jaimestathis

City Love

I posted a few pictures yesterday on Facebook in an album titled “Missoula Marathon 2012.” That is what the event is called, but in addition to a full marathon there’s a half-marathon, a relay, a 5K, and a Kid’s run. A lot of my friends “liked” my album and the individual photos, and with each click I almost felt obligated to clarify: You know I “just” ran the half? Right?

But there’s something odd to me about the word “just.” Just is one of those words that has a wide range of meaning—everything from morally right to deserved to only.

In the case of my marathon it means “only” or “no more than” the half. Sort of like when people say “we’re just friends,” as if being more than friends would be better, when in fact sometimes it’s not. Or like when people say, “I’ll just have the bacon double cheeseburger, with fries, and might as well have onion rings,” then when asked if they want a drink say, “Okay, I’ll just have a diet coke.”

In a lot of cases “just” is quite a lot.

I ran the half-marathon in 2008, and in 2010 and 2011 my mother came out and we “just” walked it. After I ran the 2008 half-marathon I was with a friend who told his mother I’d just finished the half-marathon to which she replied: “What happened to the other half?” She was being funny, but for some reason it stuck with me. Is the other half necessary? Is it too much? Is it more than enough?

A lot of people run full marathons, sometimes multiple marathons in a year. Sometimes marathons on challenging terrain. Sometimes marathons with a live band at every mile. Sometimes marathon that hurt their bodies beyond repair.

Some people never run a full marathon; I am one of those people.

I’ve thought about it. I love running and its ability to reset me when my wiring goes haywire. I love that running requires so little and gives so much, and I will do it until my body tells me not too. I’ll do it when it’s too hot, too cold, too icy, too dark. That said, I’m not physically constructed “like a runner,” and definitely fall into the category of built for comfort and not for speed. I don’t think running a full marathon would serve me well, so I gratefully accept my ability to run just half.

Just half is a lot. It’s 13.1 miles, and in Missoula that is all on pavement. It starts at 6:00, which means a wake up time around 4:00. On July 8^th the sun rose before 6:00 and there was light popping over the hills before that, but still…waking up that early is just not just. It feels downright inhumane to be awake at that hour wondering: have I eaten enough? Have I pooped? Have I hydrated? Have I completely lost my mind? {emphasis on that last one.}

But then you get downtown and start to feel the energy of the thousands of other runners taking school busses to the start. You’re glad you have a rack of ponytail holders on your wrist so you can give one to the woman who can’t believe she forgot. You see bodies that have trained and bodies that have not. You see runners, walkers, and hand-cyclers. You see wheelchairs. You see t-shirts announcing the runner is running in loving memory of someone. You think: maybe I haven’t lost it. You know: I can do this.

You hear the Star-Spangled Banner and you put your hand over your heart. You might tear up. You see the guys running in superhero underpants, the girls running in tutus. You smile. But the national anthem ends, the shot is fired, the fireworks go off, and so do you.

Afterward you’ll hear about the ten-year old who finished (just the half) and the woman who ran NOT just the half after sustaining a traumatic brain injury twelve years ago and had to learn to walk and then to run. You’re in awe.

I didn’t train for this event. I hadn’t run more than five miles since last fall and I was technically unprepared. The week before the marathon I googled “ running a half-marathon without training” but the results were inconclusive; I was going to have to find that answer within myself, and myself said, “YES!” Then it said, “maybe,” then it said, “yes” again. I caught myself on a yes and signed up less than twenty-four hours before the event. I made my decision they way I’ve made most of my decisions in life: would I rather try and fail then not try and not know?

trytrytry. yesyesyes. trytrytry. yesyesyes. trytrytry. yesyesyes. trytrytry. yesyesyes.

There were times I was propelled along by the energy of the runners all around me, but most of the time I was in my own little world. I enjoyed toggling back and forth between running with thousands of others runners and going within, telling myself I was “just going on a nice Sunday run across town, listening to music, enjoying the views.” The body is powerful, but the mind even more so.

