Ninety Amazing Years!

This past weekend was a big celebration for my grandfather's 90th birthday. Ninety! It's amazing that a body and mind can exist for such a long time and still be in almost tip-top shape.

This birthday bash was a big family reunion, with my dad's side of the family (he's one of 8 kids) getting together for what will most likely be the last time. It's hard getting that many schedules to coordinate, especially now that grand kids are all in different stages and places in life. This party has been in the works for a while and my grandmother put in many hours to make sure it came together perfectly.

This was also the first time that my boyfriend met that whole side of the family. It was a little overwhelming at first, as very few of my aunts and uncles are considered "quiet." But after the initial shock, it was really awesome to see him get acquainted with everyone, especially my grandfather - they bonded over both having been to war. 

Here are some pictures from this weekend. As I scrolled through all of them, it was shocking how well I felt like I knew these people (we share blood, after all), but how very little I know about their actual lives. It makes me a bit sad to think that I won't ever be as close to any one of my cousins as I wish I could be.

Let's move on to happy pictures instead of dredging up what could be...

These are my parents! Aren't they cute?!

These are all of my cousins. Quite a crew, huh?

This photo makes me smile whenever I look at it. My sister's boyfriend on the left, my boyfriend, me and my sister. 

These people make my heart sing and my life brighter.

This is my grandfather. We call him Gung Gung, which is 'grandfather' in Chinese. What an honor to be able to share in part of his life.

  

Finding the Balance

Life is all about getting to the sweet spot between careening out of control and sitting still.

Lately, I've felt both the insane feeling of having your hands off the wheel and the quiet solitude that can sometimes drive you crazy.

On one hand, my boyfriend and I have been taking a lot of fun trips here and there and have a lot of weekend plans for USC football -- these things keep us busy and going, going, going.  We get to people-watch, dine at hole-in-the-wall places and stroll hand in hand down the windy streets of San Francisco.  It's perfect. And perfectly draining.

On the other hand, when I am home, I've been doing a lot of reading.  I'm deep in Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, which requires concentration and a tenacity for keeping names straight.  When I'm not reading that on my iPad, I'm trying to keep up on all of the latest long reads that get mentioned by people on the Internet.  And then there are the regular blogs to keep up with.  (On an aside - it can get overwhelming to think that that there are millions upon billions of words on the Internet, and while many of them are superb and yearn for readers, I will most likely not get to a large fraction of them.)

Which brings me to the third hand (third hand?).  I haven't been doing the thing that I believe hits that sweet spot - writing.  For me, since I am mostly a non-fiction writer, this requires me to step out and away from my normal life and experience ... things.  But it also must be done in a quiet, singular place.  What's unfortunate is that I haven't willed myself into that sweet spot lately (if at all in the past few months).  I'm either careening or sitting still.  I'm either busy or not busy.  I'm never writing.

Maybe I'm not meant to write.  Maybe I'm meant to be a professional reader (no, but seriously, do those exist?).  Maybe instead of creating more words that go into the ether of the Internet, I should try to figure out how to give more attention to the words that are already out there (and get paid for it).

Or maybe...just maybe...I need to write.  To will myself to write.  To do it.  To make myself find the balance and not wait for the balance to find me.

The Second Installment of Fiction

Note: This is the second part of my first-ever fiction story.  You can read the first installment here.

Andrew would undoubtedly live until he was 100.  He would be "that guy" who, although he wasn't a strict diet-follower, ate well (and often), ran on a daily basis and made everyone around him jealous and somewhat annoyed at his dedication to being healthy.  It'd be cliche to say, but Andrew looked and felt like any late 20-something would aspire to.  And Andrew was pushing 53.

And yet ... he had indeed spent the night with his cheek pressed against the warm tile-floor, a product of the radiant floor heating, which Andrew had wanted to turn off, but Molly insisted on keeping on for a few more weeks.

Throughout the night, Andrew had prayed his body would remain motionless.  He had lay on the floor to ground himself, to say to his brain, "This is what I need.  I need for the movement to stop."  But the dingy still rolled and the constant, irritating and mind-numbing ringing in his ears (worse in the left than the right) couldn't be shaken.  In fact, it hurt to even move his head a few degrees one way or the other.  His life, the one that others wished they could have, had become hell.

Texts from a Horrible Day

I rolled over and grabbed my phone, just like I do every morning.  Today was different.  There were three news notifications staring back at me: 14 dead in Aurora. Gunman opens fire in packed movie theater.

Shocked.  It literally took me a second to decipher what I was reading.  Aurora.  Colorado.

And then my heart stopped.  My best friend was originally from Aurora.  There was no way she had been at that theater, I told myself.  She had moved across town into a new apartment.  She couldn't be there.  For my selfish reasons, I willed her not to be at that theater.

