Gaudium Immensum Est

Several years ago, I lost my voice on Easter and, for me, it was one of the worst Easters I experienced because I couldn't sing. I couldn't sing with the choir so I sat in the congregation. I remember crying during the hymns because I could sing, not even the hymns. I had nothing. So much of my faith is tied to singing and music, my voice, my ability to sing for God's glory, to sing for Him and to Him. And, I've often found that I sing my best when I am not singing for myself.

On Good Friday this year, I sang at the conclusion of the Tenebrae service. The emotion of the evening overcame me and I barely finished. There many stops and shuddering breaths as I struggled to finish. In addition to the emotion, there was an unexplained catch in my throat; I thought it was just tears that I was trying to hold back. The next morning, I woke with no voice. I could sing one note, middle C. My heart sank; I did not want to "miss" Easter again.

Easter dawned and I had three notes. Well, that was some sort of progress, right? I went to church, praying the notes would come. They did for the few short hours of the Easter services. I held back during the first service but sang with full joy on the final hallelujah of the ending chorus of the second service. I left the church with my voice shattered.

And descended into a lingering cough that today, three weeks later, still keeps me up at night. I've sucked lozenges, more than is healthy (can you overdose on menthol?), gone to the doctor, taken cough medicine, stayed home a few days from work. It's moved from my chest to my head and back again, multiple times. But, through it all, I've still been able to sing.

This morning, I woke up with nothing above the C above middle C. Again, my heart fell but I dressed and went to church anyway. I couldn't sing the warm-up scales, the yawn-sighs, nothing. We were singing a Tschesnokoff piece this morning, one where the sopranos enter floating above the other parts. The other piece had high As, usually so easy and fun for me. I wasn't sure I'd be able to sing any of it. People didn't recognize my voice, it was so low. That's not a good sign, particularly as a section leader.

We started to rehearse. I popped yet one more cough drop (seriously, can you have too many cough drops?). And the notes came, hesitantly and quietly but they were there. And then I saw him, wearing bright blue board shorts and the newest No Pity scarf from the Timbers Army. I believe his name is Aaron. He visited the church on Easter as well (one of our pastors wrote beautifully about that here). He appeared to be chatting with an older member who always arrives early and sits near the front, perhaps to listen to the rehearsal.

We began singing the Tschesnokoff and as the sound grew, layer upon layer, he turned to face us. As we crescendoed, his arms raised up to capture all the sound in his embrace. When we sang the final alleluia, his head bowed and he clasped his hands as if in prayer.

"Let Thy holy presence come upon us."

One of our pastors sat down with him for a while and then walked with him up the center aisle. We began singing Ubi Caritas. They paused in the narthex. We came to the phrase, "Gaudium immensum est." The high As, the full chords, the immense joy. His arms raised again, ending this time in a hug with the pastor.

Gaudium immensum est.

He left before the service began but the joy I felt in singing, singing to God, singing to Aaron and seeing that joy reflected back, that stayed with me. I will not be able to sing either of those two pieces again without seeing, in my mind's eye, Aaron's beaming smile and outstretched arms and hands, trying to absorb it all in.

I sang beyond my power this morning. I sang for God and I sang for Aaron.

Gaudium immensum est.


Lord, Make Me an Instrument

"later that night

i held an atlas in my lap

ran my fingers across the whole world

and whispered

where does it hurt?

it answered

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere."

~ Warsan Shire

Sometimes, it is all too much. There is too much pain and death and hurt. Too many places torn apart by violence. Too many families fleeing for their lives. Too many who are threatened because of the color of their skin, who they are, who they love. There is too much for one person to handle, too much to take on.

Right now, all I can do is silently cry and pray for the world as I listen to a friend play Faure's Pie Jesu on his trumpet, while stroking the soft ears of my dog, who really doesn't know what is going on but knows that I am sad.

At times like this, I turn to music. I love to sing but at times like this, I can't always sing out loud. The pain and emotion becomes too much and I choke on the grief and the tears. I have to settle to listening to others express my feelings and singing the words in my heart.

That is not to say that I am silenced. No, it is merely a pause before I come in, stronger than before. It is singing into the rest. It is an energized rest. And while I rest, others are singing, praying, doing, waiting for me to join them.

So, what is my next note, my next phrase? Well, as Anne Lamott wrote today, I'll do the next right thing. I'll clean my home, I'll finish my gift for the newest baby in our family. I'll listen to Lauridsen's Lux Aeterna, I'll pickup litter in my neighborhood and help clear a storm drain. I'll send what support I can to those helping refugees, I'll pray for friends going through difficult times and pray for Paris and Lebanon and Syria and those affected by earthquakes in Japan. I'll pray for peace, for the whole world. I'll walk my dog, I'll breathe into the rest and I'll come back in, singing.

Don't Try So Hard and Maybe You'll Do Your Best

Last Sunday, I finished my fourth marathon. I had very few hopes for completing it within the timeframe I wanted. Earlier in the summer, right about when I was to start ramping up my training for the marathon, I fell.

See the gash on my knee? Yeah, that hurt.

Actually, I tripped.

Walking.

Up stairs.

Along with a bruised ego, I scraped a healthy amount of skin off my left knee and managed to twist my right foot. I spent that evening in urgent care and got to ride in a wheel chair (not as fun as the nine-year-old in side me thinks it should be). Nothing was broken but I couldn't run for a while. It was difficult to even walk for a while. This delayed everything.

Running a marathon is a commitment. Running a marathon slowly is even more of a commitment. When you are a slow runner, it takes a long time to rack up the necessary mileage and more than one Saturday run was hijacked by oversleeping and hot midday weather (Portland had one of their hottest summers on record). I don't mind doing a couple of miles in 80 or 90 degree weather but when it takes you 3+ hours to run 15 miles, you avoid the heat. Which means you need to start running by 5 am. And, as a result, I never got my really long runs done.

I did manage to complete two 10+ mile runs a few weeks before the marathon; one was very disappointing and the other not so disappointing but I still didn't have high hopes for my time. My main goal was to finish in less than 6 hours, which seemed doable but still hard. If I could, I was going to try for a 12 minute mile pace for as long as I could. Again, doable but hard, given my lack of training. The main thing was to finish and not start too fast.

So, when I looked at my watch at mile 5 and my time was about 55 minutes, I thought I had started my watch at the wrong time (except that I remembered very clearly starting it as I ran across the first mat). Then I thought, "It's race day nerves and adrenaline, it will even out, I'll slow down eventually. Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2." But I also felt good. Really good, like I could keep that pace forever.

Between miles 7 and 10, I was running an out-and-back portion of the course and I was keeping my eyes peeled for a friend that I knew was running the half. This friend is faster than me and had started before me but I was hoping to see her while I was on the out portion and she was on the back portion. And I did see her, fairly close to the turnaround and it was unexpected but I didn't think too much about it until I passed the 10 mile mark and checked my watch again. I was under 2 hours and still feeling good. And I thought, "Good pace, doing great. But now we'll start climbing into Northwest and then comes Highway 30 and the St. Johns Bridge. You'll slow down; just don't push too hard."

"Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2."

Mile 15, under 3 hours, just. What is going on?! How am I keeping this pace? It still feels good. Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2." St. Johns Bridge, the great equalizer (I've only managed to run up it once; this time, I made it half-way before I had to walk. Almost everyone walks part of it). Mile 20, just over 4 hours.

"Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2."

 My walk breaks started to get longer but I was still blowing past all of my previous records. My legs still felt good although my feet hurt and I was pretty confident I was developing a blister on my left big toe (oh, boy did I develop a blister!). I jogged down Greeley and walked up Interstate. Up and over Broadway Bridge. Mile 25, I had finally slowed down but I was still 15-20 minutes ahead of what I had planned with my parents (they saw me pass at about 5.2 miles and went to church and then were planning on seeing me at just after Mile 25). I had to text them to tell them to just meet me at the finish. Put the phone away and started jogging towards the finish. Mile 26, almost there, could walk the rest of the way and still PR but I gotta finish strong.

I discovered I was an athlete when I discovered rowing and one of the things I learned in rowing is you leave it all on the water. You pass that 250 meter mark (or if you have an inexperienced coxswain, 750 meter mark) and you sprint until you think your arms are going to fall off and your heart is going to jump out of your chest. And that is how I finish races. I dig deep, I lift my knees, I pump my arms, I make funny faces and my breathing changes and I sprint.

"Breathe-1-2, exhale -1-2."

I passed 5 people, right at the end. I wobbled my way through the finish area. I was in some pain (mostly that darn blister), and my equilibrium was off, which made walking a straight line kind of hard. I looked at my watch. 5:24.23. Wait, what?!

5 hours, 24 minutes and 23 seconds!

I beat my previous best time by 11 minutes! The marathon that was supposed to be my slowest ended up being my fastest.

Freshly showered and already planning my next one!

Sometimes, we try too hard, we over compensate and we pressure ourselves to be perfect. To run our fastest, be our smartest, our prettiest, our thinnest, our bestest and we fail because we've put too much pressure on ourselves. Too much emphasis on what others think or what we think others think. And I don't know about you but I don't do well under too much pressure. Hard work is needed to get us to the starting point and it's hard work getting to the finish line but, in between, relax, brush it off, don't try so hard and maybe, with the pressure off, you'll do your very best.

After all, the real goal is to finish well for you. Everything else is gravy (yummy delicious gravy on top of fries and cheese curds. Okay, I just made myself hungry for poutine. Sorry about that). Don't let other people dictate what your finish is because you're stronger and faster than you think.

Just don't forget to breathe.

With Strength and Dignity

Growing up, my elementary school had an annual field day. The entire school was split into color-coded teams, mixing all grades (I was always on the Orange Bad News Bears). I hated it, field day was my least favorite day of the year and it may also account for my mild dislike of orange. I wasn't good at any of the events. I couldn't run fast enough, I couldn't jump-rope long enough, I couldn't throw a ball far enough. I did win the softball throw one year... because I was the only girl in my class who entered the event; it never really felt like a victory. Usually, I just got the "participation" points. But this post isn't about Field Day.

My senior year of high school, my class went to the Philippines for our class trip. Before going, someone who had worked and lived in Manila came and talked to us about what to expect and how to stay safe. We were warned to keep close track of our wallets and not wander off at night and not to give money to any people on the streets. We were warned that street children might pick our pockets or were fronts for gangs or Faganesque groups. And we saw people everywhere and there were children, so young and obviously in need, lurking by every mega-mall entrance, with jasmine wreaths to sell, for so little. But this post isn't about that trip.

Soon after returning from the Philippines, we were encouraged to submit writings about our experiences to the school newspaper. I wrote a poem and submitted it. It wasn't the best poem but it wasn't the worst. I tried to capture some of my conflicted feelings from the trip. The editor thought it needed explaining which, truth be told, annoyed me quite a bit. I thought part of the beauty of poetry was in discovering the meaning on your own. It also fed worries and insecurities that no one else would understand what I was trying to say, that my writing wasn't any good (insecurities that persist to this day).

Shortly after the newspaper was printed, Field Day came around. Traditionally, the seniors helped out with Field Day but earlier in the year, they had decided they wouldn't need our help. I was overjoyed that I wouldn't have to help out and relive unhappy childhood memories. Unfortunately, a few days before Field Day was to happen, they decided they needed our help after all. Our PE coach let us know that we would be needed but, knowing how much I disliked it, he had arranged for me to help at the score table, rather than any of the events.

While working the score table, one of the mothers approached me. She and her husband were new to our community. She introduced herself, explaining that she had sought me out because she and her husband were from the Philippines and she wanted to thank me for the poem that I had written. She understood exactly what I had been trying to say and she wanted to make sure I knew that it had touched someone, that someone understood. I don't think I ever talked to her again after that but it's one of those things that I've held in my heart all these years.

And that's what this post, this long, rambling post is about. Because the woman who introduced herself to me, who encouraged me so long ago is named Bola Taylor and Bola Taylor is dying of cancer. She is dying with grace and humor and courage. I've seen bits and pieces, here and there on Facebook through friends' walls, pictures and posts and it is beautiful and sad to see. And I can't imagine what her family and friends are going through. And I wanted to say thank you, Bola, from one stranger to another, before it was too late. Thank you for your encouragement so long ago, thank you for your grace and hope and belief and witness over the past few months. I know that whatever happens, you made a difference, you will continue to make a difference. You remind me of one of my favorite Bible verses, "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at days to come."

All I can really say is thank you.

Update: Bola Taylor died early in the morning of October 19 in Tokyo. Rest in peace, Bola.

Lessons Learned from Zoolights

Year 1: Bring the stroller. That adorable little baby, the one all snuggled in your arms, about the size of a football and twice as heavy? Yeah, wait an hour or two walking around a zoo and your arms will be ready to fall off. As much of a hassle as it is to bring the stroller, if you want to be able to move the next day, it's worth it. Oh, and you are unlikely to get any good photos...

Year 2: Stroller, check. Forgot rope to strap the child in. It's like driving a grocery cart with a bad wheel. The whole thing keeps veering to the right.

Year 3: If contemplating taking more than one child and second child is an infant, leave the infant at home. They can wait one more year; they wouldn't remember anyway. And then, if Big Curl has a fit of the dramatics because she's walked more miles than a toddler should and her rain boot just fell off, you can focus entirely on her and getting that boot back on her foot.

Year 4: Make sure you go to the bathroom before dinner. Can't leave Little Curl by herself. Can't leave the purse. Leave the jackets and pray they won't clear your food while you are wrangling two little girls into the handicapped stall of the women's restroom and then preventing one from sitting on the floor while helping the other use the bathroom. Oh, and did I mention, the bathroom is outside the restaurant?

