The cancer treatment had left her empty. Her bones like swiss cheese as she now suffered from osteoporosis. Her hair was gone except for random clumps, so she just shaved her head bald and wore a scarf. She swore that when she passed a mirror, her skin looked greenish-purplish which was not her color scheme at all. All she wanted to do was suck on sugar cubes. The doc told her she couldn’t have sugar. Sugar, she said, fed the cancer and now she must be very careful of her diet.
She couldn’t think anymore. She needed sugar. She pulled a mushy bag of marshmallows from the cabinet. They were all stuck together. In went the fork to scoop up a mass of marshmallow which would head directly to the gas stove for roasting. The gooey goodness slid across her tongue as she slid down the wall to sit on the floor enjoying every molecule of sweetness dripping down around the tines. The depression was setting in. She spent the last 3 years bed ridden (or bathroom bound depending on proximity to her treatment). Now she was mentally paralyzed, body weakened. She beat it, but it killed her doing so.
Days passed. When you are depressed and processing life, days can pass and you can find yourself at the end of the week without having really done anything you wanted or needed to do. “You’ll never run again,” they said. “You can’t have any children,” they said. “You need to get plenty of rest,” they said. “Don’t do anything strenuous.”
Don’t do anything strenuous? She pondered this lifeless existence blankly while biting her apple. Fuck that. Fuck them. She’s going to do some fucking strenuous shit. She didn’t know what, but spending her life avoiding things, good things, because it was risky or because ‘maybe’ it would put a strain on her was just too sad and lonely. She didn’t beat this cancer so she could be afraid to cross the street for fear of getting hit by a bus.
The very next day after work, she walked into the gym. She decided to just remove the head scarf. I mean, it was just going to get in the way or get sweaty anyway. Circuits, she thought: kettle bells, suicides, ropes, planks. She knew what to do. Ten minutes later, she was puking in the toilet.
Maybe she didn’t know what to do. I mean, it had been three years. More than three, really, if you include the beginning of her illness. The doctors hypothesized it was because she was so close to Hiroshima when the bomb went off. She was 14 at the time. It was rare for Japanese women to have cancer these days because of their healthy lifestyle, the American doctors believed. And now, here she is almost 16 years later. She was too young to be immobile.
She came back to the gym the next day, and the next. Slowly but surely, she grew more adept at her workout. New Mexico in the 1960’s was stark and in the very early day it was cool enough so she could walk. Soon she was walking a few miles a day before work and going to the gym after work. Her walks became jogs. The fresh scent of sagebrush in the cool morning mountain air was delightful. Looking back on her small but mighty accomplishments, she smiled brightly to herself while opening her bottle of water and taking a satisfying sip.
“Hey,” a gentleman said.
“Hey,” she replied.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Uh, no. Not at all. Have a seat.”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I’ve noticed you out here every day,” he said. “Are you training for something? I mean, are you in the military or something? Not a lot of women run, you know. Well, anyway, I’m sorry for being so nosy. I really just meant to say I admire you.”
“Haha... well thanks. No, I’m not in the military. I just want to live my life fully,” she replied. “You see, I just recovered from a really long struggle with cancer. I want to get my health back. These small challenges keep me going.”
“Well, I don’t know if you would be interested, but a group of us run the canyon every year.”
Days went by. Now all she could think about was this handsome native fellow who sat down to talk to her. It was pretty unusual. Maybe because she looked like she could be native, he decided to talk to her. She blended in well when she came to document the tribal people as an anthropologist from the very beginning. It may even be part of the reason she got the job: her dark hair, eyes and skin. Often the native people did not want to give anything to the white people - so much so they often wouldn’t even speak English.
She began to research the run in the canyon and Phantom Ranch. It seemed pretty remote. It was 24 miles across, 8250 feet high on the North side, 7260 feet high on the South and about 2400 feet in elevation at the bottom where the ranch is.
