This Whole World Keeps Changing - Come Change with Me!

What a great idea, right? And I'm not going to wait for the New Year to start because I want to start right now. I read a few lines from Gretchen's (yes, we are on a first name basis) book to Bekah last week while she made a chocolate cheesecake in her lovely kitchen soon to be abandoned by her and D-Mac for the even rainier (!), sleepy town of Astoria. She amused me but didn't seem too into the idea. I was kind of trolling for a partner in crime. Alas, I'll have to look elsewhere. It's an experiment, I'm allowed to fail. Rule #1. Because if I try a thousand things that don't bring me happiness, like Thomas Edison said, I will at least know 1,000 things that don't work (to bring happiness for me, to serve as a filament for him).

So, some background: Gretchen Rubin is the author of The Happiness Project - Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to SIng in the Morning, Clean My Closets, Fight Right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun. She identified 11 major areas of her life from which she felt she could cull more happiness and set about methodically tackling each area, one per month, saving December for a "bring it all together" time of reflection. Throughout the process she cultivated a list of truths (I'm working on my own) and another list of commandments (she chose 12, I'm having trouble getting there) that she felt held validity when applied to each of her 11 areas of endeavor. And then she went for it.

I started the process by lining my apple slices up on my windowsill, putting on a chunky knit sweater and slippers and putting pen to paper - throwing down ideas onto a list I initially called Ideas to Live By, which is grammatically incorrect. And since grammatical correctness is important to me, I decided that rather than be sheepish about how anal I am about grammar, I would amend the title of my list to Ideas by which to Live. But there's nothing happy sounding about that. So let's just call it Stuff for now. This is incomplete. I might yet add to it, might strike out a few things. I'll hopefully solidify the contents before starting month #1 on November 1st.

Ideas by Which to Live
1. Failure is inevitable. And it's okay.
2. When everyone else goes home, I have to live with myself.
3. If it feels good, do it. Just don't bitch about the consequences later.
4. When in doubt, wear the cowboy boots.
5. Know who you are. Be who you know yourself to be.
6. I am surprisingly resilient.
7. "Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be." -Abraham Lincoln
8. Take time to be alone.
9. Clean the sheets before the weekend.
10. Allow yourself to be sad sometimes.

I then brainstormed a list of things that bring me happiness:

health/energy/fitness professional development time management forests organization being a friend snail mail ceramics paper-cutting flower arranging feeling/being prepared writing playing guitar and singing running family listening to music being outside decorating reading sex yoga biking hiking cooking gardening eating out being alone/quiet reconnecting my dog feeling adequate volunteering investing in myself trying new things swinging scarves windows down/heat on clean sheets/shaved legs TNT hot chocolate walking looking nice outdoor markets the beach traveling clothes shopping visiting art and natural history museums

When I got home from work on Friday I turned my phone off and settled in with Gretchen's book and my notebook and began crafting more specifics of my project. I identified the area with the greatest potential and need for improvement, my starting point: work. The goal is not perfection. This is not the perfectionist project. This is about happiness. But I get a sincere thrill out of doing something well. Nothing else is quite as satisfying. I wrote at the top of my notebook page - November: Anything worth doing is worth doing well. And November also happens to be the busiest work month of the year for me. In November I put a grant pipeline together for the coming fiscal year. I have several important grants to finish up before the end of the year. I get a newsletter put together and mailed to our member base. I craft and mail out a year-end appeal for funding. I attend or contribute in some way to several board events. I attend professional development workshops. And this year I also happen to be in charge of launching our new website and moving our office. Phew!

I wrote out a long list of work related goals and aspirations and went to bed about midnight, determined to wake early, grab a coffee (a weekend only luxury) and trek up Mt. Tabor - one of my favorite, long neglected, morning habits. I was pretty pleased with myself.

I'm a generally happy person. I wake up most days with a smile on my face, in a good mood. I know that one's level of happiness is largely determinant on genetics and I've just been blessed in that way. I guess I don't anticipate this project increasing my happiness, per se, but rather helping me relish it more. But I also am a little obsessed with happiness. The pursuit and acquisition of happiness, to be exact. I'm particularly interested in the maintenance of happiness when life throws little curve balls at me, or, as a friend said at lunch on Friday, "when life serves me shit burgers." On Saturday morning, life served me a shit burger.

I had this strange dream early Saturday morning that I was heading downtown on my bike, on a beautiful fall day, (a rare occasion in Portland, but not unlike today, actually) when I felt a lurch, looked down and noticed I had a flat tire. In my dream, one flat tire did not necessitate dismounting and turning back, so I continued on. Soon enough I felt the same lurch again and looked back. My rear tire had flattened too. "Son of a -," I got off my bike, by this time I was at the bottom of the 20 block long Salmon Street hill, and turned for home, dispirited and irritated that I had a huge incline to surmount before getting home.

I woke up from this dream, just one of three incredibly vivid, strange dreams I had that morning, and immediately began dissecting it for meaning. It was gray and cold outside - nothing like the beautiful day of my dream. But I almost immediately remembered a friend's wedding that was happening that day - a wedding that I couldn't attend, for reasons both personal and geographic, and represented the end of an emotional era for me, so to speak. "Flat tire #1," I thought to myself. I wonder what #2 will be?

It occurred to me that I might swap my planned trip up Tabor in exchange for a trek downtown to the PSU Farmer's Market and I picked up my phone to text Bekah to see if she was planning on going too. One of my favorite sisterly bonding activities is meeting Bekah at the Spunky Monkey coffee cart in the middle of the market and then wandering around. She always buys her produce from Groundworks Organics because I think the guy that runs the stand is cute. I always resolve to buy actual produce but usually end up going home with nothing but flowers. It's a lovely tradition. She texted me back: "I need to talk to you real quick. Call me." Weird, I thought, but I called her right away. "I have to tell you something," she said. She paused, I waited. The next word out of her mouth, I knew what she was going to tell me, because her voiced cracked with emotion and Bekah is not a particularly emotional person. "I miscarried my baby."

