No, I did not lose 185 pounds because it couldn't be done scientifically. The nature dictates that no material can be in existence in minus form. For example, you cannot prove something that does not exist. I wouldn't be able to write any thing on this blog if my weight is minus something. (Ah, this is not a place for a lady to disclose her poundage.) Food for thoughts, huh? But this is not a blog about science, I was just merely trying to tell you that I saw the title of this post during the Pear Blossom run; and I truly think that's how someone can run. Sure, there are plenty of people who run because they are blessed with the genes, the body types, the endurance and the commitment to be all they can be. No, they are not US Army; they are professional athletes. And there are people who run for recreational purposes (even as I write this, "recreational" does sound like a load of crap.) or for healthful purposes or as a hobby (only crazy people have running as a hobby.) The point is, unless you are a professional athlete and are compensated with a huge amount of money for your performance, most people run because they want to and that they can.
Of all the people I've observed during the Pear Blossom Run, and there were quite a few interesting ones: the guy with the lime green tutu (absolutely charming!); the lady who ran in her bare feet (I wonder how much she is charged if she ever wants a pedicure?); the guy running in his blue jeans (If he were anything like the Levi's male models, I'd say that he's getting paid for doing that; but... and I shall stop here.); the petite mother/daughter team, one in a bright orange t-shirt and another one in bright pink t-shirt who weaving in and out of the line; the group that would shout out encouragement to each other and to the onlookers; I admire the person who has this quote on the back of his/her t-shirt the most. (I'm sorry I didn't even try to see the face of the person. I was huffing and puffing and was in total disbelief that he/she is ahead of me.)
How true are those six words: I will. I can. I did. This is not going to be a post praising the benefits of running; because if you can list ten good things, I can easily counter with ten bad things. Really, really. It's kind of like what Haruki Murakami said in his book "What I am talking about when I talk about running" that he wrote the book not to encourage others to run; rather, he wrote it as a journal of his experience in running - the good, the bad and the glory - which I appreciate very much. Putting my usual response "Because my husband fancies taking a runner to bed" aside when people asked me "why do you run? what makes you start running"..etc., I started running because I needed to know if I can and that I desperately needed some "alone-time" or "me-time". To my amazement, I can and I've enjoyed those times when I was by myself, listening to the music that I adore and feeling free - not quite as a bird but close...more like a Bambi - and content. Free and content, aren't these two words so hard to come by as we get older? Even the sweats, the aches, the pains and the smell were tolerable (to me. I can't speak for my kids and some of you who had to endure me after a quick run : ) and, at times, they were welcomed and considered a validation of my effort.
My journey with running is not going to end yet. I'm getting back on track for a half-marathon in September. And you know what? I am actually excited about it. And maybe I will lose the 185 lb, eh?
Monday, April 18, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Birthday
She looked at herself in the mirror and remembered today is her birthday. So how old is she? She did a quick math in her mind and was shocked at the number she came up with. She noticed the gray in her hair - she has vowed to never color her hair when she started seeing the gray hair growing - it can truly be described as "salt and pepper" now (maybe more salt than pepper?) She remembers how she used to "hire"her then 9-year-old son to pull every gray hair out of her head. Ten cents for every gray hair. Later he would protest and went on a strike. He demanded one dollar for each gray hair because mom, you don't have that many gray hair and it's hard to pull them out. He wouldn't say the same now, would he? The wrinkles around her eyes are most obvious - her sister calls them "smiling wrinkles." She smiled at the thought of her sister who is living in Canada now and enjoying being a grandmother to a bunch of white children. And she thought of her own grandchildren and knew that she will get calls from them later; and a visit from some of them who are driving now. Ah, her own grandchildren are old enough to drive.
Was she supposed to feel something different because today's her birthday? She thought of her mother; she always thinks of her mother on her birthday. Remembering the story she was told: She was about 6 or 8 weeks premature when she was born. Before the doctor and mid-wife left after her birth, they told her parents that it's not likely the baby will live. Be prepared and that they are young, they will have more children. A tiny, sickly baby whose palm wasn't bigger than her mother's thumb. Her dad would tell the story of how her mother would gently press her thumb unto the baby's hand and be crying the whole time because how small the baby was. Her father's attitude was quite philosophical - 是兒不死，是財不散 - If the child is yours, it will not die; if the treasure is yours, it will not be spread. Her father said that her mother would sob each time she bathed her, look! her skin is paper thing and you can see her heart beating and those tiny veins are like spider webs, oh, my poor child. Her mother would try to nurse her and her father would later said that he worried more about the baby being choked to death by her mother's breast than anything else. He would laugh and they would all laugh... but she knew so well that the only reason she lives is because her mother's will to feed her with the nutrient, strength and love which only a mother could give.
