A Token for the Taking

This Saturday is the 2009 Santa Barbara Half Marathon. I haven't decided if I'll run or not. Feeling a little meh about it. I already know I can do it, it costs $$, and it means missing my favorite yoga class, and there's a risk of getting injured before the Death Valley Half less than a month away. Lots to think about it the Skip It column.

But, big in the DO IT AGAIN! column: runners get a medal for finishing. A medal! Proof of my __________ness!

Whatever the blank—and let's let it be something positive, like dedicated or strong—it's there with or without the medal, right? Maybe, but sometimes it doesn't feel that way. A medal, well, that's self-esteem on a string! Feel this, baby!

But my horoscope today knocks a little bang from the bling:

Awards will be dealt. You'll do well, although you'll wish for more. Just remember that, in time, the trophies and medals will be forgotten. It's the intangible things that will last.

I know! I know. Can't tell if this horoscope is meant to chastise, but I feel a little scolded. Stars know more about lasting than I ever will, more about shining, more about perspective. There's the "wish for more" that sounds greedy—the insatiable appetites to do, to next each moment to death. The moment I reach the top of the stairs I immediately look for something else to climb. So maybe the stars are reminding me to feel the good to be felt where I am before looking to the future.

But... a medal! Stars, is it so bad to enjoy the trophies? Maybe it's okay to want the medal, to have something I can wrap my hand around, as long as I remember that it's not the medal that matters. And I do know that. Of course it's what the medal represents that matters, things I forget sometimes.

What I did in the past is still part of me, for good or ill, and there are days that my shortcomings seem to be all I see. So stars, I'm gonna resist this one a little bit. It's not the trophies or medals that are forgotten. They're hanging on the wall right where I can see them. The medals will last longer than I do, even if that's not long in star time. It's the intangible things that are forgotten sometimes, the ______ness, that I don't want to forget. And if it takes a little something to remind me, some little hunk of metal on a ribbon, so be it.

Thanks for reminding me, though. I don't need the medal.

I still want it.

The Not Road Taken

Like any wandering, hiking makes good metaphor. The paths we pace into the hills, history embedded in the layered bluffs, the new sprouts of grass under crisp sycamore leaves—it's the metaphorest! Get it? The metaforest? There's also a lot of time to think up bad puns.

So, last weekend, as the weekends before, we headed into the wilderness, trail guide in hand promising breathtaking views, assuming we had any breath left to take after the promised steep ascent to the peak. The trail was clear and wide, well trodden. There was enough water in the creek to fill the granite pools, little enough that the pools were mirror still. The trail crossed the creek, crossed again, and came to a T. The guidebook said nothing about a T.

What to do, other than quote Frost?

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

So, we, indeed, chose the one less traveled by, fairly confident that up was up and the way would lead to the same ol' way anyway. Fallen leaves, mostly cottonwood I think, carpeted the ground, but it was definitely a maintained trail, complete with clipped branches and small neat stacks of cleared wood. As we followed upstream, the creekbed grew narrower and the trail wound between and over granite boulders, eventually becoming more rock than path.

We should be meeting up with that other road any minute now, we thought, as we clamored over bigger and bigger rocks. We came to a ravine, where rockslides and water had carved out a piece of the mountainside. This, we decided, was pathlike enough, and up, thus likely to meet the other road.

The slope was mostly sandstone and scree. We started scrambling, hands and feet, navigating some tricky climbs before the rocks became smaller, less like boulders and more like Home Alone marbles. The other road continued to not appear. We began to doubt our choice, but again, certain that the road existed and that the only thing more difficult than the climb up would be the climb back down, we persevered.

It got worse.

Every other rock, it seemed, was loose at a touch, and since we climbed single file, the followers were at risk of becoming big sweaty bowling pins. But we came to feel we'd passed the point of no return. The crest, and its promise of smooth clear trail, seemed near.

We climbed. Steeper. We crawled.

As we finally approached the lip of the ravine, the sandstone was hardly stone at all. The last six feet or so was a vertical bluff; all bluff, that bluff, it dissolved as if it were pure sand. We needed to find a way to get over the lip, and nothing willing to hold us. Stretching up, sliding down. Figuring out what to trust.

Eventually, I managed a handhold on a large granite rock close to the edge. It seemed sturdy enough, stable enough, to hold me. I couldn't know for sure without pulling my whole weight against it. If I was wrong, it would be a big big wrong. I knew that. Somewhere above me was the road. Below me, a long steep rock slide. So, I tried. It held.

Even after crawling out of the ravine, we had to negotiate some thick chaparral. The manzanita cut hard before we eventual found that road more traveled by. We were all relieved to get there, but maybe also a little thrilled to have climbed the way we did. We found our way. Our own way.