"Are you ok?"  A simple text message, one that I found fairly easy to send but as I sat there looking at it, realized it scared the living daylights out of me.  I couldn't wait for the answer ... I had to get out of the house.

My mind flitted from this thought to that thought as I walked the dog.  I felt angry and then sad.  And then I felt guilty because it was so beautiful here in Southern California.  And then I felt angry at myself for feeling guilty because in all honesty, I wasn't involved in this horrific attack.  I hadn't pulled the trigger.  I hadn't booby-trapped my apartment.

But of course, I was involved. 

"Yes, wasn't there.  Thank god." I received that text and suddenly, my sight became a little clearer, my heart, a little lighter.

It still affected me, though.  As I read through Facebook post after Facebook post, countless tweets and a blow-by-blow account found on Reddit, I felt worse and worse.  I couldn't concentrate at work.  My mind again flitted from this thought to that thought, always settling on the idea that a human being had done this to 71 other human beings.  I had this feeling of complete and utter sadness at how people treat each other.

I have no closing cliches or big-picture thoughts.  I will continue to read coverage of this horrible situation from the people on the ground who watch as bomb-sniffing dogs come out of the shooter's apartment and from people who are much more verbose and eloquent and able to connect all of the dots.  And I will send texts like this.

"I love you."



For continuing coverage, check out The Denver Post - they are doing an awesome job on getting tons of information out to the public.

Inch Like a Caterpillar

Progress isn't about making big leaps and bounds every day. It is about moving forward, pushing the big stone one little bit closer to your goal. I'm learning this really quickly now that I'm coming back from this soul-sucking rough injury.

Here are some boulders I'm inching forward in my life:

1. Running. I will get there.

2. Learning Spanish. The Rosetta Stone software is hopefully on its way to my mailbox.

3. Eating better dinners. I'm looking for easy, healthy recipes now and I want to cook something new at least once a week. Send suggestions my way.

4. Training Austin more. I have attached a treat dispenser to his leash, so we can work on "leave it" while walking by unruly dogs.

5. Stretching. Now that I have a set of official stretches that are visibly changing my body, I am putting in the time (about an hour every night) because I know it is going to get me closer to running (see: number 1).

6. Being more understandable. I would love to spend as much time with the boyfriend as possible, but sometimes, it's just not possible to do it all.

7. Praying in a more meaningful way. I'm guilty of throwing up the occasional 'Our Father' when I need help. But I've tried to become more cognizant of what I'm praying about and listening to what God says back.

What progress are you making in your life?

Unable to Build

"It is hardly possible to build anything if frustration, bitterness and a mood of helplessness prevail."
- Lech Walesa


The return of the pain. Frustration (noun). A total loss in confidence. I feel like a balloon that has been punched, not just deflated. Then anger comes from deep within, from the place that is cobbwebby and that I just don't like. He can run. That heavy-set woman can run. Everyone on this huge stupid planet can run. Apparently it doesn't matter whether you actually have a desire to run. Then sadness takes over. Remember when I could go out for 10 long ones? When I had my sights on a half marathon...I was gonna be in the bigs. And now. Four minutes of running for every six minutes of walking makes me wince. Helpless.


Frustration (noun): a deep chronic sense or state of insecurity and dissatisfaction arising from unresolved problems or unfulfilled needs

Thoughts of Today

1. Between this blog, Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest, my journal has been sadly neglected lately.  I haven't written much of anything in it beyond my Christmas shopping list.  Although I like having a hard-copy documentation of my life, I am oddly ok with it being empty as of late.  It means that my life is good and busy and I'm not afraid to tell the world what is going on.  One of my earlier relationships ate up a lot of my journal space because I wasn't necessarily sure of where things were going (and didn't want to share my hesitations).  But this new, fantastic, heart-filling relationship has got me shouting lovelys from the rooftop (and this blog).

2. I've failed two three days in a row in getting up early to go run.  Two Three days!  I did a long 10-mile run on Saturday that was really, really satisfying.  Each mile after the first one were under 8 min. (and hovered right around 7:30), so I was really happy with that.  But since then, when that alarm goes off at 5 am, I have ignored it.  Why?  Shouldn't the fear of the looming half-marathon be enough to jolt me out of my sweet, warm hibernation?  Apparently not.

3. My mom sent me this photo earlier in the day.  Oh, how homesick it made me.  I want to feel the snow crunch gently under my boots and see the pawprints of little animals in the snow around the ditches.  I want my nose to turn red when I go outside because it is nippy.  I want to wear a jacket, scarf and hat because I have to, not because it is fashionable.

4. I didn't put up a Christmas tree this year for a few reasons.  First, Austin.  Enough said.  Secondly, it seemed kind of like a big hassle for only a few weeks.  But because of this, please see No. 3...that is how I feel when I get back to the apartment and there aren't any twinkling lights to greet me.