For some reasons she remembers her 42nd birthday particularly well. Is it because that was the year she learned how to be a child all over again? Or that she finally had enough courage to find her inspiration? And how happy and delighted she was of all the conversations she had with her inspiration? How she was encouraged and taught to live a life which is true to herself? That was also the first year she ran the Pear Blossom 10-mile run - just to see if she could - and unexpectedly loving the times she spent pounding the pavement. These memories seem so distant and yet still fresh in her mind. Oh, the past... What did Emerson say about the past? She chuckled here because she remembered being called "dorky" - every conversation or thought of hers could always be connected with a book, or a poem - she's admitted being and is still dorky to this day.
"The debt is paid,
The verdict said,
The Furies laid,
The plague is stayed,
All fortunes made;
Turn the key and bolt the door,
Sweet is death forevermore.
Nor haughty hope, nor swart chagrin,
Nor murdering hate, can enter in.
All is now secure and fast;
Not the gods can shake the Past;
Flies-to the adamantine door
Bolted down forevermore.
None can re-enter there,-
No thief so politic,
No Satan with a royal trick
Steal in by window, chink, or hole,
To bind or unbind, add what lacked,
Insert a leaf, or forge a name,
New-face or finish what is packed,
Alter or mend enteral Fact."
She smiled to herself in the mirror and was content that she looks every bit of an old lady that she is supposed to be. And the beautiful thing is... she is ok with it.
Was she supposed to feel something different because today's her birthday? She thought of her mother; she always thinks of her mother on her birthday. Remembering the story she was told: She was about 6 or 8 weeks premature when she was born. Before the doctor and mid-wife left after her birth, they told her parents that it's not likely the baby will live. Be prepared and that they are young, they will have more children. A tiny, sickly baby whose palm wasn't bigger than her mother's thumb. Her dad would tell the story of how her mother would gently press her thumb unto the baby's hand and be crying the whole time because how small the baby was. Her father's attitude was quite philosophical - 是兒不死，是財不散 - If the child is yours, it will not die; if the treasure is yours, it will not be spread. Her father said that her mother would sob each time she bathed her, look! her skin is paper thing and you can see her heart beating and those tiny veins are like spider webs, oh, my poor child. Her mother would try to nurse her and her father would later said that he worried more about the baby being choked to death by her mother's breast than anything else. He would laugh and they would all laugh... but she knew so well that the only reason she lives is because her mother's will to feed her with the nutrient, strength and love which only a mother could give.
For some reasons she remembers her 42nd birthday particularly well. Is it because that was the year she learned how to be a child all over again? Or that she finally had enough courage to find her inspiration? And how happy and delighted she was of all the conversations she had with her inspiration? How she was encouraged and taught to live a life which is true to herself? That was also the first year she ran the Pear Blossom 10-mile run - just to see if she could - and unexpectedly loving the times she spent pounding the pavement. These memories seem so distant and yet still fresh in her mind. Oh, the past... What did Emerson say about the past? She chuckled here because she remembered being called "dorky" - every conversation or thought of hers could always be connected with a book, or a poem - she's admitted being and is still dorky to this day.
"The debt is paid,
The verdict said,
The Furies laid,
The plague is stayed,
All fortunes made;
Turn the key and bolt the door,
Sweet is death forevermore.
Nor haughty hope, nor swart chagrin,
Nor murdering hate, can enter in.
All is now secure and fast;
Not the gods can shake the Past;
Flies-to the adamantine door
Bolted down forevermore.
None can re-enter there,-
No thief so politic,
No Satan with a royal trick
Steal in by window, chink, or hole,
To bind or unbind, add what lacked,
Insert a leaf, or forge a name,
New-face or finish what is packed,
Alter or mend enteral Fact."
She smiled to herself in the mirror and was content that she looks every bit of an old lady that she is supposed to be. And the beautiful thing is... she is ok with it.
