the run of death

I know this entry is slightly postdated, but that's what happens when you have to work 50 hours a week. Last Saturday, my dad had the brilliant idea that our family needed to bond. Well, not bond, per say, but have a common experience to complain about. So at 8:30 a.m., we were huddled with thousands of other Tri-Citians at the base of the Cable Bridge, waiting our chance to trot over the river and through the non-existent woods to a finish line 5 kilometers away. At first, I was fairly nonchalant about the whole activity. Sure I griped and moaned for an appropriate time, but I was actually sort of excited. I like doing large group sporting activities, plus, I knew I got a sweet free shirt out of the deal. I thought to myself, you were a two-sport varsity athlete and a dancer and a frolicker when the moment struck, this should be a walk in the park. (pardon the pun, though the race was through back roads of Pasco so it doesn't quite fit.)

Then I realized that those days were three years ago, and by the first half mile I was pretty much ready to die.

My sister and I (who, in my defense, was a varsity athlete in a much less distant past) decided to run the first part. Then the combination of our lungs about to burst into little tiny shreds and our legs screaming for asylum slowed us to a walk. We were so beat that we ended up walking the majority of the race, and finished in the last 10% of our age group. To put our patheticness in perspective, an asthmatic dog being dragged by its owner crossed the finish line before us. Needless to say, I'm realizing that this strange thing called fitness doesn't just transfer from your slim and trim high school body to your new and not so improved post freshman-15 self. Bummer.

The week of insanity

I'm finally done with finals for this semester, and my GPA is looking like it's going to come out better than it has thus far at Whitworth. My dad will be happy. Now all I have to do is clean my bathroom and my room and pack to go home for three weeks plus pack for Mexico plus try not to cry again. Flip.

A little bit of courage

I realized this afternoon that I am a writing major, yet I hardly ever share any of my writing. Sure I've had Alyssa look over something or occasionally talked about a project in the works, but I never just put myself out there. Writing is such a personal experience for me. Not because I've had some terrible life situation or I write things that would somehow imply my "soul is a swirling black abyss," (actual comment from a literary journal editor at the national college media convention this fall about student poetry) but because I consider it a piece of myself that is somehow lost, given away, taken from me. But I've also realized that writing for myself is selfish, and impractical as a career option. So here is a short piece I turned in for my creative nonfiction class as part of a writer's notebook. It was written in response to the prompt "pick a place in nature that has meaning to you." And at first I was wholeheartedly against the prompt: transcendentalism nature writing (Emerson and the like) makes vomit a little in my mouth. But I went for it, and was actually pretty excited about where I ended up. So enjoy.

The dock squeaks when the current gets strong. After they open the dams, usually. The railing, chipped like a beat up chunk of plywood, seems to wail and moan with the weight of its memories. It’s the only secluded dock on that stretch of the river. Hidden behind the tall oak tree, a world of possibilities is revealed. A beaver’s lodge is wedged between the edge of the fading wood and the luscious green bank. At dusk you can get lucky and catch a glimpse of his tail as the beaver leaves his haven to explore his limited terrain.

During winter you can try to catch frozen chunks of river as they float by. The hinges on the bridge freeze over. It stops the squeaking, at least. The winter dock smells like desolation; even the ever-present whiffs of geese droppings fade into the arctic island. But during the summer, the smells of freshly-cut grass collide with the stench of river water, invading your senses with the idealism of all things pure. For the dock is not just an old, squeaking platform. It’s a way of life.

I never visited that dock until high school. My family always went to the Park St. end of the long a narrow city park. That’s where all the table and swings were anyway. The Albertson’s fried chicken would leave our fingers too greasy to make it across the monkey bars, so we would take turns wiping our hands off on the other sister’s shirt until the friction was just right. The dock was past our boundaries; it was beyond our experience.

But the dock became my rebellion. The edge of the wood was like the edge of my childhood. I could stand on the threshold, staring into the murky wet freedom just below me. I knew those two girl had drowned; they were different. They jumped in May, not August. The water was swifter then. I would be fine. I had a towel in the backseat of my Nova just to make sure they couldn't find a drop of water on the driver’s seat.

So I jumped. I hit the water of my adolescence and gasped at the frigid waves that flooded over my head. Once I gained by breath back I kicked to the surface and bobbed for a moment. I stared back at that dock, at what I had left behind. And I knew I could never really climb back on.

Mother Nature's menopause

Today's weather was another progression in Mother Nature's fast approaching insanity, at least when it comes to Spokane. As of around 3 p.m. Sunday afternoon, we had at least 4 inches of snow on the ground. It came down hard starting Saturday afternoon and didn't stop all night. That was in addition to the 2 inches or so we got the previous Monday. (It's a tradition here: the first snow always comes the Monday after Thanksgiving. It's slightly eerie.)

As of noon today, the only snow left on the ground is that which was previously packed for a snowman or left by plows in the parking lot. It rained straight from Sunday afternoon until this morning, when I walked outside in a T-shirt and was perfectly content. I just don't get it, sometimes.

But in spite of Mother Nature's ploys with my ability to dress weather-appropriate in the morning, I have been forced to examine just what I would define as "ideal weather." My fallback answer is usually just "spring." Granted, this is a season more than a specific climate, but what can you do. I think what appeals to me about spring is its optimism. Spring is a time of new life, new growth, new chances. It's an awakening out of the frozen depression of 4 months of grey winter. I'm not opposed to rain, or snow, or the occasional windstorm. I think all weather has a time and a place, and I love that seasons come and go, bringing a change of pace every 3 months (ideally). So maybe it's not spring that I love, but the idea that the world doesn't have to be stuck in a overcast gloom.