Twenty-four miles. That’s almost a marathon. Women don’t do things like that. She was out of her mind for even thinking about it. That guy was out of his mind for even suggesting it. Was that some kind of pick up line? Who picks up women by suggesting crazy outlandish things like that?
She paced back and forth in her trailer thinking about what to do and how absurd the thought is. I mean, she was just doing this running thing for her health after all. She wasn’t trying to prove anything to anyone. Plus, she IS a woman. She really was just walking fast - I mean it started as just a walk in the morning to start her day right. Who was this guy anyway? The nerve he had. How inappropriate he would even suggest this.
She began training. Her morning runs grew longer and longer. Soon she had to save herself for weekends because she was now running 2-3 hours at a time. She maintained her kettle bell training and weights. She probably started consuming 5000 calories a day - she was ravenous.
The gentleman would watch her from a distance. He lived high on the hill and could see her efforts from above. Every now and then he would go into the town and he would nod a head as they passed each other in the store or at a cafe. She would become frustrated at this and although she would behave politely, she did not want him to know what she was up to or that she cared for his suggestion at all. Coy, she called it in her mind.
One day she decided she wanted to take a look at this North Rim. She packed up her station wagon and headed out on the 9 hour trip. She gazed into the vastness of the Grand Canyon. Grand it is, she thought. So humbling. She booked herself a room at the Grand Canyon Lodge where she could relax for a few days and hike around, study maps and really consider what it is she would be in for if she decided to admit she wanted to do the run. “No one, especially a guy, ever really challenged me before like that,” she thought. “He was either very bold or very rude.” And she just couldn’t decide. Even so, there was something about it that gripped her mind.
A few days later, she returned home.
“Hey,” a mans voice called from behind her.
“Oh. Hey,” she said... coyly.
“What did you think?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You went there, didn’t you? You went to look at the canyon.”
She began to walk away. She felt her cheeks turning pink. The Tanoan accent in his speech reverberated in her mind as she walked away. He trotted up along side of her.
“We’ll see you again out there in a few months. Oh, and if you want, come by in two days. 5am. We’re meeting for an easy run.”
With that, he was off.
By now, she was easily running 20 miles. But she knew this man ran 50 or more. They all did. She went inward. There is a place where race does not exist, gender does not exist - it is the place where we are all animals. Beasts. Wild and roaming. She feared this as she adored it.
She clothed herself, animal fully contained and subdued, early the morning two days later. In the light of the moon and stars, she trotted over across town and up the hill. She entered the warmth of new friends and kindred spirits on his patio pouring coffee and chattering about life and the beauty of the morning. He introduced her to everyone after finally asking her name, gave her a cup of hot coffee and, as they say, the rest is history....For in the end is the beginning.
#500wordsaday #days5and6and7 #kaleandcigarettes
The drum kit
The anger overwhelmed him. He didn’t even know why he was angry. She told him she just wanted to be friends. She even said she wanted the friendship to grow and that she loved him. What did that even mean? He was inside out. The idea of her with anyone else made him crazy. The idea of him without her made him crazy. But he knew he had to let her go. He didn’t even know why it made him crazy. He intellectualized the situation over and over again in his mind and he fully understood the situation. Often he would be fine. He would put it out of his mind as if it weren’t even there and not think of it and he felt normal... great even. Then something would happen and he would imagine her making love to someone else, or even kissing someone else. His cool was gone. His sense was gone. He would go outside his own self and lose himself entirely in madness.
What was this? Why couldn’t he control these emotions? Who was this woman? I mean, was this love? Was it obsession? Most importantly ... is there a cure? Funny enough, he now understood the film ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’. She was in his blood. And he was in hers. He wanted the pain to stop, but that was like trying to fix a ghost limb ... it was completely intangible.
Could he trust her that she felt the same way? She said she did. He was so mad, he didn’t trust her. He calmly said his goodnights and he ran. Out the door and down the street. He ran ten, fifteen miles. He just didn’t want or need to stop.