Monday, April 4, 2011
She is leaving home
"Wednesday morning at five o’clock as the day begins
Silently closing her bedroom door
Leaving the note that she hoped would say more
She goes downstairs to the kitchen clutching her handkerchief
Quietly turning the back door key
Stepping outside she is free"
Sometimes life is just so not fair, she thought to herself, as she walks down the street. What is so difficult for her mother to remember to keep the car registration and proof of insurance in the glove compartment? It's not like she is asking her to keep the family's financial records at arm's reach. She is only wanting to get her f__king driver's license. And her mom has to screwed that one up, BIG TIME. On top of that, her mom has the gall to say to her, just reschedule it, and, this is your first time taking the test, you may not pass it. Just consider it that you're getting more time to practice. AS IF! Can't they see how important it is that she gets her license? Don't they understand how critical it is for her to be free? She just can't believe that her mom would do this to her. Isn't that just an awesome example of what a responsible adult should be like? And she doesn't even want to think about her dad - the world's biggest f__king asshole. She can never talk to him nowadays. His work has consumed him and, instead of listening to her, he always end up telling her how stress and tired and unhealthy he is. Who the f__k cares? She wants to yell at him, You f__king do this to yourself! No one wants you to work your a** off and no one asks you to buy stuff for us. You think you're the greatest dad in the world because you can afford to get us toys and shit? Think again, a**hole! Walking in this sunny afternoon, her sweats start to drip down her face. They taste salty much like tears. Why do her parents have to be such jerks? Why can't they be more accepting like other parents? She wonders to herself."She (We gave her most of our lives)
Is leaving (Sacrificed most of our lives)
Home (We gave her everything money could buy)"
She knew it's not going to end well the minute her daughter asks her if she has the proof of insurance and car registration. They are always in the glove compartment, she said to her daughter and secretly cursing herself for not double checking it. So she said to the teenager, it would've been very helpful if you remind me last night. She honestly hasn't thought about it. And now this child of hers is huffing and puffing while she drives and complaints - how can you not know where the important paperwork is? How can she not? Working full time with a husband who is busy with his own career and three children in the age range of 18, 9 and 2, sometimes she feels like she is being split four ways and it is still not enough. To cover up her embarrassment, she offers some half-ass remarks which just royally piss off her daughter. When the 1/2 adult, 1/2 child stormed out of DMV, she followed in despair trying to provide some solution or consolation or whatever she could to calm the angry beast down. Then the child starts the finger-pointing-hurtful-words-because-I-am-so-mad-and-I-want-to-hurt-you rant and she just lost it. She refused to drive her anywhere but home; and the child took off walking. She drives home feeling furious and sad. We will work this out tonight after she gets home, she thinks to herself."She’s leaving home after living alone
For so many years. Bye, bye."
What does dad think I am? She hangs up the phone with head full of steam. Why does he think I would want to come home now? Does he even hear ONE word I said? Does he remember that I am not one of his scuzzy clients? She doesn't regret telling her father that she is not coming home that night. In fact, she feels this sense of freedom when she tells him that she can make it on her own and that she is better off without them. It is true: No more living under their never-ending surveillance; no more questions from them about school, assignments, work schedules and friends; no more babysitting for their two precious little boys. Oh, no more chores and the nagging! No more feeling walking on eggshell when her dad is around; no more trying to explain to them her struggles and begging for understanding. For the first time in her life, she is filled with the renewed confidence and relish in her independence. There is nothing she cannot accomplish by herself. And her love is going to be there with her. He will be the one she relies on for emotional support; he will certainly be there for her without any expectation and no reprimand. She feels light and realizes that her so-called-family is a baggage that she is finally rid of. Yes, she is leaving home; no, she has left home. Period.
"Father snores as his wife gets into her dressing gown
Picks up the letter that’s lying there
Standing alone at the top of stairs
She breaks down and cries to her husband
Daddy our baby’s gone.
Why would she treat us so thoughtlessly
How could she do this to me."