Year 5: Check that you are not going on BOGO night. And then check again. Overflow parking a highway exit away, long line for the shuttle bus, long line to buy tickets, line for the bathroom (I learned my lesson last year, always go to the bathroom first), the restaurant we usually eat at is closed for a private event (who has a private event on BOGO night, shutting down one of the few places to go inside and get warm? I'll give you a hint... Intel), long line for the Zooliner. Skipping the train in favor of food, another cafe closed, last option open (Hallelujah!), animal straws bought as prizes for good behavior, leaving the restaurant only to hear the park is closing in 30 minutes. No animals seen (not surprising, it was cold), illuminated necklaces bought as reimbursement for no train or animals, only to manage to get on the second to last train of the night. And then worrying that we are too late for the shuttle back to the car.

You still won't get good photos...

Bonus Lesson: Every year (including this one), Big Curl tells me it's the best time she's ever had at Zoolights. And this year, Little Curl gave me the biggest hug ever as I carried her from the car to the house. Every year, something goes wrong and every year our Zoolights trip is a rousing success.

But I am never, EVER taking the Curls on BOGO night again.

Silence

"Silence. That's what I'll remember: The blinds stopped shaking and banging into the windows of my classroom. The TVs hanging from the ceiling over my head stopped 'dancing'. The 65 kids in the choir all held their breath in the seconds following the horrible shaking. No voice (I was wearing a body mic because I had severe laryngitis).

Silence. A school is never silent.

Once we were outside on the field: No trains. Those trains we see multiple times an hour running right beside our campus...they run so often we aren't aware of them...until they stop.

Silence. Nothing spells disruption or disaster in Tokyo like 'no trains'."

Today is the third anniversary of the Tohoku earthquake and tsunami. Starting midday on March 10, my Facebook newsfeed began to fill with remembrances of March 11, 2011; requests for prayer, for continuing help and hope; reminders that while the world has moved on to the next tragedy, the next war, the next news story, some of us have not. Some of us will never forget, just as some will never forget Aceh or Newtown or Syria or Ukraine or Venezuela or Katrina or 9/11 or the too many other places and tragedies and wars to even mention. One person can not remember them all but each of us makes a connection to something and we remember it and that is important.

One way I choose to remember is to make sure I am prepared (as well as can be) for disaster. In Japan, September 1 is National Disaster Prevention Day (the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923 happened on September 1; schools observe a moment of silence and nationwide earthquake drills are held). For me, my Disaster Prevention Day is March 11. I use the day to go through my emergency kit and replace any food that needs replacing. Last year, I finally bought a hand-crank radio. I've got a first aid kit, a backpack with food and clothes that I can grab at a moment's notice. I've got dog food and people food, an emergency blanket and a can opener (really important). I still have things I need to put together, like an emergency kit for work. Some people tease me for my "paranoia" but I would rather be prepared than have to walk home six miles in heels. I'd rather be prepared than wonder, how do I get to my family, where do we meet up. Shortly after the Tohoku earthquake, I remember reading some (ignorant) comment about "why bother being prepared? Japan was prepared and it wasn't enough." Japan's preparation might not have been enough to prevent everything but as bad as it was, think of how much worse it could have been. You only have to look at the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami where there were no plans in place and hundreds of thousands of lives were lost.  Almost 20,000 lives were lost in Japan but how many lives were saved because there were plans in place, plans that people knew and followed.

Koji Sasahara - AP

The quote at the start of this post is from my mother, her memory of the moments right after the ground stopped shaking long enough to evacuate the building. And it is true, nothing spells disruption in Tokyo like no trains. One of the specific images from three years ago that continues to stick with me (besides the countless photos of terrible devastation and loss) is of office workers in Tokyo walking home on the tracks of an elevated train. That is the only way they know to get home and with the power out, for once, there was no danger of being hit by a train. And when your world has been shaken beyond recognition, you just want to go home. It's an image akin to that of the workforce of New York, walking across the bridges after the attacks on the Twin Towers. They just want to get home.

And, as I look at before and the most recent after photos of the Tohoku region, I can see rebuilding happening but not a lot of home building. There is still so much to be done in Tohoku and they are starting to see unexpected effects. Children in areas surrounding Fukushima don't know what it is like to play outside and it's starting to affect their health and development. Hundreds of thousands in Tohoku are displaced and still living in temporary housing (houses that, size-wise, make FEMA trailers look palatial). So, please, continue to pray for Japan, for the rebuilding, for people to be able to go home.

Don't let the memory fade away into silence.

An Open Love Letter

Some Thoughts in Honor of the Multnomah County Library's 150th Year

The door swings heavy,
Solid wood,
Clear glass,
Mottled glass and rattling,
So many different doors but all lead to the same.
Library, sanctuary, help, escape, these you have been to me.

Each is different, yet each is the same.
The quiet of research, the clamor of story time.
A wall of shelves in a hidden corner,
A grand building of marble and authors.

The smell of wool
Dampened by rain.
Humanity,
In varying degrees of unwash.
Outside cares and inside woes,
All fade away when confronted by the intoxicating perfume of books.

Musty, dusty,
New and old.
Hardcovers with their crinkly cellophane wrappers,
Paperbacks with contact paper protectors.
Adventure and history,
Love and suspense,
Mystery and drama,
Limited only by the span of my arms (and the size of my overdue fines).

I stand, reading.
I sit on the floor, reading.
I would loll about, reading,
If I could,
If the librarian would let me.

O, the librarian.
Friend,
Confidante,
Disciplinarian,
Conspirator,
Upside-down reader
And right-side up thinker.

All this to say,
I love libraries,
Be they small, middlin' or large,
New or 150 years young.

There Shall a Star - The Receiving

It's the first Sunday of the year, Epiphany Sunday. It's the day we celebrate the coming of the Magi, the following of a star, and the manifestation of Christ to the world.

2012

There are many traditions surrounding Epiphany, some of them holy, some not so holy (like fruitcake throwing contests). My church has an Epiphany Sunday tradition where stars are handed out during the service. Each star is about 5 inches across and has a word written on it. We draw them out of a basket, not knowing what the word is. The word is meant to inspire thought and reflection, perhaps point us to something we need to work on or encouragement as we deal with situations throughout the year, basically give us one more way for the Spirit to communicate.

When I first started attending Westminster, I thought this was a fun tradition but didn't put much stock into it. It felt too much like horoscopes that are so vague, they could be applied to anything or like the word searches that I see circulate Facebook around this time of year. You know, the ones that say, the first three words that you see will characterize your year (by the way, supposedly, my year will be have love, money and time. Does that mean I will meet the man of my dreams, he'll be rich, and I can quit my job and just sell knitwear on the internet?).

Some of the words I've gotten in the past, no matter how I looked at them or thought about them, I just couldn't seem to find any applicable meaning to them. Words like Forbearance (2010); what exactly does forbearance mean? Was I supposed to be forbearing or was someone going to be forbearing to me? Same with Sympathy (2006). I like to think I'm a sympathetic person. But do I just think it or am I really? I don't even remember what words I got in the first couple of years at Westminster; I didn't keep them like I have the last eight.