5. One day, I'll slowly dance around my dimly-lit living room with my sweethear to Nat King Cole's version of "The Christmas Song."  The tree will be twinkling, casting soft shadows on the walls.  And it will be perfect.

6. I can't believe that the half marathon is in one month + one day.  I am neither excited nor scared.  At this point, I am just focused on getting in a few more long runs between now and then.  Scheduling them in-between parties, heels, brunches, packing, wrapping, Christmas and New Years is a job unto itself. 

7. Our company is moving to Hermosa Beach two days after the half marathon.  I am so excited for this move because the new building is about 1.5 miles from my house.  I can ride my bike to work everyday!  You know how much money I am going to save on gas?!  Oh, yeah, and I guess save the environment, too.

A Helium-Filled Holiday

Source

One of my life goals is to make it to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade live.  Growing up, watching the parade was always one of the things that we squeezed into turkey day, right between the homemade cranberry sauce and chili bread.

I want to see the huge balloons anchored by armies of balloon holders (how does one get that job, by the way?).

I want to bundle up in a jacket and cute scarf.  I want to sip hot chocolate and hold the boy's hand in the street.

The parade always ushers in the real (not fake and overly extended) holiday season; if Santa makes an appearance at the parade, then by gosh, Christmas is on its way.

Warm wishes and big balloon hugs to everyone on this holiday!

I Like You Too Much

I talk a lot about love on this blog.  Love for running.  Love for Austin.  Love for the boy that makes my heart smile.  And it's true.  I believe 100% in the power of love.

What I've found out in the last few weeks, though, is that love doesn't have to be shouted from rooftops or made into large, grand gestures. 

Love is ... reading side by side, knowing that the silence between the two of us is comfortable and warm.  When I think about my future, this is exactly what I see.  I hope to be reading next to this boy for the rest of my life.  We've got a ton of books to get through. 

Love is ... doing laundry together and laughing when one of my shirts ends up in his basket.

Love is ... splitting a dinner instead of ordering two.

Love is ... letting him park in my garage parking spot so he doesn't have to hunt around for an open space on the street.

Love is ... sending interesting articles to one another in the middle of the day because while you are reading said article, your mind immediately thinks of him.

Love is ... thinking about him all day.

Love is ... adding in some yummy toffee to his bag of leftover food for him to take home.  It's a sweet surprise!

Love is ... seeing the pup perk up when he hears the boy's car lock sound.  Yes, Austin knows exactly which beep comes from his favorite wrestling buddy's car.

Love is ... watching my two boys wrestle.

Love is ... saying 'I'm sorry for being a jerk' and then sealing that forgiveness with a kiss.

Love is ... him hi-fiving me when I say I ran three times last week.

Love is ... wanting to spend every waking minute with him and cherishing the ones that you actually do get to spend together.


I know, I know.  It's all super sappy.  But I feel like we are at a point in our relationship where everything is special with him.  I'm still wearing my love-tinted glasses.  To be honest, I hope I never have to take them off.

Thank You

Click for source

Google "pictures of soldiers" and many of the resulting images show soldiers and puppies.  Playing with them.  Feeding them.  Pups in the soldier's fatigue pockets.

I immediately smiled at these pictures.  And I couldn't help but wonder whether my boyfriend had ever found small pleasures like playing with street puppy while he was deployed.  I knew, though, that that Google search was barely scratching the surface of all of the pictures of war.  These were the happy pictures, the ones that we all fall in love with.  We all hope that those photos portray what war is - scary enough to have to carry around a gun, but stable enough to be able to find time to play with puppies.

Google "soldiers crying" and war becomes more real (as real as Googling images from the comfort of a climate-controlled building can be).  That is where the true, raw emotion comes through, the unrestrained sadness and grief.  These are the pictures that scare the living daylights out of me.  Why?  Because I imagine my boyfriend in those situations.  I imagine him seeing the same things that caused the soldiers in the pictures to shed those tears.  I imagine him being vulnerable and shaken, being rocked to his core by something as powerful as death.  And my breath catches.

Click for source

I'm still learning about the military, about what it means to be a Ranger, and how a soldier deals with the tragedy that is guaranteed.  I understand that I will never know everything.  And of course, I will never understand the feelings and thoughts and relationships that form while in war.

But I can be supportive and thankful.  And that extends beyond people who are in relationships with soldiers.  Sometimes, we just have to think of our soldiers & veterans like the puppies in the pictures.  They're scared and sometimes helpless.  What they probably need most is a hug.  And a lot of lovin'.

Click for source

Come Live in My Heart

From InspiredMess

 
While in a meeting, my boss posed the question, what's most important to you and why?  He said it was a hard question and that the answer shouldn't come right away - it was one of those prompts that require brewing (or is it stewing?).