When she learns that her daughter is not coming home that night, she feels numb. Maybe it's a good thing that she is away, so we can all cool off a bit. She tries to convince herself and her husband. She can't bear to look at him, the one who created these children with her, looking and acting so sad and dejected. He stares at his dinner as if he has no energy to lift it to his mouth, let alone taking a bite. His eyes filled with doubt and agony. What have we done wrong? What kind of mistakes have we made that she turns out this way? He asks her. She'd thought of those questions and, like him, she has no answers. All she can remember is how the father and daughter used to be so close - their personalities and senses of humor are so much alike. Their daughter, without hesitation, had always said out loud that she is a daddy's girl. Do we not mean anything to her at all? He asks her again with trace of anger in his voice. I am so utterly disappointed in her; I am so done with her! They don't know where she is when the night falls. Her 9-year-old son decides to call his big sister and through him, they find out that she is staying with a girlfriend's family. At least she has a place to be tonight. She thinks to herself - even it's spring, the nights are still chilly and cold. One night, one night away from home may be enough for her to know that she belongs to her own family.
"She’s leaving home after living alone
For so many years. Bye, bye."
First night of freedom and she sure did enjoy it. Maybe too much, she thinks to herself sheepishly. It's obviously that she can't make it to school today. She makes a promise to herself that she will complete her high school and she will show her parents that, without their unrelenting nags, she can finish school and moves onto college and beyond. But she does need to call the school and ask to be excused for today's absence. It's only a responsible thing to do, isn't it? I am asking to be excused today because I was kicked out of my parents' house last night and I spent a night in a motel across town and I can't get a ride to school today. She has heard kids are excused for this sort of thing all the time; hopefully she will be excused as well. Hanging out with her best friend is so much fun when she thinks of what the kids in school are doing or what she might be doing if she were in school. This kind of relaxation is going to be short-lived, she thinks to herself, she must make some arrangements about living and finding ways to go to school and to work. Her best friend's mother is such a cool parent who has said that she can stay with them and that, since she is an adult, her friend's mom does not wish to be involved in the situation between she and her parents. What a wise and reasonable woman! She will stay with them and do chores around the house to help out. So when she sees her mom's text, it is not an "oh, shit" moment. Her mother is giving her choices, the way she does with the boys when they misbehaved. You can eat your dinner or go to bed. You can get a time out or you can give the toy back to your brother. Does she remember that I am 18?! Her mother's ultimatum is simple: Your school called and related your reason for not be in school today. Come home by 8 p.m. tomorrow night and we will work things out; otherwise, pack your stuff. She is not even going to apologize? What a bitch! She quickly texts her mother back. I am not coming home. Not begging, her mother simply informs her that they will cancel her cell phone and she needs to return the house and car keys. There, she thinks to herself, my mother is playing tough and cold. She has seen her mother this way many times - every time her parents fight; every time something awful happens (like when Grandpa passed away) - her mother would turn into one stone cold bitch without any emotions. This time, though, she is going to call her bluff. Ok. Let me know when I can come by to return the keys and get my stuff. Afterwards, she tosses her cell phone aside and joins in conversations with her friends.
"She (We never thought of ourselves)
Is leaving (Never a thought for ourselves)
Home (We struggled hard all our lives to get by)"
She is not coming home?! After reading her daughter’s texts, she sinks into a place where she has no idea what it is and she doesn’t know how to get out. All she can think of is her daughter’s little face when she was about 4 or 5. They’ve been shopping at Sears and all of a sudden, she realized that her little girl was not next to her. She would never forget the feeling of panic, the feeling of a knife stuck in her heart. When she heard her name being called through the intercom, she ran to the service desk and there she was. She wasn’t crying but her big brown eyes were full of fear, so much fear. The tears came when she saw her mommy. She hugged her so tight and then what did she say to her little girl? Don’t you ever walk away from me! Don’t you ever do that to me again! Like her husband, and maybe even more severely, she doubts herself, she blames herself. Someone gives me a pack of peanuts for my guilt trip, please? Is it possible that they are such awful parents that she would walk away without any regret, without remembering all the love, effort, laughter and affection her family has for her? Her thoughts go back to her own teen years – the years after losing her mother and wishing to have a mother to fight with, the years of watching how her father was so oblivious of his teenage daughters – all he wanted from them is to cook and clean and help taking care of his two younger sons. And she breaks down crying while she is running, her first attempt for 10 miles. Has she been oblivious of her daughter’s emotions as well? Oh, she is such a neglectful mother and she has failed her child miserably."Something inside that was always denied
For so many years. Bye, bye.
She’s leaving home. Bye bye."