For the last few years, the stars have been almost painfully accurate. Like the year I got Harmony (2009). Everyone at church told me, "Oh, how appropriate, a singer like you getting Harmony." Except I knew it had absolutely nothing to do with music and I was not looking forward to it. The day before we got our stars, I had been told some news by one family member that I knew would not be exactly welcomed with open arms by the rest of the family. The next six months were sometimes tense as our entire family navigated a new reality and I often felt put in the middle, trying to keep us harmonious, trying to be supportive and understanding of both sides.

2013

Or two years ago, when I got Restfulness (2012). It came as a confirmation that I had made the right choice to bow out of a few of my activities, simplify things. Also, that I needed to make my living space more restful (still working on that. Oh, and the actual getting more rest so I can be full of rest).

Last year, I got Caring (2013). When someone needed a safe place, somewhere to rest their head and get their feet under them, it was a no-brainer to let them have the guest room. I don't feel like it was much and I wish I could do more. I wish I could make all of this person's problems go away because I hate seeing them sad and frustrated and I want them to be able to live their life the way they want to, the way they deserve to.

Sometimes, the Epiphany Stars suck because they make you think and look deep, into your soul and your life. They can cause confusion and annoyance. A word can fill you with dread and worry, wondering what it means for the year. They can make you mad. At those times, I think it is important to remember, it is just a word and there's no way of knowing if it will have any affect on your year.

I look forward to getting my Epiphany Star every year. I usually don't make New Year's resolutions but I do like to have a theme for the year and the Epiphany Star is an easy way to determine the theme.

I'm not sure yet what to think of my word/theme for this year.

2014

Experiencing a Different Life

 "If you want to run, run a mile. If you want to experience a different life, run a marathon."

~ Emil Zatopek, 1952 Olympic Gold Medalist in 5k, 10k and Marathon

Truckin' at mile 21

When I was training for my first marathon, people thought I was a little crazy. Marathons are hard and I was a runner but a casual one. I've already detailed in an earlier post how I came to be a runner at all.

People who knew me were skeptical. A lot of dedicated runners refuse to run marathons. People who think nothing of running 15 ~ 20 miles won't go the final 6.2 miles. I had never even run a half marathon or a 10k. What made me think I could finish a marathon?

People who knew me really well knew I would finish because I'm stubborn. But they thought that would be the end of it. After all, marathons are hard and I was a casual runner. I'd drag myself across the line, check marathon of my bucket list and that would be the end of it.

My sister knew I would do another marathon when I texted her, "Finished!" at the completion of my first marathon. She knew because of the exclamation point. And the fact that I like being a little different.

Don't get me wrong, running a marathon still hurts. I walk oddly for two days afterwards and hurt in places I didn't even realize were involved in running.

I knew I'd finish the marathon again but I had some doubts about my training this time. I didn't need to worry; not only did I finish, I knocked 10 minutes off my previous time. And I'm already thinking about my next marathon in 2015. If I start training now and get a really good, solid base of running now, my pace should improve and I should be able to PR again, maybe cut another 10 minutes. I've got a long term goal now as well, to get under 5 hours.

I'm not sure I can truthfully say I enjoy running marathons but I don't hate running anymore. And the feeling of doing something intense and crazy like a marathon feeds a part of my soul that wants to be a rebel. I rebelled against running as a child; now, running is my rebellion.

My life is different because I run, because I run marathons.

Some highlights from this year's marathon:

• Singing the National Anthem with the other runners at the start and getting compliments from everyone in the Port-A-Potty line with me.
• My dad came to watch me run. He was able to see me at four different points (~ miles .5, 6, 11 and 25) in the race.
• A dear friend came to watch me run and saw me at three different points (~ miles 2, 5, and 21) in the race (and took some pictures)
• Two co-workers came to watch me run and saw me at two different points(~ miles 12 and 21). They were impressed that I was still running at mile 21.
• I no longer believe in the wall. I do believe in a mile of mental jello, difficult and mental and pace reducing and mile lengthening but still possible to get through. Just keep moving. I. Will. Not. Stop. (I also believe in the Blerch).
• Keeping a sub 12 minute pace for over 3 hours. And running down Greeley with less pain than the first time. The downhill training paid off.
• Remembering and honoring those who had their lives forever changed in Boston last April. It may take me a long time, but it would be pretty awesome to run the Boston some day. Even if I'm eighty.

Wasn't Once Enough?

Two years ago, I ran the Portland Marathon. Tomorrow, I'm doing it again.

My training has been different this time around. I started training earlier but I didn't train as hard. I didn't have Hood to Coast to train for this year (second year in a row of denied entry; they promised us guaranteed entry for next year) so I didn't run hills as much as I did the last time. However, I did focus a bit more on running downhill than I did last time as I remember how hard it was running down Greeley.

This year, as a mid-training test, I ran a half-marathon in Forest Grove. I did better than expected but that had unexpected results. If I was doing so well, I could cut back on training, right? I eased up on mid-week short runs but completed more of my weekend long runs, including a 20 mile run a few weeks ago. That run was both encouraging (I finished it) and discouraging (I didn't hit the pace I wanted to). But I did it; two years ago, the longest I had run was 15 miles.

I also had a week-long running break in September, just before my taper when I went on a cruise to Alaska. But I did do a lot of stairs on the ship. Up and down, 11th deck to 7th to 14th and back multiple times a day. Figured that should help a bit with the downhill as well, at least that's what I've been telling myself.

I'm not worried about tomorrow; I've completed a marathon before and I know I can finish. But I am worried about tomorrow because I was not where I wanted to be training-wise when I started my taper. Last time, my goal was to finish. This time, I want to beat my time from before. And, if I can cut 20 minutes off my marathon time, and keep that time or better in my future marathons, when I'm 80, I'll qualify for the Boston.

Once wasn't enough and I'm already thinking long-term.

Blanket the Bridge

When the wind is blowing, these billow like beautiful, rainbow sails.

Portland is sometimes called Bridgetown because of the many bridges crossing the Willamette River, running through the middle of Portland. There are 10 bridges (or 11 if you count the railroad bridge, which I do) crossing the river and each one is a little different. A new bridge is currently being built and it's the first bridge to be built in almost 40 years.

The Broadway Bridge is 100 years old this year. When the Broadway Bridge opened in April of 1913, it was a really big deal. At the time, it was the longest bascule bridge in the world (see the Wikipedia article here; I tried to find the longest now and some say it is Portland's Morrison Bridge) and it is currently the longest Rall-type bascule bridge still in existence today. The most important thing about it at the time of it's opening was that, for the first time, north and northeast Portland were connected with west Portland.

There was a big celebration for Broadway's birthday year, culminating in a public art installation and a block party. The art installation were four large knitted banners, made of 12" squares sewn together. Over 150 knitters participated, knitting feverishly. The banners will be disassembled when taken down, washed and made into smaller blankets, then distributed to shelters and a children's hospital.

I was one of the 150 knitters. I worked on yellow (the Timbers Army Loopers and Knitters or TALKs worked on the yellow and green squares; yes, there is a Timbers Army knitting group). My yellow squares were the ones with color patterns; I quickly got bored with stripes and garter stitch.

