Get away from it all? YES. A retreat of sorts? YES. A re-connection to the creative Self I once loved and nurtured? YES. 

And so I planned a solo camping trip for three days and nights. Me, a tent, a kayak, some art supplies, some running gear, a journal. My destination was Pete's Lake, a campground along Federal Forest Highway 13 in the Hiawatha National Forest; a favorite local trail- Bruno's Run- is adjacent, and there are lovely walk-in sites that are secluded enough to feel like you're really nowhere near anyone else. 

Secret #1: I didn't really tell anyone about this plan. Most people were...stunned to hear I was going camping. Alone. In a tent. And not the Public Chicago kind of tent, either. Ain't no Barney's or Nordstrom's where I was heading. 

Secret #2: I love the outdoors much more than I've ever let on. In my former life, the types of outdoor activities I enjoyed were not enjoyed by my wasband, and so my pursuits were few and far between.

Part of what I wanted to explore over those days was the things that made me feel complete, the things I enjoy. Many of these things I resisted for sooooo long, mostly because the identity prescribed to me was based on how I had been introduced to people for the past 15, 20, 40 years: Ed & Susan's daughter, Eric & Lisa's sister, Doug & Ann's daughter-in-law, D's wife, Emily & Sadie's mom. Never only "Rachel." That socially constructed identity was one that I clung to as a defense mechanism, it was a wall I had built up as a silent protest in reaction to my own unhappiness. But what made me happy? What made me ME?

And that's another Secret, isn't it? There's a good chance the person you present might not be who you really are. Those people you socialize with, those activities you participate in, those topics of conversation are really only niceties; you are being Polite. The juxtaposition and/or dichotomy of those things with your Self make day-to-day so much more difficult than need be. If only we could listen to Self without the static! If only the static could turn into our own voice of clarity, if it could turn into the broadcast of our Core! My retreat was my attempt to tune in, to return to Self, whatever- or whomever- that was. 

I did so much thinking. I thought a lot about secrets and how some things you want to remain secret: good news you're not ready to share, bad news you'd rather forget, sad news you don't want to revisit. No matter how happy or angry or sad you are, and no matter how much your friends promise to keep their mouths shut, some things are better kept to yourself. And sometimes you'll be questioned. And sometimes you'll cave. And other times- too many times, in my case- you'll be the Bigger Person, recognizing the subtle differences between privacy and deception when it comes to secrets.

I thought about how we link secrets to memory. Things like the smell of a lover on your skin, not washed off so you can continue to smile; the sadness of witnessing the life leave someone's body, the helplessness of seeing their vibrancy extinguished like that; the anguish of your own heart breaking for what you thought you had, or hoped could become with enough effort and time; and of course, the secret lives led by people you think you know- bruised egos and hurt feelings and "Well, I never thought"-s over and over again, surprising you even after so many years. All of these secrets we have and hold and use to create an identity for ourselves and others. And the shared secrets others use to create an identity for us! 

And so I had to examine my own Secrets and decide which would get dumped out and exposed, and which would be burned in the camp fire. The little wavelets while kayaking rocked a few out of me. My drawings were inspired as much by the natural surroundings as by the frustration and resistance in letting some go. The pine needles underfoot on Bruno's Run cushioned the honest blows to my ego. The camp fire did, indeed, burn a fair share. The rain and my shaken tears washed away many more. And yet some remain.

And so my retreat was underway, my reaffirmation or Return to Self was in motion. Step One was the honest evaluation of what I was holding on to, what secrets were keeping me stuck in limbo despite my best attempts at living in happiness. Do I feel better, closer to knowing and acknowledging my Self, my Core on a daily basis? YES. Do I defer to the need for the walls I've built up to come down? To the truth that keeping certain Secrets will hinder my ability to create intimacy with those I love? YES. 

What was next? Well friends, if Step One was surveying, then Step Two can best be described as demolition. Until that story is ready to share, I'll leave you with this:

I left a bit of my heart on the shores of Pete's Lake, that's no secret. 