I found this to be a ridiculously easy question and my answer came soon after I started thinking about it.

Love is what is most important, after all.  And don't fall into the trap of thinking that "love" means what happens between two adult people who want to spend their whole lives together.   That's only part of it.  Think of how each of those balloons makes up your heart - there are so many opportunities to show your true love and grow your heart.

Appreciate yourself for all of the things that you as a person can accomplish, can feel and can brave.  Loving yourself and every part of what makes you a unique individual is the foundation for other people loving you.

Taking pleasure in being pushed and challenged means that you will appreciate the outcome when you can raise your hands over your head and say, "I totally and completely conquered that and I loved every second of it."

Revel in simple, quiet moments when the world is spinning right on its axis.  You will love how perfect your life is at that exact second.  And don't ever be ashamed of feeling good about how well your life is progressing. 

Learn how to love each person that you encounter.  You don't have to like each and every part of them, but understand their good qualities.  Everyone has a talent or a gift, you just have to seek it out.  

Give of yourself, for in that sacrifice, you are loving. Period.

Don't be afraid to find a soul mate.  Don't be afraid to open your heart.  Don't be afraid that love will hurt.  Because it will.  But it will also be amazing.  So very amazing...

It's ok to be in love with things.  Like you iPad.  Or your cute shoes.  Or your favorite book.  Just don't show them more lovin' than special people in your life.

Speaking of those peeps - if they are in your life, they deserve all of the love that springs from your heart.  Remind them, tell them, shout at them; whatever it takes, make sure they know how much they mean to you.

Just remember, without love, babies wouldn't be born.  Without love, there wouldn't be BFFs.  Without love, we wouldn't have people dedicating their lives to great causes.  It's a really simple thing to do, once you boil down all of the unnecessary clutter of the fake stuff. 

“Come live in my heart, and pay no rent.”
--Samuel Lover           

One Day at a Time

"The only way to live happily ever after is to do it one day at a time."
 -- Unknown


As of tomorrow, I will have lived 9,125 days here on this earth. 

Over 9,000 days.

That's a whole ton of sunrises and sunsets, of breakfasts and lunches, of ice cream cones and barefoot miles.

That's more tears than I can count, more hugs that have warmed my body and kisses that have made my soul soar.

In that amount of time, I have lived in four different states six different times (seems like I can't get away from the southwest).  I have cycled countless miles along the beach and up in the mountains.  My face has gotten sunburned and windburned and eaten by mosquitoes (don't ask).  

Looking back over more than 9,000 days is mind boggling.  So much has happened in those days.  So much has changed, whether it is my hair style, my shoe size or the boy who is holding my hand.  And yet, so much has stayed the course. My parents have loved me every single day, regardless of what I did in the 24 hours before or the 24 hours after.  I know that just like the sun will come up, they will love me.  That is a gift that not everyone can say they have.

I met my favorite person around day 824.  Even today, at the 9,124th day, and again in another 9,000 days, she will be the bestest sister a girl could ever wish for, or even have the gall to ask for.

Around day 8,245, I was a graduate for the third time in my life.  Wait, do I count kindergarten and 8th grade graduation in that?  Hmmmm...probably not.  Three times I have gotten up on a stage when my name was read, reveling in the feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction, finality and beginnings, while also being scared out of my ever-loving mind.  I have become an educated woman who is constantly wondering, asking and learning.  I don't know exactly when babies become curious beings, but I am still as curious now as I was that day.







I lost my grandpa around the 6,390th day.  That was one of a handful of truly, deeply, heart-wrenchingly sad days of my time here. I have been blessed to have lived, so far, an extremely happy life, one that hasn't been hidden under rain clouds or despair.

Between days 8,925 and today, I fell in love and have given my heart, fully, to another human being.  Hopefully there are more days that feel like these in my future.






 

I became responsible for a life somewhere in the 8,000's.  Every day has been a learning experience: Dogs like to chew carpet.  Dogs like to pee on carpet.  Carpet starts to smell after being peed on too many times.  Dogs like to lick you.  Dogs eat a lot of food.  Dogs need a ton of exercise.  Dogs are truly wo(man)'s best friend. 





People always say, "Man, am I old," in reference to themselves.  And in some cases, it's justified...if you're 89 years old and have lived a full life.  But don't tell me that at the age of 28 or 34, you can truly call yourself old.  Sure, you might be 10,220 days into life, or even 12,410 days.  But what is that compared to 32,485 days.

32,485 days.  89 years. 

That's what I'm striving for (and more).  I want each and every one of those days to combine together to make a happily ever after.  I'm already a third of the way there, and think of all I have experienced up 'til now.  

Here's to tomorrow...and the next day...and the next...