The week before the banners came down, I walked over to the bridge on my lunch to take pictures. As usual, I had my knitting with me and knit as I walked. After taking pictures of the banners, I started down off the bridge, passing a cyclist pulling a small trailer behind her. As we passed each other, she called out to me, "Knitting while walking, nice!" Sometimes, my life is exactly like Portlandia... all that is missing is the artisanal chickens or the heirloom cheese.



(As cool as our yarn-bomb was, check out this one as well. We even got a mention in the article.)

Run for Minutes

"Run for minutes instead of miles. If you're feeling great, you may go 6 miles in 50 minutes; if you're not, you may go 4.5." ~ @GregMcMillan, Greg McMillan, head coach of McMillan Running

Or, if the race officials/volunteers have marked the course incorrectly, run over half a mile longer than intended.

When I first decided to run a marathon, I had never run more than 7.24 miles (that was the length of the longest Hood to Coast leg that I had ever run; it was also the first H2C leg I ever ran. It's amazing I kept running). I was constantly asked if I had run a 5k or a half-marathon and the answer was constantly no. I just decided skip the little stuff and go straight for the crazy. Don't worry, I did train; I'm not that crazy.

This time around, a little wiser and experienced, I've stretched my training over a longer time period in the hope that I'll be more prepared for the marathon. And I added a half-marathon as a "test," to see if I was on track with my training. That "test" half was last Sunday.

There I am, in the pink

I had a goal for this race, to finish in under two and a half hours. This was an ambitious goal but what is the point of a goal if it is too easy? My goal for my last marathon was just to finish, and since I had never run that distance before, that was an ambitious goal. But now with a marathon under my belt, I felt it was time to have personal record goals.

I felt good for the first seven miles. I kept a steady pace, I passed several people (always an ego-booster). It was warm but not overly so and there was a little shade dappling the gently rolling hills of Forest Grove. Then it got warmer and I started wondering where the next water table was. The gently rolling hills started to roll a little bit more and a little less gently. The shade disappeared.

The good news was that the turn-around was close. For about a mile, I had been seeing runners who were ahead of me passing me going the other direction. I was finally seeing runners that I recognized and then I turned a corner and saw the turn-around just a little ways away. One lady that I had passed early on passed me (always an ego-buster) but I kept in my head and didn't try to run her race.

But the miles were passing more and more slowly. The turn-around was at eight miles, the ninth mile felt slightly stretched, ten was long and hot, eleven felt like a mile and a half. There was no shade and no water except for the greenhouses on either side of the road with their irrigation systems going full-blast, inside. It felt like an obscure form of torture (make someone run eleven miles then put cooling, lovely water behind a fence... evil). Mile twelve started and then went straight up. Seriously, a steep hill at between mile eleven and twelve? With a curve in it? I couldn't see the end. I had already started walking and doing the "run to that sign, then you can walk to the next sign, and repeat" but I got to the hill and it was just walking at that point.

After finally dragging myself to the top, I saw the twelfth mile marker, sitting next to nirvana, the last water station. I chugged two cups of water and poured another on my head. It wasn't much but it was enough. I staggered on, made the final few turns and somehow found it in me to power through to the finish.

Somewhere after mile eight, I had stripped down to my sports bra and running skirt. I'm a fairly modest person and I'm not particularly fond of my mid-section. I've never been one to run around in just a sports bra but one thing I have realized in my years on a rowing team and my years as a runner, people get uncomfortable enough, hot enough, sweaty enough, and they will do what ever they need to do to feel better (looking at that photo now, I don't look nearly as bad as I thought I did). Anything that could get me moderately cooler was a-okay by me and if people had a problem with it, well, they could run a half-marathon off a short pier for all I cared at that moment.

Here's the thing though. A runner got lost during this race and my ride/spectator/shanghaied volunteer extraordinaire was looking for a woman in a pink top, not a green one. I didn't arrive at the finish line by 2:30.00 and by 2:40.00, she was starting to worry a little. But I came in at 2:43.59 and I felt good about that time and she was able to recognize me early enough to get a few photos of my coming in. So it all worked out, even though I didn't make my time.

Actually, here's the real kicker. When I got home, I mapped the course so that I could log the race on the website I use to track my training. I didn't run 13.1 miles. I ran 13.75 miles. The race organizers had marked the course incorrectly and extended the turn-around too far. Even with intermittent walking and the evil hill, my pace was under the 12-minute mark. For me, that's really good and I'm very proud of that.

This last weekend, I was supposed to run for 17 miles but I had to cut my run short due to some pretty bad chafing (BodyGlide is my friend and I forgot to bring her along on this run) so instead of running for miles, I ran for the time I planned. Today, I mapped that run to log it online. Guess what? I ran 13.1 miles exactly.

Never Say Never

A friend pointed out recently that never and I don't get along well. This is something I have noticed as well. Never likes to bide it's time and just when I get complacent, spring out at me and "Ha, ha! and you thought you would never...." Here are some examples:

Mt. Fuji

When I was in high school, I swore I would never be an athlete. Yet, while in college, I accidentally signed up for the novice crew team, found that I actually loved rowing, and ended up a varsity athlete for three years.

When I was fifteen, I climbed Mt. Fuji (for the second time; yes, I'm aware that makes me a fool). When I came down off that mountain, I swore never again. A decade and a half later, I want to climb the mountain again. Go figure.

I told my parents I would never get a tattoo. I now have four.

My first marathon bib and shoes

Right after I graduated from college, I swore I would never run a marathon or even a half. My crew coach had suggested I take up running if I couldn't join a rowing club. While I did run a little bit at the time (usually only a couple of miles at a time), I didn't particularly enjoy it then. I think I outright laughed in her face when she suggested a marathon. Ten years later, I've run a full marathon and a half-marathon (I ran the half today, actually) and three Hood-to-Coasts and I'm training for two more marathons.

I thought I would never travel alone. I was scared to travel alone as a woman. But I realized that I was running out of traveling companions and I wasn't willing to sit at home anymore. So I went to London and I'm planning my next trip, which leads me to my next example.

Me, along the Thames

I though I would never go on a cruise. And, while I'm not ruling it out, I'm not terribly interested in a cruise to Mexico or around the Caribbean. Alaska, now that's a different story. I'm going on my first cruise in about a month, along the Inside Passage. There will be other firsts on that trip as well. A helicopter flight, a ride on a dog sled, ziplining, kayaking. I'm getting so excited, I want it to be September NOW.

So, as you can see, never and I don't get along. I swear never to do something and I do it. I think something will never happen and it happens.

I'm fairly confident that I will never skydive or bungee jump (I'm not afraid of heights, just falling from them) but, knowing my luck with never, I'll end up in a small airplane, one that has lost power and the only way to survive is by diving from the plane. Or I'll have to bungee jump off something... nope, can't think of a legitimate reason to bungee jump.

Never say never...

Taking Out The Trash

I once posted a Facebook status that said something to the effect of, "I know there are many things wrong in the world and my problems are little problems but they are mine and they seem big to me." My life is good and I know that. I am healthy, I have a job and a roof over my head, I have family that love me and a dog who doesn't like to be separated from me. Nothing to complain about, certainly not with the famine and disease and sickness and tragedies in the world. But, in the last year, there have been lots of little things and some medium sized things that have piled up to become a big thing, a weight that has pulled me down into a melancholy state of mind.

