Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay

Yesterday was a day with no wasted time, spent:

• running around Green Lake with a girlfriend from Library Land
• visiting and drinking coffee with the same friend
• drinking tea and playing Boggle with Trent
• brunching at Cafe Flora for a beloved childhood friend's baby shower (the biscuits and gravy were delicious, as was the cinnamon roll, though not quite tasty enough to end up on my list)
• visiting with the baby shower ladies at the nail salon
• sweeping
• power napping (okay, the nap might not be considered productive - but I don't know how I would have gotten through the rest of the day without it)
• dining on a decadent steak dinner at my dear college friends' house, where I spent much of the evening singing, spinning and tossing (and catching) their three year-old daughter in the air

Consequently, I am exhausted this morning - but definitely in a good way. With so much active time yesterday, I find myself in need of reflection today before I launch full steam ahead into another fun spread of activities.  And as I sat, drinking my morning cup of tea, that old Otis Redding song wended its way through my mind:

I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay
Watchin' the tide roll away
Sittin' on the dock of the bay
Wastin' time

Now I don't know about you, but watching the tide is exactly the kind of time-wasting activity that I'd like to indulge in more often. In fact, I want to waste more time:

• sitting still in the morning and writing for the fun of it
• people watching at Green Lake
• gossiping with friends over a hot cup of tea
• strumming the same songs on my electric guitar over and over again - I'm sure the world never gets enough of my repertoire of Beetles and Bangles music
• dreaming new schemes
• listening to records in Dan and Jana's living room
• hula hooping in my own living room as I look out the window
• reading with only enjoyment on the agenda
• enjoying Bananagrams victory over Trent at Hiroki

I want to quit wasting time:

• waiting for someone else to post a life-changing blog article (yes, I spend a little too much time reading minimalist blogs, where the reader is encouraged to quit working and find their passion)
• worrying, even about things I can control
• lurking on Facebook
• complaining about my commute

Last night after dinner, Kim and I were discussing Lent and whether or not we were giving up anything this year.  It seems like such an artificial construct that I typically don't. If changing a small piece of your life is so empowering and meaningful, why go back to your old (presumably less healthy) habit after 40 days is up? But, I do believe it can be a jumping-off point for change, just like the New Year. So this year, starting just a bit before the Lenten season, I will waste both more and less time to see where it leads me.

How will you waste your time?

My Life in Song

"Singing is better than sex!", Mom exclaimed giddily, about the same age I am now. I don't remember the context, but it was probably on the way to Wednesday night choir practice at our Lutheran Church. I remember feeling a bit of an "ew" factor along with a sense of disappointment. What did that say about sex? Wasn't that supposed to be an ecstatic expression of love and longing and passion?

I cannot remember a time when singing was not a part of my life. The endless summer between high school and college, my sister, a church friend and I lit a bonfire in the darkness at Alki Beach and sang together. Passersby would stop and join us to listen or sing along, asking us what choir we were a part of, surprised that we weren't there in an official capacity.

In the early days of our relationship, when Trent and I were just friends, as he played Magic in the dorm lounge, I would hang out in his room, singing Bread; Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young; America; The Beatles; or Simon and Garfunkle. With the door open, the hall echoed with sound and I swore the acoustics were better in his room than in mine.

Singing is one of my "can't nots".  I sing quietly as I walk to the bus stop and blare out songs suitable to the day of the week and weather as I pedal my folding bike down the frontage road on the way to work. Mondays are devoted to The Bangles or The Mamas and the Papas, nearly every Tuesday is Ruby Tuesday and Friday is saved for The Cure.  Actually, so are Wednesdays and Thursdays, unless there is a "good day, sunshine" or "raindrops keep falling on my head". I firmly believe that the world would be a better place if we lived in a musical or were part of a culture that spontaneously burst into song.

I've now had two jobs where the schedule kept me from my Thursday night choir rehearsals. Neither lasted longer than six months. If I can't sing with others, I feel like merely a shadow of myself, a muted imposter.

As a teen, my siblings and I were sometimes embarrassed to sit next to my mom in church. She would sing with such an earnest expression, it looked as though she were sharing a piece of her soul. Now, in the parent's ultimate revenge, I have become my mother. "I love watching you sing," shared one of the sweet elderly women at church. "I can tell you feel so much. You make me feel so much." Perhaps music really is "an ecstatic expression of love and longing and passion".