Back to his house, sweaty and endorphin filled, he wandered down to the basement. Half in a daze, he searched for his new towels and t-shirt. He heard a kah-thunk. Wiping the sweat from his face, he looked over his shoulder and saw his old drum kit from high school.
The drum set called to him from the corner. Forget her, it said. Let her go. If you play me, I will make you famous... you will travel the world and you will meet many women and you will see that she is nothing.
Mesmerized by this, he took the towel to his face as he removed the dust cover and sat in the hazy light of the basement enveloped by the kit. His drum sticks lay on the snare just where he left them probably a half a decade ago.
Tat tat... bbbbrrrrrrummm tat tat tat.... he went. It felt so good. His muscled remembered what to do. He was so tired, however, he could barely see straight. He returned the sticks to the snare promising to return in the morning.
The sun came up. It is now 20 years later. He traveled country after country, city after city. He became rich and famous as one of the single most greatest drummers in the world. He poured every single unexplainable emotion into his kit, which was now a very large kit, and gave that to the world. He still thought of her every day, and even though the kit promised him there would be others, which there were, there was no one. He was thankful for the pain which finally was subsiding after so very long.
There was a knock on the door. It was her. Finally, the calm he wanted and waited for. He drew the dust cover over his kit and never played it again.... until.... his little boy asked him, ‘Daddy.. what’s that?” half a decade later.
She loved him with all her heart.
She ran to the fence line and didn’t know what to do. Should she go? Should she turn around? Should she try to talk to her family about this?
The little pig bounced around in her teddy bear back pack, nose and front feet peeking only to tumble back down with every other step. She was only four, but she had the heart and wisdom of a noble warrior. The family was given the pig for Christmas. This was the Serbian orthodoxy, and that was the tradition. Being a little child of only four, Anica only knew one thing: her heart did not want this living creature to be slaughtered for some dinner. What made things worse, the family even named him. How could they name him and plan to eat him. Were the adults all insane? What was wrong with her parents? How could she be related to such murderous and callous people such as this?
She could not understand. She only knew she needed to escape.
The farm property sprawled for acres. The grasses were long near the fence-line. She waded through it to the rickety wood border that some how kept the cows in.
She turned to look back at them. She thought it was good that her evil parents needed to keep them alive for the milk and cheese.
She blew a kiss to them and said a silent prayer in her head for God to watch over them, then turned and ducked between the weatherbeaten rails.
Down the gravel path she walked. When she was a few farm yards away she began talking to the pig. Eventually, to ward off boredom, she began singing little french children’s songs she learned in her music class.
“Don’t worry, Dragi. We will get you safe. I will sing to you to keep your mind off the trouble... Sur le pont d’Avignon... l’on y danse, l’on y danse... Sur le pont d’Avignon.. l’on y danse tout le rond...”
This filled her heart up with a little more happiness and she almost wanted to skip if she thought the little fellow wouldn’t bounce entirely out of her back pack.
She had gotten far enough away by the time the sun began to go down so the adults would not be able to see her and she would not be able to hear them. She decided to sit under a tree for a bit. She knew the town was close now. She pulled a wrapped peanut butter and jam sandwich from her dress pocket and decided she needed to solidify her plan except that she had no plan.
The street light was ensconced by a shape coming her way. By the glow, she thought it might be a holy person or an angel of some sort, but she was still a little afraid. She drew her forearm up to block the glare. Chewing still, sandwich in hand, she called out, “Who’s there?”
The jogger with a curious dog came over and knelt down next to her revealing herself from the shadows.
“Whatcha got here, little one? Are you okay? You lost? You look pretty okay judging by the sandwich,” she said and she smiled.
“Do you eat pigs?” Anica asked.
“Haha. No.. I don’t actually. That’s a strange thing to ask,” said the jogger.
“Well, my family wants to eat little Dragi here and I have to save him,” Anica replied.
“Hmmm... that IS a dilemma,” said the jogger. “I can help. I’m not in the habit of this, but my farm is right there. I’ll give you a lift home and if you like, Dragi can stay with me and you can visit any time you like.”