The Beauty of Colorado

"I heard in my infancy only the siren song of the mountains. An alpine meadow was my front yard, across which scuttled, instead of chipmunks and squirrels, conies and marmots that pierced the thin air with their shrill whistles before they ducked into holes they had burrowed into the tundra. On July afternoons, I looled among the primrose and forget-me-nots, caressed by the sun whose thermonuculear secrets my father probed with his coronagraph.  Safe in my bed, I listened to the tormented howls of timber wolves at dawn, over on Ceresco Ridge.  In the morning, I would stare at the sharp summit of 14,142-foot Mount Democrat, impossibly far away, its north face still choked with winter snowfields and wonder. What is it like up there? What can you see?"

-- "On the Ridge Between Life and Death" by David Roberts

My ID

I had seen the ads for Road ID in the Runner's World magazines that my dad would send me once he was done reading them (recycle, people).  I was intrigued.

For those of you who aren't in the know, Road ID is a bracelet that has some identifying info on it in the horrible case that you can't speak for yourself (see: being hit by a car).  You can put whatever you want on it - your birth date, contact info for next of kin, any allergies you may have, etc.

My gears started turning (the ones in my head) and I realized that no one would know who I was if I was lying on the side of the road unconscious.  Sure, Austin's tags say who I am, but what good would that be if A). he ran away when I got hit or 2). they called the number on his tag (my cell phone)...duh, I wouldn't answer cuz I'm lying on the side of the road!

So, I went ahead and bought a bracelet, thinking of my future unborn children who would need someone to birth them.

I have to say, I was a little skeptical about the size when I first got it - it looked like it could barely fit over Austin's paw.  And yes, it does require a little finagling when I put it on.  But, it fits securely when it's on and I barely feel it.  I make sure to always put it on when I take Austin out for a walk or when I go for a run or ride. 

When I was on the Road ID website and it prompted me to put in the information I wanted on the bracelet, my mind started wandering.  How do I identify myself?  In no particular order, this is what I came up with:

• I'm a woman.  Everything I am stems from the fact that my sex has been told no you can't, when really, anything you can do I can do better.
• I'm half Hispanic, a quarter Swiss and a quarter Chinese.  Each part of my background helps to shape how I view the world.
• I'm a romantic. I can't say hopeless anymore, because I've found my prince charming.
• I'm educated and believe that each and every child here in the United States, however they arrived, deserves an education.  Each of us should be given the basic tools that can help us become better people.
• I'm a Colorado girl in the deepest part of my soul.  There is almost nothing more perfect than the golden aspens in the fall.  Well, that and a good New Belgium brew with friends.  That's pretty perfect, too.
• I'm definitely a dog person. Cat's make me sneeze. And puppies are God's gift to man, so how can you argue with that?
• I believe that family is the most important thing in any person's life and that with a strong, loving, forgiving family, a person can be content in whatever they do.  I am in my family and my family is in me.
• I'm a voracious reader.  If it has words, I'm gonna read it.  Except maybe the creepy classified ads.  I don't read those. 

 

• I really, really, really want to be a writer.  I don't know if that will happen now, or later, or if ever, but I am going to strive to be a good wordsmith.  
• I'm a really good eater.  I'm not afraid of food, so I'll probably eat whatever you put down in front of me.  My aunt used to say, "I'd rather clothe her than feed her," in reference to a time in my life when I could eat a foot-long Subway sandwhich by myself.  When I was 13.
• I know that we should all be proud of our bodies (and most of the time I am), but there are certain glances in the mirror that make me want to do a few more sit-ups and run a few minutes longer.  
• I'm a lover. 
• I'm not ashamed to say I own a library card. And use it.
• I'm a homebody who is happy in her normal routines.
• I'm a runner who happens to run barefoot. Ok, ok...in Vibrams.
• I'm a worrier.  If I care about you, it's inevitable that I'll toss up a prayer about you every now and again.
• I'm a sister to an incredibly smart, funny, gorgeous woman who the world is open to...she just needs to figure out exactly how to conquer it. 

• Sometimes, I overcompensate and try to sound more knowledgeable or cultured than I am.
• I have been told that I have no taste in movies and that I've missed all of the "good" ones.  But I am also one who won't watch a stupid movie even if everyone else is watching it.  So there.
• Yes, I need validation that I am smart, beautiful, talented, fast, etc.  Maybe that's why I check Facebook several times a day - just to see if people have commented on my posts or photos.

Too bad all of this couldn't fit on my ID bracelet - those EMT's wouldn't know what hit them!

I Miss the Ink

There was one point in my life when I was going to dedicate myself to journalism - I was all in.  So in, in fact, that  I went to get a master's in journalism and believed that, armed with the knowledge Stanford professors tried to shove into my brain, I could handle any city council meeting or football practice.  I was hoping to eventually end up as a long-form journalist, following in the footsteps of Buzz Bissinger & Joe Posnanski.  I was going to embed myself in some town to report on a story that was going to make waves and my Stanford profs would smile and nod when they read my byline..."We did that," they'd say.