As if on queue, the hardships surfaced not twelve hours after I made all these lofty goals for the start of my happiness project. Not that this is about me. At all. But flat tire #2, with an asterisk.

I can't have children myself and truthfully have never really liked them much, but when Bekah called me to share her news while I sat on the lawn at McMenamin's Edgefield waiting for a Decemberists show to start the evening before my birthday, it felt like a present. At the farmer's market the next morning we began discussing names. They wanted to name a child after a historical person of great character (cool) and had already decided on Theodore for a boy. I pointed out that given we are from Springfield, IL and that Lincoln was arguably the best president we've ever had anyway, Lincoln would be a much better name. They thought Lincoln was too trendy though. "I don't know any kids named Lincoln," I said, but then again, I only know two kids right now. I acquiesced. (Acquiesced? Ha!)

They, as far as I knew, hadn't reached a decision on a girl's name though and I offered the following suggestions:

Irena - after Irena Sendler, the Polish Catholic woman who started Zegota, an underground organization that placed thousands of Jewish children in Catholic homes to save them from the ghettos and camps. And Irena means serenity or absolute peace.

Josephine - after the literary character, Josephine March. So not a historical figure, but my favorite from fiction. And Josephine means "she shall increase in wisdom." I can't help but wonder if Louisa May Alcott knew that when she wrote Jo's character. She must have.

Rose - after Rose Valland, the French art enthusiast and Louvre employee who single-handedly made records of every work of art as it was squirreled away into the French countryside to keep it out of the hands of Hitler and his treasure-pirating henchmen. Her records are the reason that museum was reconfigured so successfully after the war.

Amelia - obvious, maybe, but any baby born to an Oldani is destined to be a bad ass, just like THE Amelia. Plus it means industrious and independent.

These are women after whom I would proudly name my own children.

I hiked up Mt. Tabor and sat there in the cold as long as I could. I could see my breath. From where I sat, looking west toward downtown Portland, it was so foggy that I couldn't even see down to the bottom of the hill. I determined to incorporate regular ambles up Tabor as part of my happiness project. Then I headed down to face the music, see my sister and wish her husband a happy birthday despite everything.

Saturday evening I went to a Mason Jennings show with M. Mason has such a beautiful way of weaving melancholia into rousing anthems touching on humanity in the most uncannily accurate and piercing way. A la U2, but, you know, not cheesy. I wanted to hear Sorry Signs on Cash Machines, because I wanted to feel sad and sorry for myself and feel those haunting lyrics wash over me, making my heart sink to the bottom of my stomach. Instead, he played Be Here Now.

"Be here now/no other place to be/all the doubts that linger/just set them free/and let good things happen/let the future come/into each moment/like a rising sun . . . sun comes up and we start again/it's all new today/all we have to say/is be here now. Be here now/no other place to be/this whole world keeps changing/come change with me/everything that's happened/all that's yet to come/is here inside this moment/it's the only one."

And then I got to meet him.

Two Weeks. Two weeks?? TWO WEEKS!!

Yes. That was exactly my train of thought today when I opened my calendar to put in a grant draft deadline and saw my weekly countdown for this coming Sunday. I feel like it's important that I update this at least once more before the marathon to paint a rosier picture than I have been recently. Because, contrary to what this blog may portray, I really love running. That's (partly) why I am doing this.

I've had two solid weekend runs since I last updated. One 16 miler, one 20. Minimal to no pain in my left leg. Decent pace. I felt good.

My whole goal of refocusing, remembering why I am doing this, re-prioritizing, I can't claim to be perfect or completely selfless in my endeavor, but I feel like I am finally developing some peripheral vision. TNT connects each team with an honored teammate. One of ours showed up for the start of our 20 miler last weekend. Four-year-old Zach was exactly the impetus I needed to make it through those 20 miles. This is so much bigger than me, or my goal, or my leg - this is about a whole team who has been affected by cancer in some way. Who wants to do more than just cringe and look away when faced with the horrors of life. Together we have raised over $74,000 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. That money goes directly to the medical care and morale of people who are battling a blood cancer and to the research that is working steadily toward a cure.

Be the change you wish to see in the world. I bought a journal with that quote on the front the year I graduated from high school, when I was living in Spokane.

The thought hits me like a ton of bricks: am I an individual? Do I thrive on thought? Or do I merely go through life as a spectator, never being bold enough to choose sides, afraid on the one hand to look like everyone else, and on the other to think like everyone else. Ultimately, to be on the wrong side.

I think journaling portrays me in an unfair light. Not to my disadvantage, but rather in support of a strength of character that in all honesty hasn't surfaced anywhere but on paper. Someday, someone's going to read my thoughts and think, "Wow, what an awesome mind - who thinks of these things?" My answer to that person is, to you if you're reading this, I'm not an awesome person, but instead a coward because I was never able to be open with humanity the way I've been open in my journal. You are capable of the same thoughts, you just don't realize your own potential until you have a pen in hand and an empty sheet of paper. I would like to add that the most original thought doesn't count unless expressed somewhere other than a hidden journal.

My noblest thoughts are no more than that, thoughts. I haven't acted on a single noble thought since I've been here. Well, I donate a few bucks a week to the United Way, but giving money is a cop-out. True giving requires more physical exertion than signing a piece of paper. I've talked about volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club but have yet to actually spend a single hour in one of the local clubs. I got close to becoming a big sister but find I can't make the year long commitment they ask for. The thought that in a year's time I may be sitting in this bed, this room, this house, this city, writing in a journal makes my outlook on life considerably bleaker than I ever thought possible. Do I really want to move home? I don't think I do . . . but I'm restless. I tried to run away from my problems knowing full well that my problems would follow me wherever I ran.

