currency.

I am sitting here at a coffee shop, with my ear buds playing the music I want to listen to, while the beat fights with the live band playing in the corner. I am out of their view, so I don't think I am being blatantly rude. But. But. I don't really care anyway. 

In a moment of weakness, I removed the ear bud to fetch some honey for my tea steamer, and I overheard barista #1 say to barista #2 that "everyone has their own definition of successful". So true. Earbud is back in, and I just turned the music up a little louder. 

This is the question I ask you, consumers, friends, siblings, employees, carriers of mortgages and car loans and mothers of children. What is success? And when are you settling? Settling. I hate that word. 

The question is raised in every kind of social circle in every kind of city everywhere in the world. I started working at William Sonoma about a month ago, and my coworkers represent all sectors of society, all kinds of backgrounds, and places in life. Some retired attorneys, owners of small businesses and once-full-time-moms that have watched all of their children leave their immediate care. One of the first questions I am usually asked, regardless of the age or sex or personality of the employee, is what I do other than sell over-priced-well-made-home-gadgets to people. In other words, "What is my real job?" Um, well, I...uh...I work at a coffee shop down town. "Oh, really?", they usually say, and I never know what that really means. When I told the retired attorney last Saturday that I didn't work a forty hour a week job, her response was, "Oh, so you just play!" Yes, that's it. Exactly. I find childlike enjoyment from scrubbing left-over soggy food from the bottom of an industrial size sink. And it's a good thing I don't have a real job. Fake jobs are so much more conducive to play. Never mind the fact that I really had to get up at five in the morning to make someone a cup of coffee that added a mild piece of joy to the beginning of their possibly otherwise mundane and excruciatingly painful day. 

I haven't an answer, exclusively, for this question. Settling. I am leaning more towards the idea that your definition of "settling" has something to do with your value system, the things in life that are most important to you. And so the question shifts from being about a word that I hate...settling...to a phrase that I love...what do I value?

This is what I am asking myself. 

For a look at my first attempt at making bagels, check out my food blog. I even posted pictures!!! mmmmmmm. 

knee pain.

I did the Tulsa Run a little over a week ago. I didn't "train", per say, but I had been running descent distances for a few months, so it didn't seem like a big deal. I think, also, that my body has the capacity to run long distances, so it's not that impressive of a feat. It wasn't incredibly difficult, as I actually thoroughly enjoy running, and a good portion of the time I was sincerely smiling. However, at about mile six or so, the knee on my right leg began to hurt. This has never happened. I sort of ignored it, thinking the pain would work itself out, and was able detach my mind from the pain, mostly, for the rest of the run. I don't think you could have convinced me to stop or not finish, so the pain that has persisted was an inevitable end, I presume. 

On Saturday evening in Florida, I decided that the best way to begin my Sunday would be with a run on the beach. I talked to Kim, a massage therapist and she told me what was likely the cause, and what to do about it in the future. And the sand, I reasoned, would not be as hard on my joints! What a brilliant way to begin my day, I thought. So I rolled out of bed early that morning, passed my brother snoozing on the couch, packed myself and my running paraphernalia into his white pick-up truck, and headed east toward the waves. I did my stretch thing, set my I-Pod to track the distance that was before me, and went for it. It was so easy to get in the groove because of what I was surrounded by, the sun rising through the clouds, and the waves to my right crashing, chasing my ankles, threatening to wash over my tennis shoes. Never mind the fact that the pain in my knee was threatening to bring tears to my eyes.  

I was sad. I stopped. I took my shoes to the car, and returned to the sand shoeless, for an incredible Sunday morning walk. I jumped over the foam that the waves created, and (daringly) ran a bit each time the tunes in my ear got a little hoppy. I stood facing the clouds, with my hands in the air. I strolled when I wanted to feel the water wash over my feet, and stood completely still when I wanted to feel those same feet sink into the sand. None of these things would I have been able to do had I been, um, run run running. 

Last night I woke up at three thirty in the morning. Part of the problem was the crazy time change thing and the fact that I experienced it in a time zone I was already foreign to. But the other part, I think, had to do with the stillness I have been lacking. It had to do with the little amount of effort I have been putting into finding time to be silent and present. This time was something I had in abundance this summer and something that's pretty invaluable to my well being.  It's found at moments when I am running, but since I had been banned from that task for an entire week, I was beginning to feel the repercussions, and my soul was feeling all clogged and dysfunctional. I was craving shit that I didn't need, and listening to those voices of insecurity that rare their head when I, somehow, forget the truth about life, and ignore the goodness around me. 