Oh, the dreams of a young journalist.

Almost immediately after I graduated with a master's, the journalism industry started to crumble.  Papers weren't hiring and in fact, a good many of them were letting people go.  For a girl who just wanted to write long-form, off-the-beaten-path-sports stories, I was out of luck.  It was either move to Wisconsin to cover local politics or find something else to do with my excellent grammar skills.

Nowadays, most of the writing I'm doing is in clipped, email form.  Sure, I always put the comma in the right spot and try to make my sentences exciting, even if they are just explaining the intricacies of a specific project.  And I yes, I'm doing my darndest to try to post on this blog regularly.  And I've even started to write for some of our content packages at work, so I guess I can say I'm doing some reporting.  But believe me, writing about video games and cooking for one isn't exactly mind-blowing stuff.

There have been moments lately when I crave a good interview.  I reflect on that one time when I interviewed Billy Beane.  Or when I met with a climber who had fallen 100 feet off a cliff wall, which disintegrated his vertebrate and left his right leg a tangled mess (he'd later decide to amputate it so that he could continue living an active lifestyle).  I miss seeing the pain, the joy and enthusiasm, the defeat and success of people.  I want to hear people's stories, what makes them tick, why the did what they did and how it turned out.  A good story will always prevail, but sometimes I feel like those good stories are passing me by.  I want to be writing them, not reading them.

I've made myself a life goal of writing a book.  And I'm hoping that one day, that will happen.  But between work and the puppy and running and going out with the boy...

Until I get to the point when I can fully dedicate myself to researching and reporting and writing a book, I'm going to continue to write as much I can, whenever I can.  I'm going to continue to read the bests, and learn from their sentence structure and writing prowess.  That way, when that perfect story comes my way, I'll be ready. 

Holding His Hand

There are just some things that cut straight to your heart.  You see engagement pictures on Facebook, all gorgeously fuzzy with love and happiness and warmth, and you yearn for what the two people have, that comforting feeling of comfortableness with each other.  You hear a song that proclaims true love and while driving home, all you can think of is the magic that abounds in your heart when someone is holding your hand.  Strange how a touch three feet from it can rock your core so forcefully.

Do I see more engagement pictures and have a stronger visceral reaction to them when I'm single?  Or when I'm dating someone?  Does that wedding video make me tear up because I wish that will happen to me sometime...someday...or because I can actually see myself in that same position?

I used to write in my journal that it was definitely the former - "I want the knowledge that you can reach over to that person, hold their hand and know that everything will be ok."  I waxed and waned poetic nonsense and felt sorry for myself - timing was never on my side and I had come to the conclusion that relationships were always doomed to fail because one of us was always going to be leaving, moving, graduating, etc.  I can't start to tell you how many pages in my journal are devoted to questioning the guys in my life and the relationships that I might never have.

Slowly, though, my journal entries have changed to the latter - "We were truly in a little love bubble and it felt like my heart was complete."  (We were sitting in a Starbucks and immediately, my mind picked this song to be part of my life's soundtrack).

It's crazy how suddenly, your hand feels better in the hand of someone else than it does hanging listlessly, alone, by your side, something it had been doing for your whole life.  Your heart jumps in irregular beats when that person laughs over the phone - is it possible that Zuzu Bailey from "It's A Wonderful Life" was wrong when saying "every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings" and it's really when someone you love laughs? Angels would be getting wings right and left in my case...that boy laughs all the time.

Separately, the heart and the mind are incredible organs.  The heart (hopefully) learns that sitting down with the someone at lunch who might otherwise eat a PB&J by herself is good for both involved.  It understands that exercise makes the muscle stronger and the "heart" lighter and happier.  The brain recognizes symbols and speech and pairs them together to make "Where the Red Fern Grows" and "Come Away With Me".

But together, they can gang up on a person.  They can make you believe that wonderful, fuzzy feelings and dreams are easily accessible when you hold that someone's hand.  That truly and indescribably, everything and anything is possible when you hear that laugh.  And abruptly, the look that all engagement pictures have is how your life looks through your eyes...the love, warmth and happiness are now radiating off of you and not off of the picture that you yearn for.  You now have what you have always yearned for.  I now have what I have always yearned for.

If Heaven Wasn't so Far Away

As I was driving home the other day, I heard this song on the radio and it made me think of my grandpa.

My grandpa, Jose Vigil, was never able to see any of his granddaughters graduate from high school, much less college.  He won't get to watch any of us get married or have babies.  He was barely a tangible presence in my younger cousin's life, as he died when she was still young; she has a few memories of him, but not too many.  My sister and I were lucky enough to have a solid childhood of experiences with him.