There has been a lot of change in my life in the last twelve months and it has been stressful. About a year ago, they began restructuring my department at work. I worked in the back office of a investment firm, running reports and balancing glorified check-books. It wasn't particularly stimulating but it was regular work and I kind of liked doing it.

But they were changing how my department was being run and outsourcing part of our work. There wouldn't be enough for four of us and, to use the words someone point-blank told me, I was the low person on the totem pole. I had the least seniority in our department. I went home after that meeting, terrified.

I spent a night wondering how I would survive? Would I have to move or maybe I could get a roommate to help with rent? I had some savings (for the first time in a long time) and I really didn't want to use that but I could. I didn't sleep well that night. The next morning, I talked with my supervisor and she allayed my concerns but did say I would likely be changing departments as the changes in operations went into affect. I felt better but still rattled. I was later offered a position in the marketing and sales department. I still work for the same company but doing something completely different. Even my LinkedIn profile recognizes that, for all intents and purposes, I switched jobs completely.

The official change in my job occurred about seven months ago, right after I performed a full-length vocal recital and right before I began costuming an opera. I had to complete my final operations quarter (running quarterly reports for all of our clients) while helping with my first client events in marketing and planning/rehearsing for my first full length recital in ten years. I was stressed. As a result, I procrastinated working on the costumes for the opera, thinking I'd just wait until everything died down a little.

To shorten this post a bit, things didn't die down until after the opera. In the meantime, I pulled what I hope to be the very last all-nighter I ever do, costumed an opera, and my house slowly became more and more cluttered as bits of fabric got left here and there. I went incommunicado with my family. Dishes piled up, and I started to eat almost exclusively at Starbucks. I wasn't sleeping well. It wasn't real pretty.

Easter came and went, the opera ended, and at work, I was starting to feel a little bit of a rhythm form. I was still training but things were slowly starting to get clearer. I thought my life would get back to order then but the damage had been done. My apartment was a horrible mess and every night, I came home, looked at it in despair and slumped on my couch to watch Netflix. Weekends were spent with grand ideas of cleaning and organizing, only to slip past with no change in my environment. This went on for about a month and a half. I still wasn't really cooking and I had some gnarly science experiments in the lab I call a refrigerator.

The first glimpse of some daylight was a knit night. I had offered to host, knowing that I would have to do some tidying. In this case, it meant everything got stuffed into bags and then stuffed into the guest room. Not really what needed to happen but it was a step. At least I could see the living room floor.

The second glimpse was my mom coming to visit. She's staying with me right now, in the guest room that a week ago, you couldn't walk into it (you could barely open the door). I'm not proud to admit this. In fact, I'm incredibly embarrassed that I let things get that bad but I want to be completely honest. Because admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?

You see, I'm a crafting packrat. When I say I don't want to toss something because I might be able to use it, more often than not, a month or year later, I will actually find a use for that item. But it has gone beyond the helpful stage to the mildly unhealthy stage. To clean quickly for my mom's visit, I had to toss. And it felt good. Today was trash day and I couldn't wait for the trash to be picked up so I could fill the can again with more stuff. Because I don't want to be weighed down by my things anymore. I don't want to lose myself in an apartment I don't enjoy because it's messy and cluttered. I want to be able to truly relax and enjoy life.

This may be sound overly simple but, sometimes, to live a more full life, you just have to take out the trash.

A Wish Fulfilled - How Atticus Made Us All Better

Last Wednesday, I got to go to the biggest, most important soccer match I will ever get to go to. Was it a final? No. Was it a championship game? No. Was it World Cup or Olympics? No. But it was more important than all of those put together.

By Bruce Ely for the Oregonian. I'm somewhere in that crowd but that's not as important as Atticus about to score!

Last Wednesday, I got to watch Atticus and the Green Machine take on the Portland Timbers in an exhibition match and win.

But it was more than just a game and a win. It was you and me and community and sunshine and Portland and love and soccer and a little boy who wished to play with his friends and his heroes.

Atticus and his teammates didn't know they were granting us wishes as well. Because of his selfless wish, we all got to be a part of something wonderful and magical.

I hope I always remember that most wonderful afternoon but there will be those days when I am down, those days when nothing seems right. On those days, I can come here and relive the best afternoon I ever had and the best, most important game I will ever attend.

By Bruce Ely for the Oregonian. An "awesome" time was had by all. Check out those faces!

Previews

Portland Timbers Preview
Stumptown Preview

Recaps:

Portland Timbers Quotes and Notes (and Highlights)
Anatomy of a Goal
Ref Report
Stumptown Recap
ESPN SportCenter #1 Top Ten
Oregonian Photo Essay
Letter to the Oregonian
The Axe Pdx
Full Day Highlights (only watch if you want to cry happy tears)

I'd say, wish fulfilled for all of us, wouldn't you?

Help make more wishes come true.

You can't stop us...

As a runner, yesterday was hard.
    Running my marathon was one of the hardest physical and mental things that I have done. When you finish a marathon, you don't have a lot left in the tank other than the mind-blowing thought that "I did it. I finished. I can stop moving now." I'm amazed at runners with the fast times (think about it, the men's world record holder was running almost 13 miles per hour and the women's world record holder was running almost 11.5 miles per hour) but I'm almost more amazed at those with slow times because those are the people who dug deep into their heads and hearts and refused to give up. My marathon a couple of years ago took almost 6 hours, hours of gasping breath and pounding legs and wondering why I had decided this was a good idea and the constant thought, "You're not a runner, just stop, no one will judge." But I would have judged myself if I had stopped and I ran to prove to myself that I am stronger than the doubts and the fear.
   And, while my family was unable to be there to cheer me on, thousands of strangers became friends for a moment and cheered for us all.
    My cousin, Sarah, summed it up well in her FB status.
    "Crossing a marathon finish line is an accomplishment, not only for a runner but for the family & friends that inspired them along their journey to 26.2. I'm heart broken that such a sacred moment turned in to such a moment of terror and tragedy today. Praying for you Boston. Stay strong."

As a co-worker and friend, yesterday was hard.
    I first heard about the explosions as chattering in the office. One of my co-workers had a niece running in the marathon and she hadn't heard from her family if her niece was all right. Other co-workers have family who live in Boston. All of the family members appear to be fine but the news sent me to FB, where I discovered that pretty much everyone I knew in Boston (and some people I didn't know were there) had been at the Marathon as spectators. I was checking constantly during the day, feeling more and more relief as, one by one, people updated their status to let everyone know they were all right.

As an American, yesterday was hard.
    We like to believe we are safe, we are above it all, that kind of thing doesn't happen here. Our "safe" bubble was burst over 10 years ago but we've let it grow back, we've grown complacent. And the truth is, we live in a broken world. Evil can happen anywhere and bad things happen to good people. Where you live is no guarantee of safety. Your nationality is no guarantee of safety. But just because there is evil doesn't mean there isn't good either. You only have to look at the people who were running to help the fallen rather than running to safety.