The Road Not Travelled

All of my could've/would've/should'ves are travel related - the literal road or airway not taken. The places I almost took the leap to visit, but didn't still nag at me.

In high school I glamorized travel abroad (if I'm completely honest with myself, I still do). I knew that if we could scrape together the money for a semester at sea, a trip to Israel as a youth delegate or a year in Germany everything would be different. I'd return confident and fluent in a new language and a new life. But I knew how tight money was and tamped down my dreams. (And lest this seem too maudlin, through the help of financial aid I had two inspiring and heart-changing trips to Ensenada, which only whetted my appetite for more).

As a Spanish major in college, I longed to journey to the seaport of Cadiz for the UW study abroad program. Those blue waters called to my soul. But again, I was troubled by money. And this time, there was the added complication of new LOVE. Could we bear to be apart for months? I put those dreams in a little box and tucked them away.

As the years passed, I joined the adult world of full-time work. Money was less of an issue. I went on short trips to Japan, Mexico and Trinidad & Tobago. My mom and sister began planning a trip to Italy. I was on-board until a temporary job opportunity came up. I couldn't miss a week of work in the middle of it - it would be like throwing away a promotion. I stayed behind. They drank wine, swooned over the gelato, visited the Sistine Chapel, stayed in hostels and came back glowing, closely connected by new adventures and memories that I would never be a part of. I swore that we would travel there the next year (it's been almost seven years and still no trip to Italy).

Now a new trip possibility looms in the horizon - to Tanzania to join our sister church and help support their school. Africa is knocking at the door. Do I open it or continue hiding in the storm cellar? (Okay, admittedly, that was completely melodramatic, but seriously, if I don't go, will this turn into another regret?)

Evolution of a Runner

Shoes laced

Timer set and...go

The darkness and chill

Slip away

Until all that's left

Is the pavement

And the pulsing feeling of carpe diem

Of being alive or (more importantly)

Of truly living.

In kindergarten, I loved to run. I distinctly remember racing across the concrete in the sun with my entire class, leaving most of them in the dust, proud of my innate prowess. Well, truth be told, being the tallest person in class probably didn't hurt.

In first grade, these skills were called upon for a crucial mission.
"Hey, do you want to join the girls' club?" one of my classmates asked.
"What do you do?"
"We chase the boys."
"What do you do when you catch them?"
"Kiss them," she responded.

There was no downside - I joined the very next lunch break. Though we caught every boy in class, the prize was the elusive Andrew who was speed incarnate.

Fast-forward to the eight grade torture known as gym. The event:  the dreaded timed mile. By this time, I did not run by choice - EVER - preferring reading or gossiping with friends, anything besides this torment.

I started out effortfully. I was going to do this whether I wanted to or not. Pride demanded it. My lungs burned long before the first of what seemed like one million laps.  I panted and my face reddened with exertion.

The other runners pulled ahead.  Ah, the humiliation as first one and then the next lapped me. All except Lauren. Relief! Not only was she slower, she was just walking. I was saved. I would not be the final "runner" across the finish line. My pace slowed to match hers.

"Mind if I join you?" I offered.
Her response: "Sure. I have asthma and have to go slow so I don't have an and attack die or something".

Hmmm... I didn't have such a good reason to keep from picking up my pace again, BUT I would be a true friend if I kept her company to the end of that interminable mile. How long did it take? Probably about fifteen minutes, the maximum time allotted to us (and incidentally, slower than I usually walk these days).

Through the years since, I dabbled in running - an occasional jaunt around Green Lake or treadmill running at the Y. I didn't actually enjoy it, but no longer hated it with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. A year and a half ago, I began training for the Bellingham half marathon after being cajoled by Aubrey, one of my best friends. This time, something finally clicked. We followed a modified version of the Jeff Galloway method (where you alternate periods of walking and running, going for two short and one increasingly longer run per week).  And somewhere along the way, I experienced the mythical runner's high.

After Bellingham came Seattle and then Oakland, where my encouraging brother Dan joined me, carrying bananas and trail mix as support.  "Come on - try for a personal best!"  While I finished at a slower pace than my previous race, I had an amazingly glorious day (we ran through a hoop of fire!) and enjoyed the camaraderie of a race run together.

So here I am, running again and plotting my next event, debating whether to repeat a favorite or tread a new path. On a recent early morning run, I realized that it only takes about two minutes of pounding the pavement before my mood lifts and I finally awaken.

I am a runner.