 

I was able to regain slumber, but knew when I woke, that I would need to do something about the clogs before it got even more messy. So I went for a walk. Walks seems to be some kind of natural therapy for me that get thrown to the wayside when I must choose between them and a run. But this time I didn't have a choice. And this is what I think is utterly fantastic. 

I don't care it you are spiritual or believe in God or Allah or Mother Nature, but sometimes something that exists in one or all of those things, something in the universe, has a way of bringing us back to what it is we need. On Sunday, I didn't know I needed a walk, but I didn't have a choice. And those barefoot steps on the beach were so much more fulfilling than the high I was looking to gain from my run. The pain in my knee has kept me from hurrying, from going fast, from rushing to get it over with, and brought me back to the slower pace that my entire being has been in need of. 

The sky this morning was gray, and so I went on my walk to the tune of David, last name Gray. And you know what? Due to the slower pace of things, I was was able to stop and look up and take in the sky that came through the incredible orange leaves in the oak and the yellow and green leaves adorning the maple, a reminder of the things I notice when I slow down and breathe. I found a way to walk into a bright yellow fire hydrant, a reminder of what happens when I am not paying attention to my surroundings. I currently sit here typing, my knee is currently hurting, and there is a part of me that's actually a bit thankful for that reality. 

a frequent theme.

A few calendar days ago on a cool dark evening, I was driving down Lewis around eleventh street, making my way home. I was listening to something melodic with the windows down, wishing I was walking. I had one of those longing feelings in my gut, wishing that my arms were swinging freely from side to side, that my eyes were free to roam from wherever to wherever else, and that my legs and my feet and the feeling of motion in my bones were the things I was relying on to get me home.

I guess I could have pulled the car over and parked it, but that would have been entirely impractical and quite dangerous, so I continued to give gas to the pedal, braking when necessary, eventually putting Fiona in park at the rose colored house, and turning the key towards me, cutting the power.

I arrived in Florida yesterday, after nearly missing my flight, after clearly reading the departure time on my itinerary completely wrong. It’s such a strange feeling, when your confident you have done something really right and responsible, like arrive for your flight two hours early, when the opposite is what’s true, and the people in crisp professional uniforms checking you in look at you with those judging eyes that say man, she must be quite irresponsible and unreliable as a human being, daughter and friend. Ok, maybe not judgements quite that harsh, but they did do the - I am not quite going to completely look her in the eyes thing - because if they did, it could be construed as condoning my behavior. They gave me the, “they won’t hold the plane for you, but if you hurry you might be able to make it,” speech, and I took off to ask the people in line at security if I could cut in front of them, as I was about to miss my flight. They stepped to the side, judging eyes in check. “It’s not what it looks like,” I wanted to yell! I just read the time wrong! I thought I was getting here early! But there was no time for that.

I spent a few golden hours with my nephew, throwing the beach ball on top of the garage, and waiting to see if he could catch it, rolling around in the grass, and successfully making a batch of delicious imaginary pumpkin cup cakes that he ended up stuffing himself with (I think he ate seven).

When I arrived back at the apartment, I talked to my mom about all of her efforts to rent me a car while I am here. I have a very considerate mother...But it was turning into a hassle, with the insurance and the price and the picking up and the dropping off, and so I stopped. I began to think about my summer and the fact that I didn’t have a car, and I started to wonder where this thought that I needed one came into play. I called her back and said sorry but never mind. I just don’t want to begin to get into habits of necessity for things I know aren’t, just because they are accepted in the place that I am. This is not a tirade against rental cars. It’s a really fantastic way to get around. It was just the realization for me that this time, I didn’t need one. And if I had gotten one, I would have used it to drive down the street to the coffee shop, instead of walking there...

Which is what I did. I walked. I have become fond of not actually doing my hair, so much so that at home, I have resented the cold mornings that keep me from being able to walk outside with a wet head. So I packed my ipod and my book and my computer in my bag, thankful for the temperate climate I had traveled to. I took the majority of my steps on the sidewalk that led to the light, where I crossed the intersection that took me to the corner where the coffee shop sat, melodic tunes in check. I was breathing in each step, the comfortability of the sunshine and the breeze and the ground beneath my feet. I realized that I didn’t have to be in a foreign country to attain that feeling I had previously been longing for, and I fully, wholeheartedly and completely enjoyed each and every moment of the walk I had been waiting to take.