As a global citizen, yesterday was hard.
    Running (and sports) more than anything, seem to bring the world together. It seems to be the universal language. The world is a fractured place yet we can come together to watch sports. We rejoice in our triumphs and comfort in our failures. We love those who pick themselves up and continue on. We celebrate those who have the opportunity to succeed. We cheer for the underdog and revel in displays of sportsmanship. The runner who continues despite hitting the wall and intense pain. The soccer or football player who manages to walk off the field after a hard tackle. The gymnast who falls in a dismount, yet gets up and tries again. The high school basketball player who passes the ball to an opposing player with disabilities and cheers when he scores. These things touch our hearts and remind us all of what we are all capable of, especially when we work together. Yesterday, someone tried to break that global bond, tried to pull us apart again. But it won't work, just like it didn't work before. We are stronger than fear and we will continue to cheer for each other and run for each other and celebrate each other.

You can't stop us. We are runners, we are family, co-workers, and friends. We are Americans. We are global citizens. We are human and we can't be stopped.

"And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer...there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo... and it's worth fighting for." Sam, from The Lord of the Rings

A Passage

Why is it we don't realize the impact someone had on us until they are gone?

I received an email today, notifying me that one of my chem professors, William Randall, passed away last week. You know, I can't really remember a single thing he taught me even though I remember having fun in his classes and labs. What I do remember is, Professor Randall was an understanding man.

That's me, in front with the stripey socks.

My senior year, I was living off campus with my sister, rowing on the varsity crew team, working a federal work study job, and finishing my chemistry degree (and baking on weekends). I cooked my own meals and I biked everywhere. I left the house at 5 am and returned after 7 pm. I once mentioned to my sister that I can't seem to do all the things I did that year and she reminded me that I slept most of the time.  And it's true.  Every spare minute, I was napping. On the bus, at my desk before class, hunched over a piano in the music building or my computer keyboard, practically any time I stopped moving, I was asleep.  The lounge in the science building was particularly comfy and quiet ('cause nobody but us science nerds knew about it). I would push two arm chairs together and curl up in the nest they created and nap until class time.  Professor Randall would usually stop by my nest to wake me up before class.  If he got there earlier that usual, he would let me sleep and then would send a classmate out right before class started to wake me up.

Professor Randall loved music and opera. He started coming to choir concerts after I joined his class. He came to my junior and my senior recitals.  I remember eating lunch in the dining hall and he joined me and we talked opera and music the whole time.

A few years ago, I ran into him at the grocery store.  He asked how I was doing, what I was doing. I explained that I was working in an office downtown, not doing anything with chemistry. I waited for the inevitable, "Why didn't you continue with chemistry?" speech (I've given it to myself many times).  Instead, his only response was, "But you're still singing, aren't you?"

Yes, Professor Randall was an understanding man. He understood that I was sleep-deprived, he understood when I wrestled with a concept or a lab. He understood that, when I struggled to keep my eyes open, it had nothing to do with him and chemistry and everything to do with me and the punishing schedule I was trying to keep.  And, he understood that while chemistry was something I was interested in and enjoyed learning, music is a part of my soul.

He understood, and it is a pity that I didn't, not really, until today.

Remember

London is filled with memorials.  I've always found memorials to be fascinating.  I wanted to know more about the people memorialized, the soldiers and statesmen, the volunteers and those who sacrificed bravely or not so bravely (yet they still sacrificed).

I feel the same way about cemeteries and graveyards as I do about memorials.  It seems so sad that a block of stone or a chunk of metal may be all that is left to remember someone or their deeds by and yet, someone thought enough of them to erect something to remember them by. And I wonder, who were they?  What did they accomplish? What were their lives like? How did they die? And, finally, how will I be remembered?

Memorials seem to mean more in the hazy light of dusk or the dim light of dawn.  I remember visiting the memorial for the 26 Martyrs of Nagasaki in early evening.  I was in awe of what the martyrs had done and it's easy enough to say, "Oh, I would have done the same thing." But there is no way to know that for sure and I pray I am never tested in such a way. 

It was incredibly peaceful and quiet.  The tourists were gone for the day.  I remember sitting in front of the memorial with a couple of classmates.  We had slipped away in our free time and, on a whim, had made for the memorial.  Our whole class was to visit the next day but we wanted to go right then and I'm so glad we did.   When we went back the next day, the reflective spell had been broken, the light too bright, the people too noisy.

My time in London was short and I passed by most of the memorials on my way somewhere else like the Churchill War Rooms and the National Gallery, where the few are immortalized, pausing only to snap a photo and wonder very briefly about the many being remembered in a broader way.  I want to go back to London someday and spend my early evenings, wandering some of the memorials.  As the light dims, I want to run my fingers over the names of places from whence came brave and scared men and women and remember them.

This year, the last known WWI veteran died in England.  The Great War was to be the last war yet we are still fighting.  We have yet to learn from history, yet to learn from our mistakes.  Sometimes I wonder, have we forgotten? Have our memorials become so much scenery?  It is too easy to pass by on our way somewhere else and not remember.

 Election Day is tomorrow and Veterans/Armistice Day is in a week. I may not always have the highest regard for those in charge of our country or those who want to be in charge and I am certainly glad I do not have to fight for my country.  But others have fought for my freedom, men and women, and it is only right that I take a little time out of my day to remember them and utilize the rights I've been given.

So, today, I voted. And I think, next week, when the light is dimming, you'll find me up at Washington Park, walking one of the memorials, running my fingers over names of those who are gone but not forgotten.  They never will be forgotten if we will only take the time to remember.

A Day of Rest

Early morning in Hyde Park

I was reminded recently that I haven’t posted here for a while and that I have not finished posting about my London adventure.  All I can say is, Easter happened and then it got busy at work.  Enough excuses, on with the tale.

Several years ago, I went to Italy and toured cathedrals and basilicas.  I remember walking through St. Peter's, marveling at the vast space and feeling... nothing.  The next day, I dragged my traveling companion across Rome to St. Maria della Vittorio to see the Bernini "Ecstasy of St. Theresa."  The church was situated on a very noisy square, with construction all around, yet, when we walked in, it was quiet and meditative. All that could be heard were gentle whispers and hushed footsteps.   It was a sacred space and rather than walk around as tourists, we chose to sit quietly as penitents and worship.  I realized I “got” more out of the experience when I approached the cathedrals and churches as intended, not as museums but as a houses of worship and prayer.

Guarding the City

So, when I traveled to London, I was determined to go to church when I got there, again, not as just another tourist.  I had lists of every church’s services.  Evensong, morning prayer, Eucharist, I wanted to do it all but settled on going to mattins and Evensong at St. Paul’s and an Advent Carol service at St. Bride’s.  I was told, by those who know, that the choir at St. Bride’s is excellent so I really wanted to hear them.