Each moment is a chance to pause and assess our situation. Where the hell are we? Is that poison oak? We can ask our fellow wanderers, Is this the path we want to be on? If someone is coming back from the peak we might ask, How was it? How much farther? Sometimes they share their stories, about endurance runs through the back country or hidden caches of water. Sometimes they have warnings. I like these people. They inspire me.

Some shortcuts aren't shortcuts and some aren't on purpose, but that's where the stories happen. That's when you find out what you can do and what cuts, what bruises, what holds. And when you're at the edge of a canyon, holding on with one hand, you think about the people who might have talked you out of it. You think about the people you wouldn't have pushed to make the journey with you. You think about the people holding on next to you. How could you not love them?

nataliedee.com

Some Time

Detox: Day OVER. And over for over a week over here. Much beer, many delicious indulgences—even scones—already between me and detox. But detox is only a little about what it's most obviously about. The primary goal for me is just to spend more time being mindful.

There is a tremendous freedom in extremism, very little thinking required. None is easy. All is easy, as distinct as two mountain peaks.

Now that detox is over, it's time to come off the mountain and return to the Valley of Some. Some is endlessly tricky and full of subtle traps. Some requires wisdom and an understanding of enough. Enough is slippery too, some and enough so similar to want and need. A few things belong clearly on one side or the other, but most—should I have that scone?—linger on the banks of Rio Racionalización—I did go for that long run earlier—as long as possible before the inevitable choice/consequence. I so want one without the other.

A recovering alcoholic friend with an eating disorder used to tell me how much easier it was to give up drinking, because she could do it 100%, than to negotiate her relationship with food. She couldn't simply stop eating. It's the littlest choices that were hardest, so for years she lived by a rigid set of rules about what she could eat when. No white sugar ever. No fruit juice after 11 a.m. It took a lot of practice for those rules to relax a little, for her to become flexible enough to trust herself again. To look ahead to the result, and make a choice based on where she wanted to be.

So, here's to moderation, mindfulness, and dare I say maturity enough to say sometimes more often than never.

I totally want a scone right now.

Hold the Renunciation, Please

Detox: Day 8. Craving something sweet. Ready for the detox to feel easy, ready to feel clear-minded and finished and all fresh-starty.

Instead, I'm beyond ready for a burrito. Feeling close to giving up giving up because at this point I'm just tired, ready for some serious carbo-comfort. Feel like I'm processing everything I shouldn't have had during the past 10 years. And, yes, I could quit. Right now. Heck, I could be eating bag after bag of Terra Chips as I type this and you'd never be the wiser.

After all, I'm hardly the Queen of Restraint. Usually the closest I get to forswearing is "Where's the damn beer?" According to my Hip Hoppin' friend, Trekking Left, I can be a mean sober. I have only apologies for anyone who has tried to enjoy a meal with me—or worse, cook for me— during this journey. Sorry, everyone. Doubt anyone would be upset if I stopped.

But I've made this choice. Sticking with it. In fact, I may just bump it up a notch, because in my second-to-deepest heart of hearts, I trust my inner drill sergeant when it comes to my body. Physically, need is weakness, desire is vulnerability, strength is the resisting. I had no doubt about this when I was younger. Especially reading Hemingway.

In fact, I believed this was true both physically and emotionally. One reason fasting and detoxing has worked for me is it's not just about the body, right? It's the mind, the heart. Just another test of how much I can do without, proving and reproving that I'm a compulsive antidependent.

Thing is, this whole strategy of renouncing emotional need? I doubt it now. I suspect in my absolute deepest feathered heart of hearts that yes is more powerful than no, embracing stronger that refusing. Maybe I can trust me and these terrifying little wants.

Of course it's not as simple as be strict with the body, gentle on the spirit, as burrito-craving belly can attest. Control and indulgence have their place in both. As always, it's the balance that's a struggle for me.

So tonight, here's hoping that somewhere in these Mayflower genes that have me so ready to give things up for forsakeness' sake is survival instinct enough to know when to hold on.

Wait Loss

Detox: Day 2. There's a sweet little boy sleeping in the next room, my friends made an excellent detox-friendly dinner of greens and salmon, and I enjoyed an enormous spinach/avocado/basil/cilantro/pepper/tomato/pinenut salad for lunch. Feeling nothing close to deprived, even if I am craving a stack of whole wheat toast. For me, detoxing isn't about losing weight (though I might). I'm choosing to do it because it really improves my energy level and helps me regain my ever-tenuous focus for a month or two. It feels amazing, especially emotionally.

