Moving Walkway

The City, my home.

2010-11-23T18:35:00.001-08:00

A trip downtown for a pedicure and stroll through Anthropologie must be weighed alongside the cost of a train ride. Or in this case, a bus ride when the train breaks down. Or perhaps a really long walk. Through the rain. Anyway you look at it, there is a decision to be made. And I made it. Sans umbrella, I trekked down my hill and hopped on the train.

Today I enjoyed lunch with a friend from the burbs. Commenting on a recent trip to the city she wondered at all the crazy people. Its true, but I think I've come to find "normal" people a commodity. I'm intrigued by the mother who can balance a baby on her hip while walking through the moving train. Or the business man who can keep his balance, text, and drink a cup of coffee. I don't so much notice the drunken cursing man in the train station, the unnecessarily flamboyant couple prancing down the street, not even the young homeless guy who stashes his bedroll in the median two blocks before the freeway onramp.

This city is strange, but it fascinates me. As I waited for the train to take me home from my escapades, a petite Vietnamese woman, who I later learned considered herself just as much a French woman as a Vietnamese, hobbled over and tapped my arm.

"Which train do I take?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know if I can help you, I only know how to get to my house."

"I need to go to the hospital."

"Oh! I can get you there, that's my train! It doesn't come for 12 more minutes."

The next twelve minutes were filled with the most peculiar conversation i might have expected to have with a complete stranger. First, she wanted to know if I had kids- for some reason this seems to be the first question anyone ever asks. I laughed and gave her my signature, "not yet! maybe someday." Her response startled me, "pshaw! kids are not good. do not have kids." Suddenly our conversation went from friendly platform chatter to a whole new level of rawness. Her eyes began to well up and I was completely speechless. So instead I smiled and let her poke me as she gave me more advice about life than I might care to hear. And then I helped her on the train where she insisted we sit together. Her stop came first. I wasn't sure if I should walk her to her doctor's appointment or just bid farewell. she seemed so lonely. in the end i stayed glued to my seat, she smiled, patted me on the arm and hobbled down the steps.

And that was the end.

2010-09-30T21:03:00.001-07:00

Fell. Octavia. 101. Bay Bridge. 880. Hegenberger. Thirty minutes if I'm lucky. In reverse, forty five. Stich and I have become quite familiar these days. Silent friends, I've time to be pensive.

My heart has a cancer. It needs to be cut out, scraped away, sent off to pathology, never to return. In its depths, it longs to be true, to be good. Yet I fall short of this intention so often. If the most important thing in my existence is to honor him to whom I owe each breath, why am I so selfish? I am wretched. Full of pride.

Might I be loosed from self absorption,

Might I be free from useless concerns,

Might I be true to Him who gave his life me,

Might I be honest in front of the mirror.

Might I slumber to awake with resolve,

Might my first thought be not of myself.

Might I consider others more important,

Only then might I feel more alive.

Beautiful Day in my Capital

2009-09-19T19:45:00.000-07:00

Today I went for a walk downtown. I can't paint a picture with words to describe how beautiful it was.

As I strolled down Independence Ave, I noticed this family of kids. Three little kids holding sticks. A girl, about 5 years old, and two boys, maybe 3 and 4. They were swinging their sticks around in the air and the little boy sent his into a trajectory that ended in brute force with his older brother's torso. The stick broke and the older brother diverted his attention to poking his sister. I expected this brother to begin crying or carrying on. Instead, the younger brother cried out, "my stick, no more! it broke!" he was crushed, even though his brother had borne the blow of the attack.

He just carried on and on, I couldn't help but laugh. I just wanted to sit him down and give him a little lecture but i couldn't decide whether i would say, "and that's why we don't hit people with sticks," or "you need to be nice to your brother," or "yeah, that's what we call speaking softly and carrying a big stick."

because i think often in life, i'm like that brother. i do things or say things and expect something to happen, and when the outcome is different that i think it should be, i'm dumbfounded. i think i need to be more flexible. i think i need to not swing tree branches around as if i might conduct and orchestrate the events of my life with a broken stick.

nostalgia

2009-09-16T18:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I am struck by feelings of nostalgia- for seemingly no good reason. Last night I went to cvs to get face wash and a new razor. Somehow I walked out having spent $45.

I bought a box of Whoppers. Not sure why, I don't particularly like them. I just remembered the sensation of sucking the chocolate down to the grainy core and letting it dissolve on my tongue. It reminds me of Grandpa Will. When he lived in Ventura, he always had a carton of whoppers in that side pantry in the kitchen. I remember he would sneak over there, pop the carton open and pour a handful into my outstretched hand. We would eat them quickly, before his terrifying doberman, Missy, could snatch the melting treats from our fingers. Part of what is so funny is that I don't remember ever eating whoppers at any of his other houses, just the Ventura one.