The day started, yet again, with a lovely jaunt through Hyde Park.  Have I mentioned how much I loved Hyde Park?  There were few people about, just some joggers and dog-walkers.  Though the sky had been cloudy when I woke up, the air was crisp and clear as I started out, the sun was shining, it was an absolutely gorgeous start to the day.  I decided to walk along Oxford Street on my way to Fleet Street which would get me to St. Paul’s for church.  This took me past several Wren churches, Twinings (meant to go there but ran out of time) and the Royal Courts of Justice.  I arrived to late for mattins and too early for Eucharist, so I haunted the back streets of the City for a while, following the footsteps of Shakespeare and searching out Samuel Johnson's house.  It being Sunday, most everything in the City was closed (in fact, later in the day, I made my one and only visit to a McDonald's to use the bathroom; it was the only thing open), but I got to see Johnson's cat, well, at least the cat's statue.

The estimable Hodge

As I look back on my trip, it seems I spent a lot of time walking, rather than seeing "sights."  But I feel I saw plenty.  Maybe not as many museums and exhibits as I hoped, although I managed to cram quite a bit into my short stay, but I still managed to see many things.  Like street signs that tickled my fancy (Knightrider Court, anyone? How about Sermon Lane?), a statue of a cat, tea shops and pubs older than the US.  I went to a Eucharist service and heard the Stravinsky Mass, sat under the dome of St. Paul's and listened to Evensong.  If I had more time, perhaps I would have gone back to "see" the traditional sights, climb to the Golden Gallery, maybe take the full tour of St. Paul's or explore Johnson's house.  I certainly want to go back and hear the choir at St. Bride's.  You see, in all of my to-and-fro-ing, I got the times mixed up for the Advent service at St. Brides's. 

Thinking it started at 6:30, I enjoyed a leisurely dinner and scrumpy cider at a pub, watching some football (the real kind), only to get to the church and realize I was half an hour too late.  Dashed to St. Paul's to see if I could still get in for their 6:00 Advent service but the doors were closed.  For a few seconds, I couldn't decide if I should go across London Bridge to Southwark or back down Fleet Street for St. Martin-in-the-Fields.  St. Martin's won out and with only about twenty minutes to spare, I started sprinting back towards Trafalgar Square.   Now, I realize, I had just completed a marathon the month before, so I was still in some semblance of running shape but running in boots, wearing a sweater and coat, with a bag is a very different thing from running with proper shoes and running attire. 

It was a day of spiritual rest but not necessarily one of physical rest.

The day ended with more Apple Crumble in the crypt of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Seriously addicted.

Never Never Land

Lichen on iron railings in Kensington Gardens

"I have a place where dreams are born and time is never planned.  It's not on any chart, you must find it in your heart... Never Never Land." ~ Peter Pan (the musical).

Half-way through my trip to England, I spent a leisurely day, walking through Kensington Gardens and perusing some of the galleries at the Victoria and Albert.

I had a lot planned for the day.  The morning was to be spent at the Victoria and Albert Museum (art and craft and fashion, oh my) and then a stop at the Science and the Natural History Museums across the road.  However, forces conspired to alter my plan, including but not limited to my own body and the batteries in my camera.

First alteration to my plans: I slept in.

Really, I can't blame my body for rebelling that way.  I was on vacation, after all, and so far, the latest I had awoken was before 7 am.  All those early flights and early sunrises were taking their toll. So, I didn't really begrudge the sleep.  Obviously, I needed it but the extra sleep pushed back the day.  Cross the Natural History Museum off my list.

Can you hear him playing?

Second alteration to my plans: Peter Pan and the fairies of Kensington Gardens.

I adore Hyde Park and the Kensington Gardens.  Right now, if you were to ask me where I wanted to live, if I could live anywhere in the world, I would say across the street from the gardens.  Imagine living on one side and working on the other.  Who needs a car when your commute could be a 15 minute walk through such a lovely park? And, they have an allotment (community garden to Americans).  Seriously, plant me there now.

The last time I had walked south through the park, I had walked on the Hyde Park side of the Long Water and the Serpentine, enjoying the sounds of Bing Crosby wafting from various game and craft booths.  On this day, I strolled along the Kensington Gardens side.  It was a much quieter walk and along the way, I found Peter Pan, playing his flute, with rabbits and squirrels gamboling at his feet.

 I must confess, I generally do not like squirrels (I have some living currently in my living room wall... ick!) but these bronze squirrels were actually quite cute and whimsical.  I spent quite of bit of time, walking around the statue, trying not to get into other people's photos.  Finally, after remembering I was planning on doing other things that day besides sit at Peter's feet, I tripped along my merry way to the museums, only to have my interest drawn in another direction.

I blame the fairies of the gardens.  Because of them, I saw magic in everything.  Another pedestrian became a modern goose girl, with her avian court hanging on her every word (all right, maybe they were just hoping for crumbs).  A gnarled, worn tree became a fairy hide-out.  My way led me under the Carriage Drive, through a tunnel.  What secrets lay on the other side?

 At the Serpentine Gallery, I turned right, enticed by leaf-strewn walkways and lichen-covered railings.  In the distance, I could see the spiky outline of the Albert Memorial.  I did not find it to  particularly beautiful, especially from a distance but it intrigued me.  And I'm glad I sought it out because I found these:

Bison!

Watch out, he spits!

That ain't no clay pigeon up there.

The memorial is surrounded by a gilded railing and at each corner of the railing, stood a set of statues representing a continent (America, Africa, Asia and Europe).  Although I can't find anything specific relating why these particular continents are represented, I'm assuming they refer to the continents where the English empire extended.

All very serious and noble, I'm sure, a worthy memorial to a man who devoted himself to the arts and his people.  Exquisite carving as well.  Yet, the sight of a carved bison, elephant, a bull and a camel were enough to get me giggling.  It's those fairies, I'm telling you.

I ate my lunch, sitting on the steps south of the memorial.  My whole morning was now gone.  Scratch the Science Museum off the list.  That left the Victoria and Albert Museum and, as that museum was one of my must-sees for London, I wasn't going to be deterred.  I took one last walk around the Memorial and found one last gift from the fairies.

A single golden leaf, blown against the railing.

 I finally continued on, past the Royal Geological Society where I met Dr. Livingstone (in statue form) to the V&A.  My initial visit (yes, I went more than once and I'll explain why in just a second) was slightly confusing.  My Rick Steves guide didn't quite match up with the V&A map as several galleries were being refurbished behind "hoardings."  What a wonderful way to describe the walls that hid the unfinished galleries.  I felt if I could just find a keyhole to peek through, I would find treasure beyond my imaginings, like a dragon's hoard.

One last bit of whimsy, a Chihuly chandelier at the V&A

The V&A can be overwhelming; I think I read somewhere that it has over 12 miles worth of corridors.  You certainly can't see it all in one day and appreciate it all.  I was going to try but then the third and final alteration to my plans:

My camera ran out of batteries.

After documenting what I could and trying to resurrect my tired camera, I left the V&A and strolled back home, through that wonderful park again.  It's even more magical as the sun goes down; you can almost hear the fairies flying through the air.

I started the day with my time planned and it slipped away from me, in the best possible way.  I spent the day dreaming and living in my own kind of Never Never Land.