To see her family again, as a guest, is so weird. Her brother opens the door for her and hugs her and her dad walks away to tell her mother that she is here. Her mother comes out and looks at her, saying hi. As usual, there is no emotion on her mother’s face; although, once or twice, she can see the pain in her mom’s eyes. Or maybe she is just imagining it. They have this quiet formality between them as if they are just landlord and tenants – the tenant comes back to get her personal belongings. Her mother follows her upstairs to her bedroom. She watches her pack her stuff and asks a couple of basic questions. Are you staying with your friend? Are you going to finish high school? Yes and yes. Even at a time like this, the only thing she wants to know is if I am going to graduate. Does her mother have a heart, she does wonder sometimes. She is calm and polite towards her family – like an adult should – and her father simply avoids any eye contact with her. She really knows what she is doing. They just need to give her a chance to show them she can make it on her own. There is no need for any pleasantries. Her two-year-old brother reaches for her calling “de-tor”, she scoops him up and holds him tight. Oh, she already misses him so much. She asks a hug from her 9-year-old brother and he just looks at her with resentment and displeasure. She says good-bye to her mother and is trying to give her hug; but she backs away. Didn’t I tell you that she is a cold hearted bitch? She looks at her boyfriend to confirm her statement earlier. Well, ok, then. See you later. She grabs her stuff and walks out. She knows that her mother is standing at the door and looking at her walking to the truck that would take her away. But will her mother cry? Probably not and who cares really. What gets her is her dad calling her right after she leaves. He wants his iPod back; he wants to know what she is going to do to graduate and how she is going to school. What an ass! He has no guts to ask her when she was there in the house but he will bug the shit out of her by calling her. Does he ever get it? It is not about HIM anymore! I have my life to live now and if he can’t be supportive, he can at least get the f--k out of my way! She feels so sorry for her little brothers; for the years that they have to endure their father’s ranting, short temper and unrealistic expectations; and their mother who shuts down emotionally when she encounters any difficult situation or the worse, she turns into a mean, nasty bitch! She is glad that they already put a distance between them and that their frosty attitudes toward her. This way, she does not have to feel sorry for leaving and no regrets. Good bye, family. She whispers to herself.
"She (What did we do that was wrong)
Is leaving (We didn’t know it was wrong)
Home (Fun is the one thing that money can’t buy)"
Her first born child comes home to pick up her personal belongings. When earlier she texted her to see if she is sure that she doesn’t want to just come home. Her daughter says I am sure I am not coming home. She is reminded the ripping pain she experienced when she was in labor with her – the one and only time – the boys’ birth were scheduled c-sections. She remembers lying down and crouch over, her body twisted to shape like a shrimp. We can make it, baby, we will make it. Hanging in there with me, baby. Those excruciating waves of pain hit her mercilessly. She couldn’t even cry out, instead, she held onto her belly and kept talking to her baby whose existence is a wish come true and whom she has loved from the instant she knew of her being. After many hours of trying and finally with an emergency c-section, they met. She held this tiny bundle, looking at her perfect little face and she wept. The surge of love filled her entire being. I will never be able to love like this ever again. She remembers thinking that and it is true. She did not have this same emotional experience with the boys’ birth. And now, her child is separating from her; thus, she is thrown into the pool of throbbing pain again. This time, she won’t have a baby to hold; instead, she will learn to let go. When her daughter reaches out and tries to give her a good-bye hug, she draws back. How can you want to hug me now after you have hurt me so deeply? Don’t you know that if I embrace you right now, I won’t be able to let you go? Their home is in a strange silence all weekend; the little boys are subdued and her husband is simply hurting. He seems to have aged overnight; his eyes are constantly red and teary. She imagines hearing the sound of his heart breaking or is that hers? They also exchanged bitter and angry words with each other. Don’t tell me that I gave her too much material goods instead of love! I am not the selfish one, she is! You are an ass and you can’t admit it. And then they look at the two little boys who are staring at them; they say to each other, do you think we will lose them this way, too? She cries hardest when, after two-day of silence, she gets a text from her first born. Checking in, just want you to know that I am fine really... Her child says that she is writing a letter to her and that it's not her fault she is leaving home and that she loves her. It is so hard to let go, she thinks, while she wipes the tears away from her eyes.
Monday, March 28, 2011
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!
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.
Friday, March 25, 2011
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 4th 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
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 4th 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
Thursday, March 17, 2011
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/
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?
Monday, March 14, 2011
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.
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.
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