I ended up with shampoo in my cart; though it was a laborious process determining which bottle to buy. I considered the expensive kind that makes my hair smell so good every time the girl at the salon does it. Then I picked up the Dove. Katie used to use that in our McComber Creek apartment. It always smelled so fresh and so clean. Finally I grabbed the Pantene, it was on sale. I popped the lid open to make sure the scent was acceptable. I was suddenly taken back to my apartment in Courthouse, I closed my eyes and remembered riding the metro to work, and walking through the park to my school in Northeast. That dirty old classroom that was so hot and humid, my hair was completely limp and shapeless by the time I arrived at school. Hopefully Pantene will be better to me this time around.

I bought some scar gel to try to erase the damage done to my stomach from the last surgery. Should've used that last time. Reminded me of last time. When my surgeon was a woman, the scars were so much smaller and precise. I don't think the old man who cut me open was quite so concerned that I might care to don a bikini ever again. But, I'm healthy. So I guess it's okay.

I bought some face wash, but I bought the newest product, pink grapefruit. Time to make a new association with a fresh new scent.

So I guess that was what yesterday gave me: the sweet reminder of nostalgic days I've know, and the hope that there is always something new on the horizon. My same old neutrogena face wash, but with a new scent. Things once old, may surprise us with a new aroma. And taking the time to remember the past isn't such a bad thing.

Mountains

2009-08-22T18:09:00.000-07:00

The deepest and darkest valleys can only exist in the shadow of the tallest and most jagged of peaks. The mountains, shaped by God's fingertips, carved when his calm breath caused torrents of icy water to carve a path through the landscape. Yes, these mountain offer the most breath taking of views, the most exhilarating inhalations of purity, of beauty. So if one wishes to ascend to the highest of heights, he must also be willing to descend into the depths throughout the journey. Sometimes the crevasses require ropes and pulleys, zip lines, leaps of faith. When the world appears to vanish beneath your feet, those ropes suspend- offering grace, requiring faith. For at times the peaks are too far apart to leap across. And what would a life be if one spent his entire existence on the same hilltop?

Hungry

2009-08-22T17:47:00.000-07:00

I hadn't eaten in over 24 hours, and still had 24 to go before my surgery- I was hungry. I ran a few errands at the mall, a bottle of water handy to appease my growling insides. I noticed that my sense of smell was especially keen. Outside the library in Shirlington the aromas wafting from the row of eateries were easily distinguishable. At the mall, Sbarro looked incredibly appetizing. The piles of fried and stale foods- disgusting, unhealthy, greasy- they suddenly looked like the most decadenct treat I might every place upon my tongue. Every food stand became nearly irresistible, though on a normal day such food would never tempt me. I realized that starvation lead to a terrible lapse in my judgement and perception. Why do we starve ourselves?

inspired.

2009-08-13T22:33:00.000-07:00

I wrote this earlier in the summer and saved it to drafts:

I haven't felt inspired. I've have nothing to say, nothing to write. It's quiet inside. I wonder if perhaps it's too quiet. Has part of me died, or simply gone into hibernation. Or am I like a caterpillar that grew too fat in the comfort of its larvae state, and is now trapped in a cocoon that only taunts me with wings to fly?

I remembered feeling this quiet when I moved four years ago. Indeed it was different, more expectant perhaps. The knowledge that the phase was temporary, had a specific purpose, and must be endured at all costs. Now I fear I've become paralyzed with not knowing what the next phase of life holds.

I've allowed my assets to become toxic, filled with receipts for tomorrow without record of yesterday or today's exchanges.

Today:

This week Mr. Bernake announced that the economy has show symptoms of growth.

Likewise, I'm feeling a bit more inspired. I want to have a purpose, but not just for the sake of having a purpose. but perhaps that is ultimately selfish. do i want to change the world because it makes me feel good? i don't know, maybe.

And so I guess I look at the indicators, they're promising. And I commit to living today for today. To spending $35 on a pedicure because it makes me feel beautiful, and to saving $5 by eating mac and cheese instead of dinner out. For taking the time to chat with the old guy in starbucks who laughs that i ask to put my own tea bags in the cup, secretly stashing one in my wallet so i can come back the next morning, ask only for a free cup of hot water, and stretch my one cup into two. I hurry through my chores, or neglect them completely to enjoy the beauty of the day outside.

Imagine me broke!