Let It Go

This week I was in Washington, DC for a work conference.  I usually love traveling, and don't mind traveling alone- its like an adventure for me, navigating around a city, trying to blend in like a local, even going to the grocery store.  I love the newness of those first visits.

To add another layer of thrill to this trip, I was meeting up with a friend from my younger days; Brooke and I hadn't seen each other for close to 15 years.  Fifteen years!!! I was beyond thrilled when I found out we'd be able to hook up not one, not two, but all three free evenings I had on my schedule.  So the packing was in earnest Sunday night, and the alarm was set so I'd make it to our small, regional airport for the 7:45 am connecting flight to Detroit, then on to DC.


I'm out the door to the airport (literally, a three minute drive) by 6:30 am; this flight is usually full of old folks and business folks, both leaving town for destinations far and away.  The ticket agent was helping another woman with something, so I proceeded to the self check-in kiosk when the other ticket agent says, "Don't do the self check-in.  The flight's been cancelled for this morning."  Oh, frr rrllll?!  Slightly annoyed, I'm re-routed to leave from Appleton, WI; a taxi arrives a few minutes later to drive me there, $50 travel voucher and $6 meal voucher in hand.  Let it go.  You were able to get a new flight. I text Brooke and let her know of my later-than-expected arrival time.


Flights are smooth, baggage claim is fine, and the hotel is a three minute drive (again, literally) from the airport.  For those of you familiar with the DC area, my hotel was in Crystal City; my conference, on the other hand, was in a new area (planned community, really) called National Harbor.  My morning commute from hotel to conference? Well, I had choices:  1) a $60-70 taxi ride each way; or 2) yellow line from Crystal City to L'Enfant Plaza, transfer to green line to Branch station (end of the green line), transfer to NH1 bus to be within one block of the conference site.  Because my per diem didn't allow for taxi service, I ended up with a 70-90 minute commute each morning & afternoon. Let it go, Rachel; you could have to try and drive in this hellish traffic.  


So my days slogged by at the conference, and my nights were hours and hours of good conversations, good food and drink, and overall good company (and, for the record, I'm good at bar room trivia). Fast forward to this morning.  My flight is scheduled to leave DC at 9:42 am for a connection in Detroit, then on to my regional airport.  Can you even guess what happened?  Yep.  Flight to Detroit is fine; flight from Detroit home is cancelled.  After a flurry of text messages to Daughter #1, I am re-booked on a flight back to Appleton, leaving in...20 minutes! Now, if you've ever been in the Detroit airport, you are familiar with the terminal set up:  terminal A is for flights from larger hubs, while terminals B & C (parallel to terminal A) are for regional flights.  The two sets of terminals are connected by a tunnel whose walls are a glass art installation that changes colors.  There's even music to go along with the show; see photos here and here, and a video here . 


I hate the light tunnel.


So I run in flip flops from terminal A to terminal C, making my new flight just barely.  I have a minute to check my message where I find out that its NOT Daughter #1 coming to pick me up, but my was-band.  WTF?! As if I didn't already have a headache.  As if that's the face I wanted to see and share my stories with while driving for two-and-a-half hours. As if I didn't already just  want to get the fuck home, already. I felt so mad and frustrated and helpless and discouraged and...so...trampled.  Cue the iPod, over-sized sunglasses, and tears.  Let it go, Rachel.  It'll be over soon enough.

The drive home is awkward and mostly silent, save for small talk about our daughters and mutual friends, his mother, my parents.  And then I hear this song on the CD playing, and I remind myself once again of my good fortunes, of the people I have in my life who care enough about me to stop in the middle of their day to pick me up at the airport 150 miles away.  Let it go. This too shall pass. Gam zeh ya'avor.  Enjoy the music and fun, and remember that it really is best to stop and reevaluate things before getting all worked up into a kerfuffle. 