I made myself a killer playlist that had about eight days worth of songs on it. Some of the songs I’ve loved in my past didn’t deliver the way I’d hoped, and some songs that I’d added on a hunch got me turning my legs over in ways I didn’t expect. House of Pain “Jump Around.” Gwen Stefani “The Sweet Escape.” Tiffany “I think we’re Alone Now.” Kid Rock “Bawitdaba.” Sugarland “Stuck on You.” Barry White “Can’t Get Enough.” Sublime, “Santeria.”

Wow, there really isn’t a lot of shame left in my game…

Because I went into the event “untrained” I told myself I could walk some if I needed to, but it turned out that if I ran at my own pace I didn’t need to. It took me two-and-a-half hours to finish, with my miles averaging out at 11:40. I almost felt guilty because at the end I had some juice to spare, but I stopped myself: why is it necessary to push ourselves to exhaustion or injury? Why can’t we just enjoy ourselves?

The Missoula Marathon has been rated among the best in the US, and was ranked #1 by Runner’s World in 2010. That’s great. It’s great for our community and for the runners who get to experience the improvements every year even as the event continues to grow. If the Missoula Marathon has growing pains they are not apparent; every year the efficiency improves but the hometown feel remains.

Formal and informal surveys alike continually name one thing as the factor that makes the Missoula Marathon so incredible. Everyone agrees that the scenery is lovely and the climate is dry and comfortable, but it’s the people that really make it special.

The marathon volunteers give us water, sort our bags, and cheer us on. My bus driver told every single person who got off to “have a good run.” Then there’s the man playing his grand piano on his lawn across from the Bitterroot River just after 6:00am. There’s the guy with the record player. There are the dozens of people who set up sprinklers in front of their houses, some rigged high on ladders so you can run through a shower. There are the people drinking coffee wrapped in blankets sitting on tailgates, the kids in pajamas, the mothers in robes. The dogs. There are the kids handing out otter pops (I got pink!) and the coolers of ice with signs to “help yourself.” There is so much cheering, so much support, so much city love.

I don’t live in Missoula for the skiing, the fishing, or the mountain biking: I live here (and love it) because of the people. Missoula people are so awesome. My close friends, my extended friends, the barista at the coffee shop, the stranger who changed my tire, the three-year old (also a “stranger”) who gave Lucky a tennis ball at the Big Dipper last night. I’ll say it again: Missoula people are so awesome.

Yeah, I guess it’s just the people.

Thanks, again, Missoula.

Love and Trust

“Thank you so much for sharing your story with us. Your courageous spirit helps make Missoula a great place.”

This is the thank you note I received (along with a book, a journal, and a “Reading is Sexy” sticker) from the University of Montana bookstore the other night after I told my story at Tell Us Something. So I send a thank you back to the bookstore and to Missoula; without you to listen our stories wouldn’t be told.

It’s an understatement to say that I was nervous in the days leading up to the event, but when it actually came time to get on stage and tell my “I Got Lucky” story I was calm. I forgot some things, but I didn’t pass out, pee myself, or cry. I didn’t run off the stage.

I forgot to talk about Lucky’s Rottweiler/wolf father and his Labrador mother. I forgot to talk about how he was the runt in a litter of eleven. And I forgot to talk about how when the box of puppies were given away at the river he was the only one nobody wanted; he was too little, too meek, too sick looking. Nobody wants to fall in love with a pup that may not make it.

But I did. I loved, I trusted, and it worked out.

I forgot to talk about all of the wonderful people I met when I first moved to Missoula and that even with all of the ups and down of a wild decade I still call the majority of them “friend.” I forgot to talk about how these supportive, loving people helped me locate solid ground and discover the place I’d call home. For a very long time.

Instead of breaking right into my story, I started by talking about a study done at Harvard on what people consider to be the worst possible experience. Public speaking ranks ahead of death or nuclear holocaust. I get it, but the deck seems to be unfairly stacked. How is it that we’d rather be dead (including the annihilation of our entire human civilization) than risk humiliation or rejection?

Does this not seem a little effed up? What is wrong with us?

Next I said that our brains are hard-wired to anticipate disaster, with rejection being one of the primary disasters we fear. I then announced that I’d turn off my cerebral and emotional brains and let my reptilian brain take over so I could tell a story.