• Going to the shed to get the air compressor to pump up the old, worn-out-to-the-point-where-the-leather-was-smooth basketball.
• Drinking from the outside water spigot.
• Going tubing down the small stream on their property.  We'd enter the property, hop into the bed of the truck (the only place we could ride in the bed), and drive up to the stream.  There, we'd cruise down the stream for a bit, but usually it was too cold to stay in too long.  Once it was lunchtime, my grandma would feed us Vienna Sausages & potted meat on saltine crackers.  We'd drink it down with the barrel juice drinks (you know the kind).  Those were sweet, sweet times when life was wrapped up in that one afternoon.  Nothing could get better than that.
• Riding horses.
• Playing in the hay loft (which was usually cut short by my sneezes and runny noses...dang allergies).
• Watching baseball on TV with the sound off (the announcers never said anything worth anything).
• Making carne seca (beef jerky)...a little bit of salt, a little bit of pepper.

Remembering these times with Grumpy makes me smile and warms my insides.  Here's a little prayer up to you, Grampito:

We all miss you so much down here.  The family is not the same without you and while we somehow figured out how to on in your absence, there is definitely a big void.  I was lucky enough to grow up with you in my life.  I worry that Nieves' memories of you are brief & fuzzy - I wish she could have known & loved you like Pilar, Sierra & I did.

Gramita is doing ok.  Things are getting harder for her - maintaining the house and land, taking care of the animals, worrying about all of us ... please help her to stay strong and not give up.  Because without her ... I don't know what this family would do.

I think that you would be proud of the people your granddaughters have grown up to be.  Pilar is so bright and talented and with focus, could do so many things.  Sierra is a very smart girl who finds interest in new, surprising things.  She has huge potential now as she graduates from high school - I hope that she sees her potential as we do.  And then there's Nieves, who is probably the most caring, sensitive, loving child I know.  She is the definition of sweetness and I can't wait to see who she grows up to be.

Grumpy, I hope you are proud of me.  I've stumbled sometimes and I have tried my hardest to be a good person.  Please continue to watch over me and guide me to do what is right.

A Few Good Reads

Spent my lunch break reading...and reading...and reading some more. There's almost nothing like getting lost in a good story.  But because of that, I didn't have the time to write a proper blog post.  So, instead, let me give you a brief look at what was taking up my time.

Remember His Name - Sports Illustrated

"Even as a boy Pat Tillman felt a destiny, a need to do the right thing whatever it cost him. When the World Trade Center was attacked on 9/11, he thought about what he had to do and then walked away from the NFL and became an Army Ranger...."

We all know Pat Tillman's story - football player leaves big bucks to help Uncle Sam win the war against terror, but dies on the battlefield.  The truth eventually comes out that he's killed by friendly fire.  The detail and powerful narrative of Tillman's story is incredibly well-done here.  Reading this, especially after the tenth anniversary of 9/11, and recently being semi-connected to Army Rangers, helped me to understand more about how the Army covered up Tillman's death.  It is mind boggling to think that a government branch, one that is in charge of the well-being of so many people, would continue to keep secrets, even after its poster boy died.  

Frank's Story - Runner's World

Frank Shorter is the father of the modern running boom. An enduringly popular speaker, he spins a captivating narrative about winning the 1972 Olympic Marathon. The story he hasn't told is the dark truth about his own father.

Wow. This was an eye-opening story about the physical and mental abuse that Frank Shorter endured at the hands of his own father, a beloved small-town doctor.  The memories that Frank has of being beaten were, at times, hard to read.  "Often Frank could smell liquor on his breath, which was both good news and bad. The bad news was that alcohol would juice his father's fury. The good news was that, if he were sufficiently enraged, he might grow befuddled and use the strap end of his belt instead of the buckle end."  This is the first time that Frank has ever spoken publicly, and at length, of his abusive father.  There's also a video interview of Frank within this story. I found it intriguing when Shorter said that he had learned to compartmentalize the pain while being beaten, and that translated to him being able to push a little harder while running in big races.

I believe that long-form journalism on the Internet, where it can be as long as the author wants, has become really, really well done in recent years.  Some of the places I find these types of stories are below:

Grantland - Any Bill Simmons fans out there?  This is his off-shoot site where he has some great writers contribute on sports and pop culture topics.

Runner's World - They do fantastic features/bios on runners.  While I read a lot of their smaller, more instructive pieces, I really enjoy the longer stuff they have to offer.

Longreads - They compile the best long-form journalism pieces on the web. Super great place to start for good reads.  Bonus: they tell you how long it should take you to read the piece, which helps when you only have an hour lunch break. :)

New York Magazine - Mainly read this for Will Leitch's sports articles (like his latest one about attitudes towards gay athletes, which was superb)

If you have other good sites for long-form journalism pieces, please, let me know!