"Be the change you wish to see in the world." Something made me choose this journal over the others at Boo Radley's. I really want to make a difference. Any one person who could say, "my life is better because of Kristina Hope Oldani" would make my life worth living. What changes do I wish to see in the world? That's a start. What changes do I wish to see in Spokane? A more practical one. I want people to be less skeptical of the differences between them. So that means I need to treat Amy's hick friends as I would like them to treat the minorities in the area. I want some unloved, unfulfilled child to find a skill and discover a potential buried by poverty, abuse, lack of support. That means I need to take the plunge, make the commitment to be here for a year. That also means that my own skill, however underdeveloped, needs to be realized. I think of myself as being talentless, that simply isn't true. I have something to offer. That isn't pride, it's humility. I'm going to call Big Brothers Big Sisters tomorrow. I can make it for a year. Someone needs me more than I need my mommy.

-Thursday, October 23rd, 2003

I never did become a big sister in Spokane. In fact, I'd completely forgotten I even wanted to at the time until re-reading that just now. And I've been a "big" for a little over a month now. I think some things get into your system and just fester there until the time is right for them to bloom out.

I was 19 when I wrote that. I wasn't in school. I had no community there. That was a year of me getting to know myself, work through some serious depression, and hike, hike, hike. But it's wonderful to read that now and see how far I've come. How happy I am! Jeez! I was so depressed then! And incredibly self-preoccupied. Goodness. But I was losing my faith and living alone and away from my family for the first time in my life. I was allowed. And these journals give me such an incredible bench mark by which to gage my progress in life.

I'm human. It's a relief, really. That reminder from time to time.

But these reminders come with a great deal of questioning and obsessive thought resulting in feeling wide awake at 4 o'clock in the morning when I want nothing more than to sleep.

Khalfani and I are trying to organize a screening of Invisible Children at LUMA to coincide with a Push Pin show of Ugandan art. A week ago we sat down to start discussing logistics. I ordered the dvd. When I got home from work tonight it was in my mailbox so I decided to watch it.

I now have this sense of urgency. The kind that prevents me from pursuing business as usual. I have to do something, and I have to do it yesterday.

When you become aware of the world around you, the war in Uganda that displaces thousands of children each night, the squalor and poverty right here in America, all of a sudden everything else seems so self-serving and insignificant: majoring in art history, taking a backpacking trip to Alaska, going to furniture building school. I don't begrudge Americans their comfortable lives but I also don't think I could ever be satisfied turning a blind eye. With gift comes responsibility and I've been given this gift of a sensitive soul.

-February 1st, 2008

It was always important to me to be a doer. And I wasn't one naturally. But it's as simple as a decision, turns out. And for the record, I now know, having worked in development for a few years, how untrue it was of me to say, "giving money is a cop-out." Money is usually the greatest need.

But going through this process of training for a marathon, devoting so much time and effort and working through the triumphs and disappointments, this is the experience I needed to feel like I was "doing" something. Being the change I wished to see in the world.

I don't know why I include these journal entries on my blog. I'm really not trying to toot my own horn, I just can't begin to tell you the experience of reading these things and thinking about the events in my life that have had an impact and where they've brought me today.

In two weeks I'll run the Eugene Marathon. Knowing me, I'll not sleep at all the night before and be a tired bundle of nerves at the starting line. I don't know whether or not I'll cross the finish line in under four hours. I'm trying to decide that's of little importance. I'm sure I'll cry at the finish line. I'm sure I'll think of Uncle Jeff the whole way. I'll think of Ani in Argentina, of Aunt Linda in Chicago, of Alek in Princeton, and I'll think of my own dad, who left me this message today:

Hey sweetie, I just wanted to let you know that Don Walker died yesterday. I know that's not good news. But the good news is that I love you very much and I'm looking forward to the next time I get to see you.

I'll think of how Linda, Alek and Anika won't get any messages like that from Uncle Jeff anymore. And I'll be incredibly grateful that my dad doesn't have Acute Myloid Leukemia. I'll be hopeful that the money I've raised, that my team's raised and the entire OSWIM chapter, through all its various events this year has raised will help a family just like mine. Maybe save someone else's Uncle Jeff from a shortened life.

I'll think of this card that they brought with when they came here to visit Bekah and me last summer.

Dear Rebekah, Dear Kristina,

When people asked me why we were going to Portland, I would tell them we were going to visit my beloved nieces. Then I would proceed to tell them how the two of you came to take care of us the days after Jeff died, and how you knew what to do at every turn. You both took such great care of us, you knew when to help and when to stay back - you both always knew exactly how to help. And though I know you are adults, you are both still so young and it was amazing how you were able to help the three of us through those trying days. We will always be grateful that you came to our rescue. We love you both so much, and that was also true of Uncle Jeff, who was so touched by your cards, packages and calls. He felt very close to you both.

We are so happy to visit you here at your homes in Portland, we all love being with the both of you.

Love,
Alek, Anika & Linda

If everyone had a family as wonderful as mine, they would understand this. How I'm running this marathon for them. How much I love them. How trying and horrible yet magical this past year has been.

On a lighter note:

Looking forward to (besides the obvious): Iron & Wine on May 31st; tapering; the next marathon [Portland, October 9th, 2011]; Virginia Beach in June; August (& Everything After)

Also maybe hearing this line from Rabbit Will Run at the Iron & Wine show : I've furthered the world in my wake.

There is still time to give.
http://pages.teamintraining.org/oswim/eugene11/koldani

One Month From Today

To anyone who tells me running is a cheap sport, all you need is a pair of tennis shoes, I have this to say:

BULL SHIT!

Yesterday, while limping through an 8 or 9ish mile run, I ran a tally in my head of what it's cost me to run this marathon.