I loved that I had the opportunity to tell the story of how Lucky picked me to be his mama just three days before our tenth anniversary. It makes a girl think, this business of ten years, and to be honest I’m not entirely sure what all to make of it. All I know is that I’m the lucky one.

I know that Lucky dog has been and will continue to be the best teacher I ever had. We went for a night run together last night in the misty rain just as it was getting dark. He had steak for breakfast and he’ll have ice cream as a mid-day snack.

On our tenth anniversary I’m simply going to try to be the person my dog thinks I am.

Just Temporary

I’ve been thinking about high school a lot lately as I’ll be attending two 20th reunions next month. First I went to public school, and many of the people at that reunions will be (the grownup version of) kids I went to school with starting in Kindergarten; some I even went to nursery school with. Then I went to boarding school, and those are the people I graduated with. Either way I’m excited to see everyone all grown up but hopefully not too much.

One of the classics on most high school reading lists is Lord of the Flies. It is the kind of book that most people read because it’s required, but continue to reference because it contains so many universally relatable elements. The book is about having good intentions, but lacking execution in a plan; about being an individual versus going along with the herd; about kicking sand and throwing stones; about physical vulnerability, social convention and metamorphosis. It’s about regression, savagery and friendship.

I think I’d be hard pressed to find a person who doesn’t remember the conch.

It will be my turn to speak tomorrow night, and to be honest: I’m terrified. I’ll be telling a story that is dear to me and that I’ve told dozens of times, but I won’t have notes and I’ll have to trust that I’ll be able to stand on a stage in front of people and tell a story without losing my place. I’ll have to trust that I’ll remember to include the funny parts, that I won’t get bogged down in the minutiae, and that I won’t be boring.

Terrified seems so dramatic, and I know that usually we’re just afraid of what we don’t know, but I’ve never done this before, so….there you have it. William Golding infused so much wisdom into Lord of the Flies including this gem that is perfect for right now:

Fear can’t hurt you any more than a dream.

It makes me smile just thinking about it. Maybe I’ll sharpie it onto my arm tomorrow as a temporary tattoo.

The theme for the event Tell Us Something (http://www.tellussomething.org/) is different every time, but this quarter it’s I GOT LUCKY. I thought it might be too silly, but just couldn’t resist asking for a time slot to tell the story of how I GOT LUCKY. I can really think of no easier (or better) story to tell than the one of meeting the guy who’d change my life. And guess who’ll be making a guest appearance (in a bar) tomorrow night?

Here’s us just after I brought him home:

Vulnerability

I’ve wanted to write more about surfing for the past few weeks, but there was a writing conference (awesome), my birthday (also awesome), and wonderful visits in Colorado with old and new friends. And then there was returning to Missoula and falling in love with it all over again.

I’ve been working hard on my memoir-in-progress, I FORGOT TO START WITH MYSELF, and have neglected to give attention to my public writing life. These writing lives will soon be one and the same, but for now they remain mostly separate. {Thanks for sticking with me and for continuing to tell me that you enjoy these posts, few and far between as they may be. You make my day. Every time.} So…

It’s hard to describe surfing without lurching into clichés. It’s powerful. It’s humbling. It’s liberating. It’s like being at one with the water. I could go on, and pretty much everything I have to say about surfing has been said before, but it’s not like me to know when to zip it, so on I go.

You’re vulnerable out there in that water. There are stingrays, sea urchins, and the other “s” that everyone tries not to talk about but can’t stop thinking about.

You could end up in a riptide. You could end up with your bathing suit wrapped around your neck, shackling your ankles, or both. As a worst-case scenario you could end up not even getting in the water because there are just too many things to worry about.

I don’t know about you, but for me sometimes the vulnerability associated with the limitations of fear is worse than the potential for vulnerability when going toward the frightening thing. It’s downright dizzying to wrap your head around all of it. For real.

Exploring the when, why, how and what (the hell) for? of vulnerability is what I’ve been doing lately, and it’s daunting to take that long, slow look at yourself. It’s far easier and more convenient to look away. It can be so ugly that you can’t bear to look. It can be so horrifying you can’t take your eyes off the mess. {think Jerry Springer.}

I often talk to my massage clients about how emotional distress manifests as physical pain and discomfort. About how it can be so uncomfortable to keep certain things in the six inches between our ears that we push them down to necks, shoulders, abdomens and hips. This can be uncomfortable too, but we seem to tolerate it better. We push and plod along until our bodies scream “STOP! NOW! UNCLE!” and even then we only sometimes listen.