 

For Megs- My Autobiography, Condensed

Above photo: Me, circa August 1988, about 18 months before the end of my time living in Kewanee, IL.

I got an email from Megs the other day asking for my recollections of childhood in Kewanee, IL. While I have many memories from childhood, I think mine was always a race to get to the next thing. Let me explain.

We moved to Kewanee after my 2nd Grade year. My youngest sibling at the time was Katie, and my mom would soon be pregnant with my sister, Abbie. My childhood up until this point was spent in the LaSalle-Peru area of Illinois; my childhood was marked by new babies and new houses; my childhood was constantly in motion. I think knowing this helps explain my comfort with being occupied at all times, and my awkwardness with "down time."

My running reflects this upbringing in that I'm always training, always in motion, struggling to enjoy the moment of the "now" because I've already moved on to the Next Thing on the List. My career/current job also falls in line with this (Dinner for 250+ people, activities and prizes? OK!). Enough analyzation, let's get to the memory portion!

For Megs

1. What was life like when you moved to Kewanee (not because of the move, just life in general, at that stage in life)? Well, I had just finished 2nd Grade at St. Patrick's Catholic Grade School. The prettiest dress I owned was my First Communion dress, which I later wore for a family portrait when we moved to Kewanee. My best friends were Elizabeth Janz, Jenny Bichl, and maybe Missy Marchesi, but I also remember Kim Gergovich (which I think is a cool name), Joey Reardon (because we were the first kids in line to First Communion- both short!), and Eric Duchaine. I remember living down the street from the new kindergarten teacher, Miss Kasperski, and she still lived at home with her parents and siblings. I remember Saturday mornings marked by watching cartoons on television, eating donuts from The Baker's Dozen bakery (right next to D'Angelo's Salon, across from the Westclox factory), or sometimes we would have the frozen glazed donuts (which tasted exactly like fresh Krispy Kreme donuts, I swear). I was pretty happy, I think.

2. What were your reactions to the house, the town? Had you ever been to Kewanee or heard of it? I remember driving to Kewanee for the first time with my mom and visiting the house before we moved in. We met the old woman who was selling the home, and got a tour. It was very much an "old lady" home at the time, with lots of knick knacks and strange smells. I remember having to dress up for the trip, and I don't remember any other kids with us, except for maybe Katie, who was the baby at the time. The house, I thought, was too big, cavernous. I had never heard of Kewanee before we moved there, but plenty of people knew LaSalle-Peru. And I was only 8, so my traveling was limited to wherever my parents took me. I remember moving day, and arriving at the house to absolutely every aunt and uncle we had- plus all four grandparents- moving things around, carrying boxes, making a huge pot of chili in the kitchen (which at the time had this awesome red wallpaper and a red telephone with rotary dial), running through the halls under people's feet, getting lost and having to back-track (The upstairs was an apartment when we moved in, and the hallway was blocked. There was a wall just past what was my high school bedroom, right next to mom & dad's room, and so that far end of the hallway- from the hall closet to the bathroom- was inaccessible from the front stairway). Total chaos from Day One.

3. Was the transition difficult? Did you share your feelings with parents/siblings? For me, no on all counts. If I had to guess, I'd say that Eric and Lisa would have had more reason to be pissed than I would have, especially Eric, who came to Visitation School in 8th Grade. Adolescent awkwardness! Lisa and me, I think, assimilated pretty easily. I think having so many younger sibling diverted my attention from missing anything. Plus, by this point, I was used to the constant motion of my life, and had learned to not attach feeling to anything/anyone, since experience had shown that there was a good chance that things could change in short order.

4. What feelings did you keep from parents? Many times growing up- and especially as the number of siblings increased- I would secretly wish to be an only child, or to have not so many siblings. Remember that episode of "The Brady Bunch" where Jan wished she was an only child? I related to that, the feeling that there was too much going on around me to feel like an individual, the feeling that I would always/only be identified as part of a group. I also hated the fact that I had to wear glasses, and I remember several times coming home from school, sobbing, and throwing my glasses against my bedroom wall because I was convinced that I was going blind.