1st pair of running shoes (with 10% TNT discount): $90
Nike Employee store gear binge (with 50% discount): $200
Shamrock run entry fees and charges: $36
Dr. Howell visits (6 visits to date, with TNT discount): $225
Foam roller: $20
2nd pair of running shoes (with 10% TNT discount): $90
Body glide: $8
Electrolyte replacement gels, bars, powders, tablets, drinks, etc.: $50ish so far
KT tape ($12/roll): $24
Compression sleeves for my leg (with 15% Chinook Book coupon): $34
New ice packs: $21

This doesn't include bus fare, since I can't walk to work anymore (Dr's orders) and the ice that I use to torture myself with after runs. I'm sure I'm forgetting something else too, but this comes to $808. All since mid-January. And I thought running would be cheaper than maintaining a gym membership each month. That only cost me $35. Geez.

I won't lie to you - I hate running right now. I can't wait to be done with it. I've been injured for about a month now and I hurt every time I take a step. I got new shoes and compression sleeves to help my posterior tibialis strain and now I'm getting horrible muscle cramps in my anterior tibialis. So bad that I can't flex my foot to take my next stride, resulting in my dragging my toe on the ground or having to stop and walk or stretch.

I'm sick of trying to fit in my mid-week runs before or after work, sick of having chafing on my neck and arms and legs, sick of having to sit out on track practices because I can't be up on my toes, sick of eating oatmeal for breakfast, sick of having to get up at 6:30 a.m. on Saturday mornings so I can eat and digest my oatmeal before heading out for our long runs, sick of the incessant rain, sick of not having a life outside running, sick of being slow. I really can't wait to be done with it all. I said that already.

I'm trying to let go of my 4 hour goal. It's a hard thing to give up. Our coaches always say that our first goal should be just to finish. That alone is an accomplishment. But I have to say - it won't feel like much, I don't think. I've hiked that many miles in a day with a 60 pound pack on my back, so just finishing, just moving my body 26 miles in one stretch, isn't too impressive to me. The second goal should be a realistic one. Finishing the marathon in 4h 30m. The third should be best-case-scenario, if all the stars align and you're just on, you might be able to accomplish this. 4h.

I will be hugely disappointed in myself if I don't finish in under 4 hours. No matter who tells me what, I know the standards I have for myself and however unrealistic it might be given all the set-backs I've dealt with in the last month, I won't be happy if I come in over 4.

It seemed important that I update this blog today, seeing as my marathon is May 1st, but this is quite the Debbie Downer post! So some cool things, and I'll call it quits:

This is my doctor, John Howell. He just came in third place at the Shamrock Run 5K. His best marathon time is 2h 22m. He's incredible.


This is what my day looked like today:






Finally, a little reprieve from the rain, and even, for a couple hours, clear skies.

The sky is a little foreboding now and I'm sure tomorrow morning's run will be soggy, but oh well. We take what we can get, right?



So I'll leave you with this - watch it until you see the dancing grandma (yes, there really is a dancing grandma!) - it's made more than one of my days in the last week. It'll make yours too, promise!

Vienna Waits for Me

I've suffered a string of training disappointments in recent weeks. I feel like it's been a long while since I've had a solid training run. Four weeks ago it was Klickitat and missing the mile 7 aid station that did me in, three weeks ago it was letting my pace get out of control for 4 miles then crashing on the last 3, two weeks ago it was the shin splint from hell after running on an icy surface for the first 2 miles, last week it was running without my teammates against that horrible head wind.

Today it was injury. And I guess endurance athletes (it's weird to call myself that, or even to think it in my head) deal with this all the time, and they have to mentally push through it OR (and importantly) know when it's time to take a rest, seek out some help.

At Tuesday night's track practice I noticed a strange twinge on the inside of my left lower leg. Between my shin bone and my calf muscle about three inches above my ankle bone. It's not a muscle cramp. It's not a shin splint. And Tuesday it wasn't particularly painful, I just noticed it. Today it reared it's ugly head on what was supposed to be a brutal but beautiful 14 miler around Lake Oswego. I managed the first 7 miles but with increasing discomfort. I fell behind my team after 2.5 miles but at that point was still determined to power through it. At 4.5 miles my mentor Tyler fell back to run with me but on the last hill before the 7 mile aid station I had to stop and walk. My right quad, hamstring and knee were so sore from overcompensation I felt like my muscles were going to rip through my skin. And the pain in my left lower leg was intensifying. "I'll just walk this one hill and stretch at the aid station, then take it slow the rest of the way," I thought to myself. I told Tyler to go on without me.

When I got to Foot Traffic, the running store where our day had started and would end, I sat down with a roller and tried to knead out the knot on the inside of my leg. It was so painful I teared up. When I stood up a few minutes later it hurt just to walk on it. Coach Mike came into the store. "I'm going to tell you something you're not going to want to hear." I glared at him. "You need to stop for the day. And you need to see a doctor."

I guess this area of the leg is where the ligaments attaching to the shin bone and achilles are located. And is a common area for runners to develop fractures. "What if I finished the last 8 miles on a flatter surface?"

"A. It's not going to be helpful and B. it could be harmful. Take a couple days off and call Dr. Howe. Make an appointment."

Apparently Dr. Howe is a miracle worker. And an incredible athlete. He finished his first marathon in under 3 and I believe has even won a couple events. And probably never gets injured. And is available on Monday at 10 a.m. to work his miracles on my legs. So I gave in, I quit a team run for the first time since training started in December. I drove home and took a 15 minute ice bath and crawled in bed with the second season of True Blood.


Tyler invited me over tonight and I listened to her and another teammate talk about how brutal McVey Blvd was - the part that came right after I dropped out. They had that "I hurt, but I feel accomplished" look to them. I was jealous.

For some reason Billy Joel's Vienna popped into my head on my way home from Tyler's a couple hours ago. This song has supplied sage advice to me for years, but when I listened to it tonight, like 80 times on repeat, it was more comforting than it has ever been in the past. I'm taking Coach Mike's advice, another ice bath tomorrow, some ibuprofin . . . and on Tuesday I'm making a mad comeback.

Slow down you crazy child, take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while
It's alright, you can afford to lose a day or two...
When will you realize Vienna waits for you?