Because this can be an overwhelming process I occasionally like to make myself vulnerable in other ways. Like posting bathing suit pictures of myself on the Internet. Yes, I did this in my last blog post and almost every day have wanted to delete them and have had to talk myself down from the tree and into keeping them up.

These are not posed pictures. Not pictures with a strategically placed sarong. Not pictures with shoulders back and chin up. Not pictures that cut off mid-thigh to give the illusion of longer, leaner legs. These are not pictures of me laughing with my arm around a friend. They’re pictures of me learning to surf, standing awkwardly, face contorted, rash guard rolling up. But this is me in real life. {Ok, surf camp is not real life, but you know what I mean….}

I look at pictures of other beginners surfing and I love them. I love the ones of the friend with her ragdoll arms. I love ones of the friend who always looks of the verge of leaping off the board. I love the ones of the friend who looks like she’s been waiting a long time to do this and like she’s been doing it forever. It turns out that pictures of beginners surfing are all sorts of awesome if that surfer isn’t you.

When I look at these surfing photos of myself I see a bathing suit bottom that was not a great choice. I see dimples that do not exist in my antique bedroom mirror where the lighting is always ambient. I see a struggling woman, and I have to ask: what’s so wrong with that?

Why? Why are we all so hard on ourselves?

I have a friend with a to-die-for-body who says her post-baby belly looks like a scrunched up brown paper bag when she bends over. I laugh at her hilarious description, but I don’t see what she does. Not even close.

I have another friend who wears shorts over her jogging pants because she feels more comfortable concealing her hips and thighs. She’s in great shape, and probably runs or walks fifty miles a week (not including the miles spent chasing her toddler) and doesn’t have a damn thing to hide. Regardless, she feels self-conscious about some of her moving and shaking parts that are bound to jiggle a little when set into motion because, well, that’s kind of what they’re supposed to do. She happens to have one of my favorite booties in town, but that’s the thing: It doesn’t matter what I (or anyone else) think(s). It’s about how she feels. If she feels better wearing a skirt over her jogging pants then all the power to this woman who knows what she needs to feel good and to keep getting out there.

Every woman I know has spent too much time hating parts of herself (inside and out) that just don’t deserve that ridicule, that scrutiny, that betrayal.

One woman hates her arms. Another her neck. Another her hair. Knees, hairlines, toes, teeth…it seems nothing is off limits. The laundry list of things that women loathe about their bodies is heartbreaking. For what? What in the world does all that self hatred do except create more of the same. Ick. Be gone with it, people.

More than one friend has a full-length mirror leaning against a wall in her bedroom to create the illusion of increased height and decreased girth. I ooh and aah at myself in these mirrors as I think “Holy crap! That looks like me in 1997!” These friends say with straight faces: “I’d never get out of the house if I didn’t have that mirror.”

It’s serious business these distorted images.

Another friend was married to a man who was raised in a home attached to his family’s fun house. Slanted floors, distorted mirrors, a place where gravity and perspective are both challenged and skewed. Floors drop, people shrink and grow, light and shapes shift. When it didn’t work out with him it was hard not to shrug our shoulders and say, “Well….think about where he grew up…What could you expect?”

But those of us who didn’t grow up in fun houses also seem to have no problem distorting images, for better or for worse, to either build ourselves up or to break ourselves down. What’s wrong with the real thing? What’s wrong with reality?

I woman at surf camp had recently lost seventy-five pounds. She told me that even when she got down to a size 8 she’d pull size 18s off the racks, not realizing they were no longer for her. She could not see herself as anything but a big woman. She brought a sweater to Mexico that was one of the first things she bought in “her size,” and now she wraps it around herself as a reminder of both who she was and who she is.

