8 Miles of Zen

There is nothing super special about March 19, 2011, except that it is my boss' birthday (and she is quite special ~wink, wink~) and that it's a Saturday. The temperature is about 34 degree outside. It's a typical cold spring morning with the promise of drizzling rain. I put on my running outfit with a bit of apprehension - I am supposed to run 8 miles today if I want to stay on my training schedule. The most I've run was 6 miles for a couple of times and I wouldn't say it was without effort. Plus we are leaving for San Francisco for Spring break, I still have quite a bit of packing to do. I walk to the new high school thinking how I can talk myself out of running 8 miles. By the time I come to the sidewalk outside of the school ground, the conclusion of my internal conversation is "just do it" and "let's see how it goes."
So I take off running. As usual the first mile is bit tough - although I've warmed up by walking here - my body is still adjusting to the pounding impact of running. With Foo Fighter's "Learn to Fly" playing in my ears, I decided that I'll learn to be patient and the flying can wait. With the mantra of "slow and steady win the race", I am amazed how quickly I've done one mile, two miles, and then three miles.


At the starting point of the 4th mile, my body speaks to me: "Take your jacket off."
Me: "Um, it’s 37 degree out here. We’ll be freezing to death."
Body: "Trust me, I will keep us warm."
Me: "All right."
I manage to take my jacket off and fasten my iPod around my arm. Tossing my bright red jacket on the yellow fire hydrant, I resume my running on the sidewalk. The feeling of lightness is so refreshing-just like the crisp, cold air. My legs seem to be lighter and my steps bouncier.
Me: “Hey, this is great!”
Body:”See, I told ya. I know we can do it.”
And the conversation continues...
Me: “Have you ever thought that Led Zeppelin’s songs can be good running songs?”
Body: “No, but I sure love this “Good Times, Bad Times.”
Me: “Do you think it’s sacrilegious to say that the Zeppelin is basically a blues band playing with electric guitar?”
Body: “Probably so to some; but I think you’re absolutely right.”
Me: “You know, I think I can  do 8 miles today.”
Body: “Yes, yes, we can and we will.”


At that instant, I realized something that I’ve never thought that it could be true, but here it is: I am enjoying running. It’s an eureka and a zen moment – I am all right with the pavement that I step on; I am in sync with the wind breezing past me; my heart is beating contentedly and steadily; my breathing is smooth and comfortable and the best of all, I am grinning. I look down and there it is-my shadow–the image of the body which has more wisdom than I. Except for the two pigtails swinging, my shadow is someone ageless; someone without past, no worries or any care in the world. My shadow is free of desires, longings and guilt – all it wants is to run, even if just running in circles.


This is the moment I understand perfectly what Paulo Coelho meant in his book “The Alchemist”: the soul of the world; the language of the world. And I finally realize what my personal legend is: To put myself out by trying things that are scary and intimidating even if the chance of failing is great, even if I shall be denied or rejected once or twice.  To be courageous and venturing out of my comfort zone even though I feel so inadequate; to be intelligent enough to know that sometimes I'll win some or learn some; to accept the past as it is without regrets and blames – and most of all, to be honest with myself.  What is a life that is worth living if I don’t ever try to know myself better? This is what I meant by being honest.

At one point during the run, I feel so close to the boy Santiago.  When he was sitting alone, conversing with the wind and the sun; letting go of his fear and listening to his heart and most of all, he stands behind his strong conviction about love.  He is able to save himself and, in essence, to be part of the nature.  Coelho’s fable is fascinating for, not only did I sense the religious understanding, there are also thoughts from ancient cultures of Arab and oddly enough, of Chinese.  The belief that man and nature can merge as one; the principles of the Alchemy "...everyone will search for his treasure, find it, and then want to be better than he was in his former life.  Lead will play its role until the world has no further need for lead; and then lead will have to turn itself into gold." and "That's what alchemists do,  they show that, when we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better, too."  And do not skip the last part, the bonus, the interview of Coelho at the end of the book!

It is in this state of mind, I ran 8 miles.