I've met my fundraising goal, but would still love your support for this incredible cause. Eugene is less than two months away. Wish me well.

http://pages.teamintraining.org/oswim/eugene11/koldani

P.S. Don't feel too sorry for me having to take ice baths. I get to crawl in bed with this when it's all over.

Almost March = Almost Spring

I suffer annually from February blahs. Blah health, blah weather, blah motivation, blah runs. The good news: March arrives in two day's time.

My Saturday morning run was canceled this week because temps were "low" (still an Illinoisan at heart, 20 degrees does not a low temperature make) so I succumbed to a lazy day of sipping chai, playing cards, eating macaroni and cheese and then lying in bed wide awake until 1:30 a.m. while the caffeine from the chai I drank at 11 a.m. continued to course through my veins.

When my alarm clock went off at 6:15 this morning I found myself ill prepared for the 14 mile run I resigned myself to the evening before. And this week's run was to be just 12, but I missed a training run on Thursday when I finally took a long overdue sick day to try to kick a stubborn head cold I've had for a couple weeks. Incrementally this week, I want to make up the 9-10 miles I missed that day. So I made up two today. But it involved me running up and down the Springwater Corridor Trail two times. Turns out covering the same ground four times in one run is a little boring, even when on the otherwise beautiful stretch of the Willamette.

And I realized this afternoon, while I lazed in bed finishing Terry Tempest Williams' Refuge, I've lost some focus recently. My internal dialogue while training has really turned into "How fast am I or am I not running," and "How realistic is finishing in under four hours," and "I'm moving TOO SLOW! Move faster, Kristina! Why am I so fucking slow?" Running against the wind this morning, miles 7-10, I felt particularly discouraged. The wind was fierce, so I tried to not be too irritated by my 10 minute pace. Until I got lapped by a pair of runners who were both older and fatter than me. And my first thought was, "I will never finish in under four unless I can move like that against a headwind."

When did this turn into a personal quest for physical achievement and glory? Not that there is fault in wanting a good time, but I don't remember thinking about TNT's mission or my own family's recent experience with blood cancer a single time on my run this morning. That's why I am running this marathon on May 1st. Not because I have something to prove to anyone, or even to myself, but because I believe that there is the capacity for a cure in the minds and laboratories of this world, and funding for research is the key to unlocking that cure.

I determined this afternoon to refocus my attentions. When I find myself dwelling on feeling slow I can divert my attention to being thankful for my health. Regardless of how long it takes me, I am capable of running 26.2 miles.

What I've learned about running from an athletic standpoint recently is this: some people are slowed down by injury, some by boredom, some by physical limitations. I am a person slowed down by my mind. Maybe some truth exists in the myriad times I've been told I think too much. I get stuck in my own head and I begin to feel like I'm running through ankle-deep mud. The way I feel in dreams when trying to escape disaster. In my dreams I have developed the ability to rationalize with myself. "There is no mud, you're just letting your head get the better of you. Pick up your feet. Move faster. You'll be safe." I hope that skill is transferable to my waking life.

I also find myself incredulous that slowing down my pace on a long run to 10+ minutes will translate to 8:47 miles in a marathon. So then I add incredulity to the feelings of inadequacy and finish a 14 miler in almost 3 hours. Ouch.

But March is a new month. And the Shamrock happens on the 13th. And spring arrives on the 21st. And the daffodils are already blooming. And the temperatures will eventually rise and the wind will eventually die down. I'll refocus.

I find it interesting that I picked up Refuge when I did. My first introduction to Terry Tempest Williams was through Ken Burn's National Parks series. She is one of the interviewees throughout that documentary series and I found myself drawn to her. So I googled her. She's an author. A nature writer. I missed my calling in life, clearly. On break from jury duty a few weeks back I picked up Refuge at Powells. Nothing recommended that book to me more than any other by her, it just had the lowest price tag, so I snagged it. It chronicles the rise of Great Salt Lake between 1985 and 1989 and the ensuing devastation to critical wetland and marsh habitat for millions of migratory birds alongside her mother's fight with cancer and subsequent death. The parallels drawn between her devastation at witnessing the ravaged habitat for some of her favorite birds and that of watching her mother die a horrible and painful death left me crying and hugging an annoyed Sunny for comfort.

Snowy Egrets - lake level 4204.05'

"Cancer. The word has infinite power. It kills us with its name first, because we have allowed it to become synonymous with death.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines cancer as 'anything that frets, corrodes, corrupts or consumes slowly and secretly.'

A person who is told she has cancer faces a hideous recognition that something monstrous is happening within her own body.

Cancer becomes a disease of shame, one that encourages secrets and lies, to protect as well as to conceal.

And then suddenly, within the rooms of secrecy, patient, doctor and family find themselves engaged in war. Once again, medical language is loaded, this time with military metaphors: the fight, the battle, enemy infiltration and defense strategies. I wonder if this kind of aggression waged against our own bodies is counterproductive to healing? Can we be at war with ourselves and still find peace?

How can we rethink cancer?

It begins slowly and is largely hidden. One cell divides into two; two cells divide into four; four cells divide into sixteen . . . normal cells are consumed by abnormal ones. Over time they congeal, consolidate, make themselves known. Call it a mass, call it a tumor. It surfaces and demands our attention. We can surgically remove it. We can shrink it with radiation. We can poison it with drugs. Whatever we choose though, we view the tumor as foreign, something outside ourselves. It is however, our own creation. The creation we fear.

The cancer process is not unlike the creative process. Ideas emerge slowly, quietly, invisibly at first. They are most often abnormal thoughts, thoughts that disrupt the quotidian, the accustomed. They divide and multiply, become invasive. With time, they congeal, consolidate and make themselves conscious. An idea surfaces and demands total attention. I take it from my body and give it away."

She records all this while visiting the refuge and is so excited by the metaphor that she rushes home to share it with her mother, certain the symbolic relevance will be enough to guide her to curing herself. She feels betrayed when it fails to work.