2009-04-25T12:15:00.000-07:00

I was listening to Tupac today. "Imagine me broke!" was the hook that caught me.

It's kinda ironic to think that he is broke, though he died rich. He no longer has access to his money. He can't spend it, he can't enjoy it. I wonder what his money is doing right now.

It makes me think about what I'm going to leave behind when I'm gone. He mocked the listener, alluding to how outrageous it would actually be for him to end up broke. And shortly thereafter, he was gone.

Golden Girl

2009-04-22T15:12:00.000-07:00

My credit score is better than Mike's. What up M2?

Say What You Need to Say

2009-04-22T14:56:00.002-07:00

I'm reading "Till We Have Faces" by C.S. Lewis right now. The thing I like so much about the story is that the narrator spares no detail in her recollection of the events in her father's kingdom. You never have to wonder about her emotions or thoughts. (more on the story later)

Today I taught my kids to fold origami flowers for our secretary. They colored them and wrote kind words of gratitude and encouragement on the petals. I arranged them in a kleenex box and delivered them at lunchtime. As I presented our meager gift, her eyes welled up and she was overcome with emotion. It struck me because this woman is so peculiar. She has a sing song voice and is a fantastic actress. She recently portrayed Harriet Tubman in a monologue; no one knew it was her. This woman drips with sweet language to the point of nausea, it is so overwhelming it betrays her of sincerity. Yet today I sensed her intense desire to be appreciated. I'm so glad my kids were able to give her that gift, but I wish I could tell her to cut the bull and be real.

I like it when people are real. When they tell you what they think. When they mean what they tell you. All the time.

Flaws

2009-04-22T14:56:00.001-07:00

I went to a concert recently. The opening act was this chic who was stunning and an amazingly talented artist. The only problem was that she spent a bunch of time blabbing. Carrying on and on about her physical flaws. Her goal was to make a music video about flaws: featuring her own as well as those from girls around the country who could send her footage. It seemed so ironic, it was entertaining. I think most of the women in the audience were about to throw a shoe at her.

Here's what I would contribute to the video:

I can't wink with both eyes. In fact, it wasn't until recently that I discovered pretty much everyone else on the planet can wink with both eyes. I just thought it was like the left-handed, right-handed thing.

My knees are backward. Seriously, when I bend them, they actually point to the side. When I was training to teach body pump the instructor was giving me a hard time because my squats looked funny. I finally pulled up my pant leg and he laughed.

I have a birthmark on the back of my leg. Another recent discovery. I wonder if it's been there my whole life.

I am so uncoordinated it's not even funny. I always throw things to my students, but then purposely avoid letting them throw it back to me. Remember those koosh ball games in elementary school? They terrified me.

Last night Mike announced that he would be purchasing the new Tiger Woods Wii games; Golf & Frisbee Golf. He was excited because it's a two player game. I just started laughing as he went into the intricacy and precision that the wiimote is able to capture. Does he really think that I'm going to be any more coordinated as Hi-Def in wii world?

A few moments after my laughter subsided he asked me what was so funny. I told him that I had no intention of ever playing the game. I am completely comfortable with my lack of coordination. It wouldn't be fair to the rest of the girls in the world if I was good at everything. This reduced both of us to laughter again.

I think this is my favorite part of getting older. I'm finally okay with admitting that I'm uncoordinated and lack grace. I'm not so embarrassed by the fact I can't get the mole joke out without dying of laughter. I still trip when I walk down the street. But I've learned to laugh at myself.

I heart...

2009-04-21T03:34:00.000-07:00

...Verizon. It takes me to Colorado in seconds.

...sitting on the porch at night after a hard day's rain, snuggled up in a beach towel. the air is so clean. the mist, refreshing.

...conversations in the cover of night. it's somehow easier to be vulnerable in the dark, with only the stars twinkling down on you instead of the harsh sun.

...friends who believe for you, because you can't do it alone.

...friends who pray for you, though they can't take hold of your hand

...the uncertainty of the future because it is pregnant with possibility

...waking up before my alarm clock because my head is so full of ideas, it might otherwise explode

Squirrel Infestation

2009-04-19T08:05:00.000-07:00

I remember when I thought squirrels were cute. So playful, so entertaining.

We walked around the tidal basin on Friday night. There was no shortage of the squirrel species. I saw a woman feeding the creatures part of her dinner. I saw several grown men video taping a squirrel in the grass. And I saw three little boys, each with a digital camera, snapping shots of a squirrel who had invaded a trashcan full of ice cream wrappers. Part of what makes this scene so ridiculous is the fact that to left, the visitors were dwarfed by the Washington monument. To the right, shadowed by the Jefferson memorial. Above, helicopters were zooming to the Pentagon, and in the pool, the sun reflected its brilliance across the rippling waters.