Satin and Pavement
The grand hall was illuminated by the morning sun streaming through the columns that were as tall as redwoods reaching up and out into an endless sky. You could see the dust floating about in the air like a fine mist. There was her small silhouette within the forest. The round curve of her forehead to her nose and then down and around over her top lip point and her plump bottom lip and chin. As she looked up she imagined there was some color at the top of the columns. She visualized the moist dark brown tree bark fading into a green canopy with a little bit of blue and white peeking through. You could see the reflection of it in her eyes.
Her hair was pulled back into a perfect blonde bun. She had a tiara on that mimicked the pearl and crystal gem stones in her bodice - tulle hovering over her white legs as she tip toed on the marble floor shoes dangling in her hands.
She paused for a moment in the silence and closed her lids softly. Then she sat, criss-crossed her legs and slid her wrapped feet in to touch the hard canvas hidden behind the elegant exterior. The soft satin ribbons securing the torturous devices as she lifted all at once from the ground to her pointed toes arms like wings gracefully opening up over head. She indulged in the symphony in her mind playing ravenous Tchaikovsky and dreamlike, whimsical Satie. She glided and whirled around the columns - writhing in agony as well as she would burst with joy and love. She articulated with intelligent transmissions of empathy, passion and fervor despite her youth.
The music came to an end when she became distracted by a pain in her head. Then she noticed there was no one around. No one was calling her. Where was her mother? She heard a rumbling in the other room. Adults were in some kind of meeting. She looked closer and saw her mother. The room looked like a court room: the columns, the white color, the marble. It was all so majestic.
In the center, the room fell away. She could see the city street, but it was silent. Her mother’s rosy cheeks were more flush than usual. Her charcoal tartan stroller coat and voguemont felted wool hat - her hair in perfect curls - She was so beautiful. Especially when she cried.
The little girl walked closer. She was worried she would now be late for the audition. She would be the youngest ballerina to enter the company. She assumed all of the white bearded gentlemen in robes were the judges of course.
She walked closer. Her white tulle and bodice blood red. Her pale neck lay limp over her mother’s arm. She could smell her mother’s soft perfume. Her breath warm on her face and tears like rain drops smacking the young girl's skin.
All at once everything sped up. The images she was witnessing were now moving at full pace. The elegant, beautiful woman was seizing and screaming and gripping the little ballerina, staining her tartan coat in red. The truck driver did not see the four feet of her entire glimmering self skipping happily across the dank grey New York City street. It all happened just so fast.
New writing challenge
So - I like these writing challenges. Shame this one is only 10 days. Still I look forward to it... feeling the need to maybe add original art to it just to boost the challenge a little for myself. But since I'm just thinking of that now, we'll see what happens and how much time I end up with.
What's fun about this challenge is that we are supposed to observe people around us, walk up to a stranger and tell them, "I'm writing a short story - tell me one thing about you that nobody knows." The basis of the story then, is about that one thing. This first one is about an office worker that loves ... well, I'll let you find out for yourself! Also, I'd love your feedback so send me a message, like the story, make a comment on the FB post - whatever. Like it or hate it... let me know. And, remember, it's completely fiction.
Day 1: https://etherealbeings.wordpress.com/2015/09/01/there-is-electricity-in-our-veins/
Friday. Looking forward to the century tomorrow. I had so much fun last year riding with the NBC Blur riders. Bed early tonight. I suppose normal people are thinking about beer and fireworks and things like that. I guess this is my way of being social ... and getting that huge endorphin rush I so crave all at once.
I’ve been thinking of why I haven’t been writing. I could easily say it is because I have been so busy, which is true. I have been thinking about so many things to write about. I was thinking about how what some of what I have been reading in other people’s blogs reflect this idea of intimidation of somehow writing something that will be embarrassing or how difficult it is for them to put themselves and their thoughts out into the world for this thing called judgement. Then I started to think about exposure and vulnerability and how there are actually so many different types of exposure and vulnerabilities. Maybe to be judged, yeah, this is a thing. Some people are still afraid of communal or societal judgement or are just shy for whatever reason.