I wish Uncle Jeff could've reached inside himself and grabbed hold of his cancer like a bad idea, tossing it aside. I'm glad I didn't think of this - it sounds like something I would've pinned a lot of hope on. I just have to remind myself that he had so many years added onto his life because of how far cancer research did come during his lifetime. Twenty years! Really, that is a success story. Not that I expect my aunt and cousins to look at it as such, but I know they too are grateful he lived as long as he did.

Two short months from now, I will be running the Eugene Marathon in his honor. Yikes.

Peril on the SWCT

I have neglected this blog for too long! Funny how once the fundraising part was accomplished I no longer felt the need to document my progress . . . But, YAY FOR ME! To date I have raised $1,695, or 116% of my established fundraising goal! (Ahem, not to say I would turn away any above and beyond donations.)

Team in Training has truly been everything I hoped it would be and more. I increasingly feel like part of a community, running with my teammates on Tuesdays and Saturdays since mid-December in all kinds of inclement weather. I am definitely the weakest link in my advanced group, but I actually prefer it that way. There's nobody to slow me down, only people to push me harder. Perfect. I continue to gain speed and strength and up my miles. A couple weeks ago I set a new personal record - the first time I kept a sub 8:40 mile for more than three miles. And I maintained it for 10. HUGE accomplishment for me. My goal of finishing in under 4 hours (yeah, I said it) seems more attainable each week.

A big, huge, hearty thanks to all who have donated to this amazing cause. I think about Uncle Jeff every time I run. Increasingly these are happy thoughts. My uncle wasn't a runner, but he was a very active guy and I think he would be pleased that I chose this way to honor him. I know he can't appreciate the gesture and I'm realizing increasingly that this whole process has been for me, to help me find closure and some sense of peace in the face of loss, but I also hope that my Aunt Linda and cousins Aleksandr and Anika sense how much I love them and wish to honor them and support them through their grief in this way.

I feel a few shout outs are in order. Some folks have really gone above and beyond to help me through this process.

1. My mom, Willis (Okay, that's not her real name, but go with it. I've called her that for years.) She is my cheerleader. My life coach, if you will. She listens to my effusions about running bliss patiently and even chimes in enthusiastically from time to time. She worries and praises in perfect proportions. This is a gift that only mothers possess.

2. My sister Bekah. She is the wall against which I bounce all my boring stats. She gets a full report on every mile I run and where, my splits, my aches and pains, my milestones. She also keeps me honest on my cross-training days and regularly fills me up with desserts and other indulgences when I trek down to Sellwood to do a run or watch a game or laugh through a workout video in her basement.

3. Eric, my good friend and Nike employee who shared with me a companion pass and drove me out to the Nike campus on a weekend to stock up on all kinds of fancy schwag for the road. I came away with probably $500 worth of gear for less than half the cost and am now running much more comfortably and stylishly. Nike drifit = amazing.

I look something like this in my new 'fits:

Okay, okay. I exaggerate. But suffice it to say, I am now dressed for success on the road.

4. Coach Mike. He is a loud mouth and a little crazy but an awesome source of support in this process. When I sheepishly shared my goal of finishing Eugene in under four at the third Saturday team run he didn't laugh. He looked me straight in the face and said, "You can do it. And now that I know you want it, I'm going to push you a LOT harder." He's kept up his end of the bargain and since this process started, with his help, I have shaved almost 2 minutes off my mile.

Moving on. Because there is a title to this post that I haven't even addressed yet. One thing I love about running is how relatively simple it is. You can run practically any where, at anytime, in any conditions. Right? So thought I when I started. I tended to push my weekday runs off into the evenings which is kind of a pain in the ass but not quite the pain of waking up at the crack of Christ and subjecting oneself to the cold, wet, harsh realities of Portland in the winter. My go to place has become the Springwater Corridor Trail that runs along the east bank of the river from about the Hawthorne Bridge down into Sellwood and all the way to the SE burbs and beyond. In all I think this trail goes for over 40 continuous miles. Paved the whole way. And while it doesn't pose the challenge that the Mt Tabor run does, or really any other non-river run in Portland would, it involves a lot less waiting around at lights (none, in fact) and virtually no paranoia as to the state of the running surface (sidewalks in my otherwise very nice neighborhood are totally treacherous!). But the paranoia has seeped into other aspects, thanks to my two day stint on a criminal jury last week. (Cue horror movie music)



In a nutshell, shit went down like so [with fun little embellishments in brackets]:

[Almost 40 year old, shaved head and goatee sporting, denim shirt tucked into blue jeans at his trial wearing] Guy gets in a fight with his mom [With whom he lives. At almost 40]. He leaves her house somewhere between the hours of 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. [Really, PPD? You can't narrow this down for us any more?], heading down the Springwater Corridor trail to a [former convicted felon for armed robbery] buddy's place. Seeing as he and this buddy are planning a hunting trip in the morning, he carries with him a rifle case filled with: a rifle, rifle shells, a 9mm pistol, full clip, extra ammo and a large knife.

Just shy of the intersection at 122nd he sits down [in the pitch black] on the side of the trail and begins texting with his mother. Down this same section of trail comes two [homeless, methamphetamine addicted] men on bikes [without lights]. They live in a camp on the side of the trail about a mile or two away and are on their way "home" [after a night of debauchery and video poker but no drugs, allegedly]. They nearly hit guy #1 who is sitting on the edge of the trail. They are "concerned for his safety" [and/or pissed off and shit faced, looking for trouble] and so circle back to "check" on him. He wants to be left alone and so asks them politely to leave him [the fuck] alone. Guy #3 takes off at his friend's urging. Friend/guy #2 [Convicted felon: possession of drugs, lying to police, warrant evasion, etc. And addicted to drugs] does not leave. He thinks guy #1 may hurt himself or at the very least cause an accident on the side of the trail. Guy #1, "Leave, leave, leave." Guy #2, "No, no, no."