The Inhumanity of Humanity

I was a freshman in high school ... still a newbie and figuring out my place in the pecking order that high schools inevitably become ... I had been hanging out in the commons area that morning and I'm not even quite sure how we heard about the attacks; a TV somewhere must have been turned on to the news, a teacher's feeble attempt to try to force something, anything, into our closed-off brains that only pay attention to cute boys, food and gossip ...

When the news broke, no one really knew what to do ... I distinctly remember one of my closest friends laughing and asking what the big deal was ... like planes fly into skyscrapers on a daily basis ... I yelled at her ... I couldn't help it ... my aunt worked in that building ... she was a secretary for one of the companies there ... and we had no clue if she had to work that day ... so I yelled ... "of course it's serious - people are dying!"  It's horrible to say, but that comment from that friend changed how I viewed her for the rest of my time in that small town ... she had been insensitive at the one moment when chaos was not of the controlled kind and all anyone wanted was for someone to reach over, hold their hand and gently whisper in their ear, "everything is going to be ok."

The rest of the day is a blur ... I'm sure we went to class and attempted to learn new things, but really, how can anyone focus on the quadratic equation when your brain is confused at the inhumanity of humanity?  Where had the goodness gone?  What causes one human being to turn on another?  Could I continue to believe in others? 

My aunt was fine ... she didn't work at the company when the towers fell ... the dark, heavy feeling that was sitting in the pit of each member of my family's stomach was slowly released when we heard that.  But many other families weren't as lucky as we were, and I wondered if it was ok to celebrate our news in a time that was clearly not cause for celebration.

It was odd ... initially, right after the attacks, we were all affected by it ... America had been attacked.  But slowly, 9/11 became just a day ... that's what happens when you live all the way across the country, when your office view doesn't change and you don't smell dust and death, don't taste the hatred at others ... we in Arizona were only smelling fall and tasting the new football season ... we were removed, far removed from what had happened ... TV stations didn't show highlights anymore and although suddenly we were in war, it didn't touch us ... I still went to cross-country practice and my mom still wouldn't let me date the senior football star.

Sure, I think now, we fly flags a little more proudly and we say Amurrica with a grunting sound, trying to prove that we know what it means to be a strong, free and powerful country.  But unless you were in New York that day, or unless you lost someone, or unless you went to fight when we cried war, I don't think 9/11 has the same poignancy.  I truly believe this.  For me, 9/11 is a day that reminds me that everyone is vulnerable.

I don't want to end with any cliches ... "we've banded together and are stronger because of it" ... because I don't believe in that at all ... 9/11 divided ... us vs. them ... good vs. bad ... U.S. vs. the world ... everyone's taking care of themselves ... isn't it time to reach over to someone you care for, hold their hand and gently whisper in their ear, "everything is going to be ok"?

Being Left in the Dust

In high school, your friends are everything.  Sneaking out of class isn't fun if you do it by yourself.  Having sleepovers aren't the same if you're just sleeping over with your sister at your own house.  Passing periods are boring if you go straight from you locker to class.  Friends are your lifeblood and you swear up and down (and on every yearbook) that you will always be friends.  How could you ever make new friends and leave these ones behind?  The new friends won't know your history...they won't know you.

Of course, we all know that life happens.  You head to different colleges and while you try your darndest to stay in touch, there are just too many new things to experience at school that your daily calls get cut down to once a week.  Sure, you might see each other at home when you go back for Christmas.  But in spending time together during the holidays, you realize that somehow, even though you promised, something has changed.  It could be you.  It could be her.  In fact, it's probably a combination of both, even though you might think that you are still the same down-to-earth person you were when you left.  Don't kid yourself.  You are nothing like you were when you graduated from high school.

It's interesting how your friends become acquaintances and then how those acquaintances become people who your mom gives you updates on periodically because she sees her mom at the grocery store and politely asks what's new with the family.  Suddenly, you have no idea who that girl is that you were BFFs with.  She's married or still searching for love, but doing so without telling you every tidbit of her life, every secret that she can't tell anyone else.

The sad part?  You still want a remnant of what you used to have.  You seriously try your hardest to maintain a relationship - at the very basic level, a phone call every few months would suffice.  But suddenly, all you remember of her voice is what you hear on her voice mail message when you inevitably get it for the fifth time.  And suddenly, the sixth time doesn't come as easily, and you hesitate when you hear her voice...maybe this time, you won't say hello.

I don't know whether you were the one kicking up the dust or the one choking on it's gritty taste.  But maybe, just maybe, you remember that friend who helped you get dressed for prom or hugged you when you got a bad test score.  And maybe, just maybe, you'll want to pick up your smartphone during lunch and give her a buzz.  Or send her a text.  Or just let her know you're thinking of her.  And you remember what you used to have.  Because that's all she's looking for...some recognition that what you used to have wasn't just in her imagination.