The detox diet I choose isn't a huge stretch from my regular at home diet, but it's a lot different from what I'd usually eat and drink with friends. In fact, I almost postponed detox a week because George and Amy are bringing growlers home from their trip. I also thought I'd need all my strength for another adventure I had kinda planned, in which the Queen Conquers a Major Goal.

This was my vision for tonight:



So here I planned to be, coming down from Mt. Whitney, the moon full (which it's not tonight btw) and casting a shadow along the path, me probably skipping a little. Oh, and I had a Porsche (Targa, not a Boxster) waiting at the base camp.

Perhaps I was idealizing the experience a bit. How could I not? I remember being starstruck learning that the tallest mountain in the entire (continental) United States was in MY state. Way to go, California! Add to the long list of things to love about home--the tallest trees, Death Valley, the Salton Sea, Mexico, Disneyland, Alcatraz, not to mention a grizzly bear on our flag! I was something of a fanatic Californianista in my youth. Still am. (U.S. out of California!)

Beyond the abstract awe, I've been wanting to the point of planning, or planning to plan, to climb that mountain for at least 10 years. Every year having a reason not to do it. The timing of the school year, especially wet weather, especially hot weather, the bad case of sniffles from early summer that threatens to become something worse, whatever. Even without the need for advance planning--ideally entering the lottery in early Spring to get a permit, otherwise getting what's left--there's always an excuse not to do it.

This year, I got as far as having my permit. Turns out getting a permit for one is a lot easier to do last minute, when all the group permits are gone. The long list of what I didn't do includes adequate training at altitude, equipment testing, ordering yeti repellent, etc. etc. Also failed in recruiting a hiking buddy and spent all my hotel money in Boston. So, ugh. Another year gone. For at least 11 years, I've been planning to climb that mountain. Maybe 2010, if I don't break my hip...

What's clear is that if I'm at war with procrastination, procrastination is kicking my butt. I need to take the battle seriously. For example, I'm blogging when I should be doing work for clients. Why?

One small thing that may help is taking care of my body, giving my brain a healthy home. The stronger and saner I am, the better my odds of losing wait. I've had enough wait, thanks. Time to get moving and planning, really planning not just "planning" planning, for next year. En garde, Yeti... En garde, Real Work. En garde, Mountain.

In Which Everything Changes but Me

One benefit of walking alone in an unfamiliar city is having a reason to feel lonely, the way most of us probably do sometimes even at home. At home you have to recognize self-pity for what it is: mostly bad planning that means you're downtown and hungry with no one to lunch with. You can be confident in admitting you blew it at least a little. Traveling, you can be lonely and walking and hungry with absolutely no guilt. Hooray for travel!

Wandering around strange places is also an opportunity to play psychic scientist, as you change most of the variables around you except you. So if C is Constant, we can observe all the other things changing around her. We can absolutely ignore C in her various self-absorbed dramas and focus on the rest of the alphabet, this whole world that exists beyond her. Or, since everything else is foreign, we can focus on what defines the constant. Maybe we can observe that once again everything needed is provided, even here.

This is about Boston, where I get to be a mom again for at least a few hours a day, the role I'm most comfortable with. Then the rest of the hours I get to mull over my next role. That takes more walking than I have leg.

Apparently, de-parenting is tough transition. Yeah, yeah, I'll always be her mom, but she's a woman, not a kid. That's a different kind of momming, more of a stand-off, supportive-from-a-distance-with-a-checkbook kind of momming. I like the relationship I have with my own mom-Hi, Mom!-so I think me and my girl will do just fine. But ow.

Travel. This will come around to Boston again, but I haven't written enough here about being in Haiti. The gorgeous scarred landscape, the people, the constant noise, the drums, the food, the everything that churns there and rarely looks at me except to see my skin. Since I can be a tall white woman without trying, it's effortless being there. Also extremely hard, like adapting to new gravity. In fact, hard to imagine feeling more out of my element without being in space. Ideal for someone ready to be as far as possible from what's comfortable. But there is no food more comforting than Haitian food, no music more connected to the body than those drums, and there I was: happy.

Back to Boston: Wandering around. Feeling lonely and lucky, ready to be pushed out of myself for awhile, when Haiti showed up.



Carnival in Cambridge! Lots of Brazil, Jamaica, and my beloved Haiti. Drums, Kreyol. Just what I needed, as it turns out that what I needed was not Haitian food. That's where I would have put my money. (Since all my cash was in the wallet I lost earlier, that's only a figure of speech spoken from a hungry mouth.) I was prompted to realize I wasn't actually hungry, just in the habit of wanting.

So, habit of wanting. Wanting to know what's next. Wanting to feel everything too much. Wanting to keep walking through the blisters. That's what we learned about C. And taking the shortcut back to that lonely hotel, always longest way, those drums stayed with me. Enough teachings for one wander. Thanks, universe.