And this is where it gets weird. Because guy #2 ends up calling 9-1-1 reporting that he's had a gun pulled on him on the Springwater Corridor Trail between Foster and 122nd. He reports [in three separate phone calls, because his phone battery keeps dying but he happens to have extras in his pocket] that the suspect is white [true], wearing dark clothing [true], about 5'6" [not even close, the guy is over 6' tall, but may have been seated the entire time] and on a mountain bike [just plain false]. The police show up and arrest guy #1. They find the pistol along with the rifle and all the ammo locked in the gun case [but who knows how long it's been since the call was made, or how long after the incident the call was made to begin with].

Guilty or not? The charge was "intentionally attempting to use a deadly weapon (a firearm) against the victim or intending to use said deadly weapon (a firearm) against the victim." I found the distinction a little ridiculous, but the charge was perplexing.

Much to our collective chagrin, we had to find this guy not guilty. The only evidence was the testimony of a cracked out homeless man and some other circumstantial things, like the fact that there actually was a guy on the trail with a gun. Needless to say, despite our verdict it shattered any illusions I had about the safety of running on this trail in the evening. It's not as if I run all the way out at 122nd between the hours of 10 p.m. and 2 a.m., but in theory I'd like to be able to do so and not worry that I'm going to come across some neo-Nazi looking creeper sitting on the side of the trail brandishing a pistol.

I was kind of hoping for an opportunity to soap box and give a personal witness as to the loss of innocence thanks to this whole scenario. Really? I mean, who am I to tell you not to go hunting, or not to use the SWCT as a way of getting from here to there, or even not to sit on the side of the trail, cloaked in complete darkness, or not to shave your head but leave your facial hair. But the combination of these elements is a recipe for nightmares.

The silver lining is this: I sucked it up and set my alarm clock for 6 a.m. for my run on Tuesday morning. I walked out my front door, immediately looked up and saw a shooting star. First thing. I made my way to the [arguably safer part of the] SWCT and headed off down the trail. Three and a half miles I ran in darkness with the sound of gently lapping water and bullfrogs and the vague silhouettes of barges on the river. At my turnaround point the sun peaked over the eastern ridge and turned the entire western sky a beautiful pinkish hue. The rest of my run was spent admiring sunshine gleaming off the river on my left and the wildlife sanctuary ponds on my right. Once joined by a few early morning bike commuters and the dedicated few in running tights, I didn't give much thought to guys #1-3.

If there had been a soundtrack to my Tuesday morning run it would've sounded something like this:



Also, high on my wishlist, if anyone is looking to make a meaningful donation to this cause that will ultimately benefit me and not really do much for cancer patients anywhere - the Garmin Forerunner 110. $199.99. But really priceless when you think about all the good it will do to have a way to track my splits.













But if you want to donate to the actual cause, you can do so here:
http://pages.teamintraining.org/oswim/eugene11/koldani

I am Icarus. And the sun just melted the glue that was holding my shit together.

I've kind of had a day. The kind for which there is no remedy other than just going to bed early and hoping I wake up happier tomorrow. These days used to really freak me out, now I just take them in stride, because life is full of small disappointments and unreasonable off-days. They are few and far between and nothing to get super depressed over.

Today was not a running day. Those days are always euphoric for me. Completing a run is the best drug ever - your body pulses with endorphins and that happy, achey achievement feeling. Yesterday I ran 11 miles with Bekah, so today I'm not running.

Today has been a reflective day. I've been thinking about all the ways I've disappointed myself in the last chunk of my life.

Most recently I am feeling a little inadequate at work. I wanted this job and now that I have it I just feel like I have little direction and little natural inclination toward it. Like maybe I'm a better editor than I am a writer.

And then I reach farther back and think about this time last year, when I talked with Tante Linda on the phone and she got online and looked for plane tickets for me and begged me to come visit. And I had taken that worthless holiday sales position with Williams Sonoma, the one that ate up my weekends and prevented me from traveling home, but netted me only $200 in the end. And I think she was crying on the phone, because Uncle Jeff was sick and I moved here and the family was far flung. And it's always bothered me that people don't visit their friends and family when they're sick. They wait until the person is dead and then attend their funeral. When it makes absolutely no difference to anyone except the ones left behind. But I did that. All my high and holy opinions, all my good intentions, like when I thought I'd fly home for Anika's graduation, which I also didn't do. Uncle Jeff died a few short weeks after that, and I could've gone.

And if I go back a little farther, to the last death that rocked my world, I think about all the things I said to Opa in the hospital the day he died. All the things I promised him I'd do. But it wasn't a conversation, it was a soliloquy, because he was in a coma and didn't hear a word I said. Why didn't I say those things to him five days earlier, when we sat on the couch together and he was well and wanting to talk and pour out the last of his grandfatherly wisdom?

I'm not feeling sorry for myself and I'm not on a compliments fishing expedition. I fully intend on going to bed in a little bit and just starting over tomorrow. I just am recording this to remind myself of what regret can feel like in retrospect, to hopefully prevent myself from feeling like this again in the future.

Also bumming me out right now:

1. my land lady might be selling the house that I live in and love, meaning that any way you look at it I'll have to move, again, and I may, in the meantime, have to deal with all that goes along with having a house on the market. Again.

2. the family that my friends and I are "hosting" Christmas for needs $32K for a kidney transplant that they probably won't be able to get. And they have infant triplets. And three other kids.

3. the Trailblazers suck this year.

4. the song The Sickness Unto Death by Typhoon

5. no matter how much I vacuum, there is still dog hair tumbleweeds rolling around my bedroom floor.

I wrote this after my uncle died. I have to edit this one a bit because I say things that are potentially very hurtful to people that I love, just not as much as I loved my uncle. And also because some parts are very gross. And also because it's pages long and I don't want to type it all out. And also because some grief ought to be kept to ones self. I won't edit out the expletives though, so pardon them.