Last fall, I got a pumpkin. It was legit. I chose it from a patch in the countryside after trekking across an acre of twisting vines and sun ripened gourds. I brought it home and put in on my porch, eager to carve it as Halloween approached. Within days I noticed that the shiny orange rind had some scratches on it. Shortly thereafter, nibble marks were visible. By the time Halloween arrived, the entire pumpkin was destroyed. Even the seeds inside had been devoured by the greedy rodents.

A few years ago my friend, Matt, lived in a basement apartment. He came back from Christmas to hear scurrying and scuffling in his room at night. One day he went to put on a pair of shoes and found acorns stuffed inside. The neighbors upstairs were about to have a baby. Once the child arrived, they got out the diaper bag that had been stashed in the closet. They were shocked to find it full of acorns as well. Apparently the squirrel had broken in and used their home as a nut storehouse.

Here's the thing about squirrels. Though seemingly innocent, they distract us from the beauty around. And when ignored, they produce rot within the things we care for. They store up for days that will never come. I feel like there are things in my life that are squirrels. Things that are annoying, useless, and distracting. But when I look at them individually, they don't seem so bad. So innocent.

Pandemic

2009-04-13T18:55:00.000-07:00

Have you seen the "Jungle" session on Planet Earth? Ah-mazing!

There is this parasitic cordyceps fungi that attacks and consumes insects. Somehow it disguises itself as food for the ant, then lies dormant in the body. A chemical reaction goes off in the ant's brain and it freaks out, climbing to the highest place possible, the location closest to the sun. It's limbs then lock onto a branch and the fungi takes over. The ant's exoskeleton creaks open and the fungi emerges, devouring its host in it's reach to the sky.

Sometimes we humans think so highly of ourselves. But honestly, I don't think we operate too differently from the creatures in the forest. How often are we lured by poisonous food? By things that drive us insane and kill our minds. How often are we the poison that infects those around us in our quest to succeed? I wish I wasn't as hungry as the ant. I wish I was as clever as the cordyceps. I want to infect my world.

My tulip

2009-04-12T17:24:00.000-07:00

I have a garden. Really its more of a collection of pots, stuffed with things I think are beautiful and tasty. I secretly like to get dirt under my nails and smell like the earth. I have four red tulips. Three of them are being lame. But, one began to raise its head. I've looked at it and inspected it for weeks, anxious to see it's bloom out my window. Last week, it threatened to burst open. I knew that by the end of spring break, I would finally see its glory.

I came home.

Someone stole my tulip.

I'd be annoyed if it was a squirrel, or bummed if the wind broke the stem. But it was snipped right out of the pot. A clean cut. Guillotined in the height of spring. Someone had the nerve to come into my patio and steal the flower.

I know there are lots of tulips and daffodils on GW parkway. The medians, hills, and flower beds have not escaped their dominion. But they aren't mine. I only had one. Now its gone. I'm so disappointed.

Compression

2009-04-11T21:10:00.000-07:00

My headphones dig into my skull, blocking out the noise and distraction. The canals of my ears pop in an attempt to release the tension as we ascend into the sky. My head is constricted, my mind is tight. I wish it to be as free as the clouds that wisp around the wings of the plane. To soar over the snow capped mountains and twist as carelessly as the rivers below. I long for peace and escape.

I feel like the baby in seat 16c. His ears won't pop. He screams for relief. He cries for help. His mother can do nothing for him. She holds him tight and loves him, knowing that the pain will subside once we strike the ground.

At times the pressure seems inescapable. But there is hope. This uncertainty will be revealed. A new song will play, with its own climax and capitulation. And it will be added to the ep of my life. Part of the playlist of the universe. Composed by one whose melodies I hear only whispers of. Directed by one whose orchestra holds instruments I cannot fathom. One whose baton blots out my poorly played notes and teaches me again and again to play my instrument. For this life is merely the overture.

Oh California!