5. How do you see living in Kewanee, growing up in Kewanee, as a part of your life? What did living in Kewanee then mean to your life now? I see my time in Kewanee as another transitional phase: another stop on the journey, and never thought of it as permanent home. I only lived there for (maybe) 10 years before leaving. I have lived longer in Escanaba than anywhere else in my life, and even now I don't consider this permanent. A part of me thinks that finding comfort in a location, whether that be a state, town, or dwelling, is a sign of complacency, which in turn would breed contempt. I think a person needs to travel in order to become who they were always meant to be. Travel=education=evolution. I'm still testing that theory out, though.

Living in Kewanee for those years only reaffirmed my earlier life, and my life today. That is, it was a base, it was a place to be at that moment, on your way to the next place. It was, for me, never meant to be a permanent place. The constant motion I remember from early childhood has followed me to this day. I love to travel, to explore, to learn new things. Kewanee's options were exhausted early on for me- it was never a place I ever wanted to return to. "Life" was always somewhere else, and it was always the exact opposite of where I was.

And that, dear readers, is your glimpse into my world.

The Rush of Summer Days...

...interrupted by the quietness of a wind farm in the Middle of Nowhere, Illinois.  This was the scene I encountered driving to and from a family gathering last weekend.  This is only about 10 miles from my parent's home, yet I never knew it existed.  There's also a Mennonite Church.  Who knew?  

So the point of this photo is that it was a welcome respite from the very rushed summer I've been having.  School ended, summer started, and the next thing you know, the 4th of July is over, my 20th Class Reunion is over, and I've got two weddings and a half marathon to get through in the next two weeks, not to mention a circus camp, staff evaluations, and a student incentive trip to plan and get through.  I'm thinking I need a personal assistant.

So many times I'm guilty of trying to cram so much into my days and weeks that I fail to enjoy stillness and solitude.  I remember having a conversation with My Favorite Redhead about this on one of our walks:  should you try to get as much done as possible in this life, since you only have one life? Or should you take your time and savor a select few things?  I've always been the "get as much in as possible" person, loving all of the adventure and new experiences.  It's catching up with me this summer, though.  I'm starting to recognize the importance of savoring every once in a while.

So today I will be savoring fresh laundry and a stocked pantry (Thank you, washing machine, dryer, and grocery store!), and perhaps get recharged for the next hectic weeks.  Perhaps.  Have a great week.

Travel Makes You Smarter

I'm convinced its true, you know. Not only do you get the experience of visiting a (maybe) new locale, but you get the getting there experience, too. Is there anything better, really, than people watching in the airport?

Last week, my Adventure in Getting Smarter involved a trip to Duluth, MN for Grandma's Marathon . Lake Superior decided to take a mini vacation that weekend, too, so there were no welcoming breezes along the scenic 2-lane, black-topped highway from Two Harbors to downtown Duluth. My (second in two months) attempt at a marathon PR was yet again thwarted (last month, the hills of Cincinnati kept me slow). I need help, is what I learned. And so I've been researching marathon programs, picking the brains of faster friends, and generally becoming obsessed with running.

This week, my Adventure in Getting Smarter involves a little bit of work, a little bit of fun, and even some running. I'm attending a conference in Portland, OR on using the data we gather from testing the kids I work with. Exciting, I know, but Portland is pretty cool. I've been here about eight hours, and not only have I already found a Trader Joe's at which to spend my per diem allowance, but I've also found a local running shop with a Tuesday night running group- "open to everyone, no matter the pace!"

So maybe I'll post again on what, exactly, I learned from this conference. Or maybe I'll post a lot of swear words, crabby from brain drain and data and aggregated results, etc. etc. etc.

Also, Pandora (Internet radio station) is a sanity saver. Check it out, and have a great week.