Thursday, July 22nd, 2010

I haven't written. I don't really know what to say. I'm so . . . forlorn? I'm heartbroken, for sure, but in a new way that makes me feel so old. It's hard to explain. Mom and I walked down to the Loyola campus one evening when we were in Roger's Park, we tried to talk about it. I feel like there is a unique sadness people experience when someone they love dies. They feel pain in a way no one else does. Because we all experience the people we love differently. I love Daddy in a totally different way than Victoria does, for instance. I don't love him more or less, but differently, so if he were to die we'd experience it in completely different ways. I was trying to express this to mom and at the same time figure out what my sadness was. And I thought about when Opa died and how angry I became when some priest came in and tried to pray over his dead body. God, I was livid! And heart broken. And Uncle Jeff led me out to the hallway and just held me while I sobbed and slobbered all over his shirt. Ad it was a simple act of solidarity and human compassion and the recognition that people need to be touched when their hearts are falling apart inside them. He didn't ask any questions when I needed him to pull over to let me puke on the side of the road on the way to the hospital that day. He didn't try to force food down my throat in the coming weeks when I lost my appetite. And now . . .

I learned so much about Uncle Jeff while I was at home. I'd had no idea he was so well respected within his profession in Chicago. I only knew him to a very limited extent, apparently. I regret now turning down a ticket to go with him to a Decemberists show. I regret not ever taking him up on his offer to play racquetball with me. I regret not asking him more about his faith and life story and family story.

And now anything I learn about him will have to come from someone else. And I'll never again have the opportunity to go to a Decemberists show with him. But I'm thankful for the times I did say 'yes' to their invitations. All the times we went to Michigan together, all the ballets and symphonies, etc. And I miss him more now than I loved him while he was alive, which should tell me something about regret.

All that said, I think what really, really gets me is what T. Linda is going through. I keep remembering this conversation I had with her and Uncle Jeff when we were on our way somewhere together. Some ladies she works with wanted to get together once a month for various cultural events. Se said she went once and wanted so many times to turn to Jeff and comment on somthing and he wasn't there. She never went out with that group again. She said she would just rather spend her time with Jeff. And he chimed in and said, 'I feel the same way. She's my best friend. Why would I want to spend time with someone else doing the things she and I love?'

Because Alek and Anika will recover. Alek is in (by all accounts) a really happy, healthy relationship and he has Princeton in the fall. Ani has that amazing group of friends. And she's young and she'll be scarred for a while, but she'll fall in love and get distracted with figuring out what she wants in life and I just imagine that when all that happens, when Alek becomes the immense success he's destined to become and Ani grasps what makes her tick and runs with it . . . when that happens I imagine Linda wanting to crawl into bed and never get out again.

We shoveled dirt onto his coffin. Rabbi Bruce said at the grave site, 'This is a mitzvah, probably the hardest mitzvah we're called to do.' And in turns we shoveled dirt onto his coffin after they lowered it into the ground. And then everyone left and we stayed and watched as a dump truck full of dirt backed up to the grave and filled the hole the rest of the way. Then the gravediggers came with these jackhammer looking things that pounded the earth down.

Death is so disgusting. It terrifies me. What the fuck happens to us when we die? Our spirits vanish. I don't believe in an afterlife, but I do believe that our essences leave our bodies when we exhale for the last time. Where do they go? In my mind's drama I make it to Chicago to say goodbye to Uncle Jeff before he dies. I sit next to his hospital bed and whisper in his ear, 'If you go anywhere after this, can you find a way to let me know?' And he nods. I tell him I love him and say good bye.

And coming home from Chicago and the 4th of July weekend, a holiday I often spent with Linda and Jeff when I was a kid, I just feel guilty for every smile and laugh. I feel a strange obligation to be sad forever. And everything I say to T. Linda sounds so stupid! There really are no original words to use. And I'm trying to decide how to refer to it. Did he die? Did he pass? I hate when people refer to other people as 'passing' or having 'passed.' It's a euphemism really. Because they didn't go anywhere. It's not like they're on to the next thing. Call a fucking spade a spade. He's dead. He died.

I have this weird tug of war going on inside me. On the one hand I feel this renewed dedication to carpe-ing my diems, and really just going gang-busters. Living loud. Doing things. Pursuing my various and sundry interests and dedicating my life's efforts to someone who lived an exemplary, albeit abbreviated life. But on the other hand I want to crawl in bed and just sleep. For a very, very long time. Sleep and think this thing into oblivion. Or maybe just ignore it entirely. Erase it. Smoke a lot of pot.

Because god, this was shaping up to be a really great year. Work is good, friendships are solid, I feel on top of my game. Thriving in my youth. I am Icarus and the fucking sun just melted the glue that was holding my shit together.

It's a completely fucked up and horrible thing to say, but why couldn't that have been -? Or -? Fuck - I would trade -, -, -, -, all of them. To one tragic car accident. If I could just have Uncle Jeff back. I imagine lives to be like baseball cards. Some are just worth more than others. And what you want to keep in your collection are the valuable ones. I feel like a really valuable baseball card was just yanked from my collection."

I am putting an end to this depressive rant. I have said my piece. Or is it "said my peace?" Or is it an expression that is meant to have a double meaning? But never written? I don't know. I don't care all that much either.

Things that will improve my life this week:

1. the Blazer's game I'm going to tomorrow night. They're playing the Suns, who are my third favorite team in the NBA, so the outcome will be pleasing any way it happens.

2. everything I'm going to accomplish at work tomorrow. Namely, putting the finishing touches on the three grant drafts I am currently working on.

3. my next run. And the team trainings that start on Saturday morning.

Other random potentials that could improve my week:

1. seeing a really large man with lots of tattoos walking an absurdly small dog. This always makes me smile. If not laugh out loud.



2. scoring tickets to the Portland Cello Project collaboration show happening next weekend. (With Typhoon as guests!)

3. that Salomon cold weather running hoodie going on special at REI.

4. oh, and you donating to my cause. Go here. http://pages.teamintraining.org/oswim/eugene11/koldani