2009-04-11T20:48:00.000-07:00

A friend recently told me he was "allergic to LA." My response:

Who’s not allergic to LA? The only reason I love it is because it gives me access to amazing places. Like have you ever dived and snorkeled in Catalina in the kelp forest? Can you beat the sunset in La Jolla? Or climbed a thousand steps down to Laguna Niguel to watch meteor showers lying in the sand at midnight? Or driven your car through a giant tree? Or had pizza at guiseppe’s in Pismo? Or laughed when your dad had to soak your feet in turpentine to get the tar covering off your feet, knowing it was worth the crunch of sand in between your toes? Or driven across the border to the barrios and redlight district of TJ to give kids food to eat and a pair of shoes? Or gotten sweet strawberries from Mexicans on the side of the road? Or camped out in the wilderness? Or floated down the Colorado river and bragged to your friends that you swam from Cali to AZ in ten minutes. Or eaten clam chowder, watched the sea lions, and explored golden gate park? Or driven to the top of a mountain only to realize how small you really are? Or stared out into the ocean and felt the freedom to do anything because the world is limitless there? Not to mention in n out, sushi that’s dece, and the coffee bean and tea leaf, rainbows on my feet everyday of the year, especially on my birthday in the dead of winter, and never needing to buy a coat. Glorious, I tell you.

Cookie Cutters

2009-04-11T20:25:00.000-07:00

I'm terrified of a cookie cutter life.

I don't want to live in a house that was cut from the same blueprint as my neighbor.

I don't want to give my kids the same exact lesson as a teacher in a classroom across town because we have the same teacher's edition. I like to bomb it if it means I can kill it two hours later.

I don't think it should cost half a month's salary to buy a dress that doesn't look like everyone else. I need a sewing machine.

I don't know what to do about suburbia. The people I love live there, but I'm afraid I will become boring and stagnant. I'm afraid it will be too easy. too comfortable.

I don't want to follow the recipe exactly, I don't want it to taste exactly the way it would if Martha Stewart made it.

I don't want to follow mapquest. I like my shortcuts. Even if they add ten minutes.

I don't like sheet music. I'd rather let my ears guide my fingers.

I don't like all inclusive vacations. I'd rather get lost.

I don't want to buy organic groceries, cage-free chickens, green clothing and close my eyes to aids or the homeless.

I don't want to justify to people that I want to adopt because I want to adopt, regardless that I can't have my own.

I don't want baby einstein toys or a three hundred dollar stroller. My kids will be brilliant because we play with them and talk to them.

I'm afraid of a cookie cutter life. I'm terrified of living for things that aren't worth anything. I'm afraid that I'm too stubborn, that I will hurt feelings and burn bridges if I say these things out loud. I don't write them because I think that my way is better, but it doesn't satisfy me. And sometimes I do these things I despise.

Escalator

2009-04-11T20:18:00.000-07:00

Last year my uncle came to visit DC. We took the metro to Dupont for dinner. At one of the stations, I noticed that people seemed to be falling backward down the escalator. Someone behind would catch them and push them back up, but within seconds another commuter would fall prey.

We stepped on, conscious that something weird was happening, but alert. I stood in the middle of the stair and was fine. My uncle grabbed the guardrail, we ascended. Suddenly he was hollering at me and I saw him tilting backward. His feet were still on the step below me, but his arm was several lengths behind. I screamed at him to let go of the guardrail. He did, someone gave him a push, and he was upright again.

The rail was broken. The stairs were not. They were not moving in sync. His feet were moving, but his hand was gripping something that was behind him.

I don't want to hold onto something that is behind me. I don't want to fall because I was afraid to let go of the rail.

Caution- The Moving Walkway is Ending

2009-04-11T19:56:00.000-07:00

Life is like the tunnel at the airport between terminals B and C in Chicago. They have these moving walkways that allow you to traverse the long distance rather quickly. Some people step on and stand still, letting the machine do all the work. Other people step onto the belt, keep their pace, and zoom past me. I walk on the ground.

I think I walk on the ground because I don't like to be constricted to the narrow path crowded with fellow travelers. All it takes is one sluggish person to clog the pass. I pace the terminal because I don't want to save calories that could be better spent. Though I love the speed of flying across the moving walkway, I fear that I might miss something in the passage. I like to race the people on the moving walkway. They probably don't notice, but I always pick a traveler and try to pass them. Sometimes I am successful, sometimes not. Today I saw a kid running the wrong way on the walkway. I wanted to race him, but was constricted by my obligation to set a good example. (his mom was yelling at him)

There is one moving walkway at DCA that I can't help but take. It's super fast, and near a breezeway so I'm always cold when I reach it. At the end there is a speaker. A woman says, "Caution, the moving walkway is ending." I've always found it rather ironic. Obviously the moving walkway ends when the guardrail falls away and the ground becomes steady beneath your feet. The jarring motion of stepping off the moving walkway jolts me back into reality.

Life is a succession of terminals. I wonder where I've ridden the moving walkway, content to stand to the right with all my luggage. I wonder when I've raced along and missed the art installation above the crowd. I know the paths I've walked. I want to walk more in my next terminal. I don't want to feel the jolt of an ending walkway.