A Letter to Jill

Dear Jill:

Thank you so much for your encouraging and kind words. It’s always such a delight to hear from you. You are truly a beautiful person inside and out.
Forgive me for not being modest, but I do agree with you that I am “gifted” (not necessarily “wonderfully” as you so kindly put.) It is true that I do not have any talent: My singing has driven Mr. D to text “Help me! She is singing!” to his oldest child. I can barely play piano. Many a craft projects have been botched due to my inability to follow instructions. The last time I picked up a paint brush, my high school art teacher cautioned me that there is no laundry service on site. I do not possess any talent which would create or manifest through any kind of art form. I accept this destiny without any regrets or complaints because I do know that I have been given a gift.
This gift is quite simple and precious – I am able to truly enjoy and appreciate others’ creativity and talents. In the movie, Almost Famous, this girl said to the rock star something like this “A true fan is someone who loves the band and their music - so much that it hurts!” And it is the same way with me – I love written words (East of Eden or the Dream of Red Chamber, music (Mozart or Green Day, Beethoven or Led Zeppelin), paintings (van Gough or Horst Wolf (he is a local artist in Brookings.) Listening to Yo-Yo Ma play Rachmaninov’s Vocalise could tear me up; reading Leonard Cohen’s “Book of Longings” makes me smile a knowing smile; watching the actors on stage of “To Kill a Mocking Bird” gives me hope that, perhaps, the innocence lost is for the coming of positive changes. I marvel at the beauty and splendor the nature displays – everywhere, anytime. When I gaze upon the face of a two-year-old, I see how life continues in hope and fear, joy and sorrow. This is the gift that I’ve been given – to be humbled in front of others’ God given talents; to be amazed at the results of others bearing their souls; to be touched by one sentence, one note or one stroke of color.
I dearly love what Paulo Coelho said in an interview. He was asked what he wants to be his epitaph (on his tombstone) and he said “Paulo Coelho died while he was alive.”
"Why this epitaph? Everybody dies when he or she is alive." 
Paulo said, "No, this is not true. The same pattern repeating and over again, you are not alive anymore.  To die alive is to take risks.  To pay your price.  To do something that sometimes scares you but you should do because you may like or you may not like."
I so get it at what he is saying: to keep your passion about life is to live it – start running even if you haven’t run since 4^th grade; start writing even though you are not writing in your native tongue; sharing what you learned from great artists with your friends; admitting that your heart is bigger than you know; to love without reservations; to dance when the music is lovely and to cry without being embarrassed… This is what I’ve learned since turning 40 - to live is to be myself, genuinely and bravely – and I am still so new at this.
Before I close this letter, may I share with you the words of yet another brilliant mind?
“…When you part from your friend, you grieve not;
For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain…” Kahlil Gibran's Prophet on Friendship
And this shall be my thanks to you, sweet Jill. Happy reading.

With love, MLH aka Deb

The four-letter word

Yes, the four-letter word that, if you speak it, your mother will make you wash your mouth with soap.  The word that entices negative responses, excites disorderly conduct, induces physical and verbal altercations, and most of all, offends majority of Americans in conversations and gestures.  The four-letter word, if used in a song, you will see “explicit” with a red rectangle or a label which says “parental advisory explicit content.”  The four-letter word, if used in a book, many will condemn it as being filthy; if used in a movie, it will be rated “R” for restricted.  Teenagers use it as way of conveying their independence and maturity, oh and to shock parents into utter silence.  Most adults that I know use it simply because they slip or that there is no other word could express their frustration better. 

The four-letter word that many want to use it, love to use it; but will substitute it with the less offensive, milder versions: eff, frigging, freaking, fudge (my favorite), flipping, F-ing.  Or call it a “F-bomb”, “F-word"…etc.   As if the substitution makes their statements stronger still, just without the spice – kind of like decaffeinate coffee – you get the taste but no caffeine which to some is a total waste.  Most people will nod their heads and agree that this word is vulgar, crude and downright repulsive.  And I am not here to disagree; though, it certainly won’t be the reason that keeps me from seeing the movie “The King’s Speech.”

Not seeing “The King’s Speech” because there are a couple of scenes filled with this four-letter word is similar to someone refuses to eat an organic apple because there is a worm in it.  The apple is perfectly ripen yet crunch still; its shiny color of red with a tangy of green is as appealing as the fruit that Eve handed to Adam; the smell of it will remind you of the beautiful autumn days when you walk around the apple orchard.  Once you take a bite, and let the sweet juice swirling in your mouth, your teeth and tongue work together so harmoniously to bring you the sensation of taste, smell and texture of one delicious apple, you laugh and say “YUM!”  Later, you will keep looking for an apple just like this one - with or without the worm.  So yeah, the movie is as good as an apple and you gotta see it!