But what about privacy? What and why is privacy?
Interesting isn’t it?
And all of us have this need on different levels for different reasons.
Some people just don’t want to be bothered. Some are hiding things. Some are strategic. Some are protective. Some people are private ... for private reasons.
I struggled with all the things I wasn’t going to write about. Choosing privacy.
I am not usually a private person. And I had taught myself not to be shy a long long time ago. I used to be horribly shy. Side effect of being an only child of my upbringing, I suppose. Not being shy was definitely a learned effort. But it doesn’t mean I lost the natural tendency to be introverted, nor does it mean I have any less desire to have privacy.
So I wondered why. Why now all of a sudden do I have this overwhelming desire for privacy.
I’d tell you, but then I would have to kill you ... and I’m just not in the mood today for killing. Will have to wait for tomorrow’s ride I guess.. for the killing, I mean.
In the meanwhile, I have climbing. I tend to choose the oddest ways of being social. Even when climbing, I will have a tendency to go off and just play with some routes or exercises on my own. It’s not to be antisocial. It’s really just to make myself better so when I am off doing things with others who share a passion, I can keep up. Nothing worse, for example, when a group is riding and someone falls behind and feels bad for holding up a group - or when you’re out in the mountains and someone breaks a leg because they had a panic attack. Yea - It’s happened. Helicoptered out.
Just realizing how many stories I have to tell. And how I just distracted you from what I didn’t want to tell you.
Fading fast though... over n out.
Menage tois ... I mean part 3
If I were to redefine how to love for myself, I would include ways to respect and be kind to the ones I love. I do and have made sacrifices - so not to harbor resentment. Sacrifices for my kids - No problem. Other grown ups.... maybe sometimes a glimmer of a problem. Probably why I have weighed the outcomes and always chose experience and let the other person deal with the resentment no matter how minor or major it may be. Have you ever noticed how friends will take it differently that, say, people who are more than friends?
Lately I have wanted and tried very hard to just not go outside that boundary as it causes so many problems.
So, say, you tell a friend, “Hey I can’t go to blah blah blah with you because there’s this race I really want to go to.”
They just accept it and usually respond with, “Cool - no problem! Luck, man - Let me know how it goes!” And they’re maybe even happy for you.
Same situation with a boyfriend or girlfriend type and everything gets shot to hell and it becomes this personal thing. And probably for good reason. I mean, we end up spending so much of our free time with the significant other, a cancellation last minute can leave someone hanging. What’s worse is I notice what I do is I wait around for that person - like if they say, ‘oh wait for me I want food too’ and then take forever while I wait I can get a little frustrated. I suppose I’d wait around for anyone, but I would probably just leave if, say, was just a friend who was lollygaggin’. So, see, I do it too. Fall into the trap of dependence.
Shouldn’t we though?
I remember seeing a funny meme that said something like, “Hey! Want to be codependent?” or “Wow - I’d really like to be codependent with you”. Great pick up lines. Pick up lines of the 90’s and 2000’s for sure with all the psycho babble that flies around.
On a serious note, having people to trust and being trustworthy for people so that you can depend upon them and they can depend upon you IS amazing. I am actually a pretty reliable person. I will do what I say.... and ignore the question if I can’t.
Just kidding - I’ll respond... most of the time. Recently I was accused of omitting ... funny thing to be accused of really. Do we accuse this of our friends? Usually just for those who we care about most for one reason or another. Interesting dynamic, isn’t it? I try to stand back and look at things objectively - but it can be difficult if it’s one sided.
So I have just written almost 1600 words on the subject and have not really even answered my own questions or defined anything clearly.... I guess it is no wonder so many chase happiness and only some find it. Especially if love has anything to do with it.