I did a bit of research to learn more about this horrid expression (hey, I take this four-letter word seriously!), and everyone knows that Wikipedia is the most reliable and accurate source on the web. Mr. D is rolling his eyes right now and says to me “I am so glad you put your research skill to a very important topic.”  His mood has soured after I told him that his theory of the origin of the word is purely urban legend, again, according to the Internet.  He insists that the word was originated in 1700s to cite prostitutes “For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge” in England; and that Van Halen borrowed it as a title for one of their albums. After I rattle out what I’ve learned from Wikipedia (and thank Heavens, he didn’t yell out “Objection!”), his comment was “I want to see some solid citations.”  My retort was “Oh, really? Where would you research a word like f-u-c-k?”

“Well, the Oxford English Dictionary.” he replied.

“Yeah?  I would’ve except your prudent ancestors did not put this word in a dictionary until 1972!”  He murmured something sounded very much like “f--k!”  If you wish to know what I've learned, here are some links:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuck

http://www.snopes.com/language/acronyms/fuck.asp

http://oxforddictionaries.com/view/entry/m_en_us1249371#m_en_us1249371

Ok, it’s time for confession:  this four-letter word has never quite bothered me.  It doesn’t sound much different than duck, buck, luck, muck; in other words, it does not have the same intensity a natural English speaker perceives. The word does not have the same nastiness to me – not as “f--k” in Chinese, anyway.  (Don’t ask me how to say it in Chinese; I am not one to use such profanity.)  The best example is the word “bloody”.  According to Mr. D, who is not a reliable source for information as I’ve established earlier, “bloody” is the equivalent of “f--king” for British people. Using “bloody” in a sentence, it is hardly offensive to anyone (unless you are a Brit.) Now that you know, if I happen to drop a bloody F-bomb in front of you, would you pardon me?

Easter 1916 by W B Yeats

I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Mr. Yeats, please forgive me.

Dear Mr. Yeats:
This letter is to ask for your forgiveness on how I have botched your beautiful poem "Easter 1916" and used only an excerpt of it for the title of this blog.  Please, before you roll in your grave, understand that I have fallen in love head over heels with you and with Mr. Emerson (for now anyway.)  I did steal a glance at Mr. Eliot (and some others) for he is as brilliant as you are.  As you no doubt are aware: People who are in love do crazy, out of characteristic things - very much like what I am doing now: starting a blog when I have no talent nor time to write.  Dare I also mention that English is my second language?
It is your doing after all, sir, if I may be so blunt.  You see, after spending many, many quiet nights of caressing your words, reading them with my loving eyes, whispering your words like a lover would; I kneeled and begged to come inside your world.  You are not as generous as Mr. Emerson who allows me more access, even at first glance.  After I am allowed into this beautiful place with words so delicate yet resilient and with each sentence my heart skip a beat, you take hold of me right at "A terrible beauty is born."  Although I will be living in a life of chronic remorse (sorry, Mr. Huxley, your letter of apology will be on its way); the desire to put my feelings into words is simply too tempting and too irresistible.  Please do not think that I am in any way being cross with you, dearest Mr. Yeats.  All I have but heartfelt gratitude and headful of absurd, irrational thoughts and, when they are written, they are for you - until the angel Cupid strikes again, that is.
You will be pleased to know, Mr. Yeats, this blog will be a record of my love for you, for Mr. Emerson, for Mr. Carver and for many others who are so brave to share their talents and creation with a world which is not always accepting and is cruel at times.  There will be no censorship on this blog: No one ever wish to offend anyone (knowingly); however, to maintain a tiny haven where expressions and thoughts can be freely exchanged or expressed is the bane of the existence of this blog.  You would agree that: one cannot be honest with one's feeling if there is fear in one's heart.  If one can't be honest, one should at least be kind.  And that is "a terrible beauty."
Rest in peace,  Mr. Yeats, you have not been forgotten.  Many more will search for you and fall in love with you like I do once they read "Easter 1916" or "Sailing to Byzantium" or "The Stolen Child."
Forever yours,
MLH 


p.s.  Please allow me to share Easter 1916 in its entirety; thus, others will have a chance to meet and adore thee.