I think I will redefine loving as just something as simple as a smile and being happy for everyone and as giving as I can be especially to the ones I know depend on me most - depend on me as a mom, as a friend or as more than a friend. And all those are relative. There is a mutual respect aspect to these of course as I must care for and have self love if I want to have anything left to give of myself; and there is forgiveness.
Happyness pt deux
So, finding a way to create a life that supports love ... But how can one properly argue with a boy friend or girl friend or husband, wife, sister, brother or child if you have to do it in an environment that supports love and doesn’t push it away?
I’ve found that some people just really don’t need to fight.
Strange concept, I know. A person who has no need for power struggles? Unreal.
What if - just what if that person actually just has different ways of winning? Maybe even redefining the idea of what it is to win.
I personally have redefined the definition of what it is to win several times over my short lifetime. Currently it revolves around having children that grow and learn and are in a fairly safe environment with managed risk. That’s a good place to use the word “manage”: preceding the word “risk”. Especially with regard to our loved ones like our children. Teaching managed risk is important - I have never believed in protecting the kids and putting them in a bubble - how can they grow and learn to challenge themselves or overcome obstacles?
Back to the win.
Once upon a time I opened a studio. My kids were pretty little at the time. I opened the studio to be able to have something that didn’t exist locally and also to have a place where I could work and have more time for my family. The studio took up so much time I found myself in higher and higher demand outside family life. Was I winning?
Once upon a time I got a degree as an accountant and found a great job as a governmental auditor. I made more money than my husband, but my boss was an ass and his twins loved to destructively run around the office and when they found me at my desk they would throw my files and say, “go fetch!” and run off. Was I winning?
Here’s the crazy part - I may not have been winning, but I wasn’t losing either. The experiences those days gave me are invaluable. All the experiences are. Collector of experiences? Winning there a tad for sure. Some folks are more extreme - but we do the best with what we have.
How does that relate to creating a lifestyle that is conducive to love and not pushing it away?
Well, I guess it depends on how you define loving.
I think I would be the first person to admit that I can be inpatient. With our limited daylight, I don’t like to waste time. I mean I do - but as I want it. I don’t think I’m alone here. However, the point being, what would I give up or be willing to give up or alter in order to accommodate love? I have been in my past really bad at not pursuing a passion... meaning an interest such as painting or reading or traveling. I have in the past not listened to people I have been “involved” with - or married to - in order to truck along on my merry way.
Here’s the killer - It isn’t so much me pursuing a passion that gets in the way, it’s the feeling of disrespect the other person feels when I blatantly do what I want. It’s not often - maybe once every five years, but it’s that significant to them.
Collector of experiences 1: Relationship 0.
Searching for Happiness pt 1
Everyone wants to be happy. Sort of. It’s complicated, right? I mean, we all think we want to be happy ... until we sabotage the happiness, that is. Probably because we’re either A. shortsighted or B. undecided about how to define happiness for ourselves.
Taking a cue from a Harvard Grant study, which followed 268 male undergraduates for 75 years, collecting data along the away. The study found that the two pillars of happiness are love and “finding a way of coping with life that does not push love away,” according to director George Vaillant.
Vaillant is an interesting study himself as well. Ambitious. Married 4 times at last count. Complicated. Thinker. Respectful. Disrespectful. A contradiction. A manipulator. A hurt boy. A student and expert in psychiatry and psychology.
I could go on. For a while there I felt like I may have been describing myself. Isn’t that what happens to us when we get older and live through more experiences though? I mean... if we’re lucky. I’m not manipulative, however. Not smart enough. And I’m obviously not a hurt boy. But we all do have that kid inside us - some of those kids more traumatized than others. His was pretty traumatized. And I would never want to trivialize the subject.
The interesting thing about the study result is that second part: “finding a way of coping with life that does not push love away.” A friend of mine said “coping” made it sound like work, like it wasn’t really a very happy thing.
Granted the economy of words is typical of the field of research reporting. Taking that with a grain of salt and expanding on it by unpacking what that really means is where the heart of it is, however.
If we were to take a barebones definition of the word ‘cope’, we would sense the emotionless word to convey to us that it is to manage, to survive. Add that to a sentence regarding the concept of ‘love’ and it seems, well, lacking. Reposition the definition slightly to have it mean, ‘to have the capacity to deal successfully with’, and the whole feeling of the word to ‘cope’ changes. Words become ideas: to have the capacity; successfully. These are concepts we can get closer to emotionally. They create desire. Sounds way better than mere survival and management. Who wants to merely manage love?
If I were to unpack the idea of coping a tad further, making it really a personal interpretation, I would say it is exactly the right word to use in the report. After all, this is indeed what we do. Every day. We find ways to cope. Imagine a sliding dynamic multidimensional scale. On some ends, life is easy. On some ends life is difficult. The difficult end is going to be the more interesting end. An array of challenges get thrown at us - even if we were to gear this diagram only to focus on the subject of love. For some, challenge number one could just accepting that they are lovable. For others, it could be balancing personal ambitions with holding onto and protecting the love they found. For others, it could be that they haven’t really even unpacked the word love for themselves yet in the first place. And yet for most, maybe, it is how to get over power struggles in an interpersonal relationship.
Zombieland and art
I really feel like going to sleep. This is awesome because the past few days I have been super antsy. Today I actually felt hunger also. It was odd. Usually I get cranky or munchy - but today it was actual hunger. I probably ate too much as a result. Yesterday I definitely ate too much after my ride because I just lay on the bed and went into a deep deep coma after breakfast. I woke myself up snoring twice.
I never realized just how much food I cook and put on everyone’s plate. Everyone else seemed fine, however. My body must have just been freaking out since I had been on a steady diet of Gu, Rocktane and Clif bars.
I fell hard too. Pitch black and there was no waking me. Pure zombieland. It felt like some scanner washed over me and in my mind I vanished. I know I dreamed and bounced around in the netherworld, but can only remember glimpses.
This was maybe the second or third time this has happened to me this summer.
I had a week where I was waking up at 3:45am to sub bootcamp. That was really difficult. I’ll be doing that again for a few days in a couple of weeks. Buckledown days.
This month I was looking at some of my statistics too. I went from 51.2 miles (5 hours 29minutes and 852 feet in elevation gain) in May to 437.7 miles (38 hours 3 minutes and 22,991feet in elevation gain) in June. Quite a jump. And that includes both running and cycling. No wonder my metabolism sped up and I was having zombie days. All in all, however, I feel great. I’m still teaching and doing yoga too on top of it. I think that’s why my muscles aren’t really that bad off. Next month I want to focus on some more long rides and still get in hills. I also want to pick up my running and swimming miles. Running is great doggie and me time too. So I like that.
Over the weekend Sammy got in a lot of outside playtime. He met two dogs, Star and August. August only had 3 legs, but he loved to run and play. They all played a lot which made me happy since when I’m at the office, Sammy’s stuck inside. Star was a little feisty girl dog that weighs probably 48 pounds, however. She’d often growl and snap at Sammy and steal his toy. Did I mention Sammy is a 60 pound pit bull. So ferocious. You know what he’d do when she’d steal his toy? Nothing. She’d snap and growl and then when he’d trot off, she’d follow him tail wagging.
Females are a mystery.
Did I just say that?
Anyway, it was fine until Star really snapped and Sammy while I was typing away in “the zone” at the kitchen table. I yelped. It scared the shit out of me. That’s when one of the humans pretty much told Star to get out. Still, I liked her and all of them and it.
Wrapping this up - but still have to mention how lucky we were to meet such amazing people at the farm we stayed at. They were artists and hippies and there was another guy there named Sky (my son is named Sky). Neither Sky had ever met another guy named Sky. It was pretty cool.
Oh and if you want to check out some of the art- you can find it online and in galleries. Enjoy :)
( reprint from https://etherealbeings.wordpress.com/2015/06/30/zombieland-and-art/ )