It seems everywhere we turn these days there’s a story about models being photoshopped into unachievable perfection by which we determine our own inadequacies. Photographic artistry tightens jowls, smooths armpits, and sculpts legs, but it also removes crucial body parts, makes waists unnaturally slim, and occasionally attaches a completely disproportionate hand to an arm. Magazines do features (front page stories!) about stars in the morning, stars without their makeup, stars bending over in bathing suits, stars picking wedgies, stars, they tell us, looking just like US. Through all the smokes, mirrors, and lens distortion it’s becoming increasingly harder to decipher what is real.

In The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams the Skin Horse said to the Rabbit when he asked “what is REAL?”:

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

“Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand… once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”

In the 1990s a prominent women’s magazine did a spread featuring grey-haired women. It was a huge success until Clairol threatened to pull all advertising unless the magazine stopped implying that “older” women could be beautiful without coloring their hair. Scarier than Clairol’s demand was the reaction of the magazine, which promised to “never again feature grey-haired women in a positive light.”

Photographers take photos of brides both before and after the ceremony. Before she’s coiffed to perfection, but her face is hard, nervous, edgy. These are sometimes interesting, telling shots, but rarely the best of the day. Later—after the seal-the-deal kiss, after the receiving line, after the first dance—the photos looks much different. A few tendrils (from a once-in-a-lifetime hairdo) may have slipped out, she may have smudged her mascara and she may have forgotten to reapply her lipstick. If it’s Montana her dress may have a ring of dirt around the bottom and she may have changed out of heels and into cowboy boots or flip-flops. She’s twirling, she’s laughing, she’s cheersing, and for a few moments she may be focused on how she feels and not on how she looks. These are the keepers.

I don’t know what you see when you look at me, but I know what I see when I look at you.

Where you see dimples I see definition.

Where you see wrinkles I see smiling.

Where you see junk-in-the trunk, I see curves.

Where you see tree trunks I see a strong foundation for your center.

Where you see football player shoulders I see a base that holds up a beautiful mind.

Where you see a woman being lazy I see a woman giving herself what she needs.

Where you see a woman struggling I see a woman trying, absorbing, accomplishing.

I see a confident short-short wearing role model of living, laughing, dancing joy.

I see grey hairs that naturally highlight your hair and tell me you’re not fighting reality.

I see your salon-dyed hair and a woman who says, “I don’t think so. Not me. No, I’m not ready.”

I see happy.

I see that you enjoy life.

I see that you’re not trying to fool anyone.

I see your vulnerability.

And I like it.

up & down & up again

The first morning of surf camp we talked about where we were from, what surfing experience we had (little to none for most of us), and what we hoped to accomplish. One admitted being terrified of open water (that brave lady was the first to grab a board and head into the water…). One said she wanted to be comfortable in the lineup instead of squirreling herself to the smaller, mushier waves far from “the boys.” One said she’d been watching for years and was ready to join the action. One said she wanted to “whoop-whoop!” One said she wanted to go fast. We had so much and so little in common, but we were all there to learn and to have fun.

The list of surf safety was punctuated with the final and most important rule: the best surfer in the water is the one having the most fun. It was stiff competition for “best surfer.” Of all the things we had, fun topped the list.

There were some pictures taken of me the first few days of surf camp, but not the last few. In most of my day two and three surfing photos I look like a chick(en) fresh out of the egg seeing the world for the first time. Can I get up? Can I stand? Do I need to bail? Can I do this? Oh. Oh, my goodness. I’m doing this….

These next four photos are:

Hesitantly popping up….I’m up!
I’m laughing! Look at me!….
Uh, oh….Mexican woman in front of me! Does she see me? What do I do?….She sees me, she’s walking in front of me, I need to stop this thing. Can I stop this thing? She looks scared. Why is she walking in front of me?
We lock eyes, I go down, we laugh. Nobody’s hurt and everyone’s having fun. Mission accomplished.

Why do we feel so bad about falling down when you have to be up in order to go down? I’ve decided that if you laugh when you’re going down you’re okay. Maybe better than okay.

“So go ahead. Fall down. The world looks different from the ground.” Oprah Winfrey

And it certainly looks different from under water.

I consider it (sort of) a blessing that I don’t have any day four, five, or six photos of me surfing so they can exist in my imagination, for better or for worse. I know I stood up prouder and taller. I know I graduated to the fiberglass board, felt more, and started to steer. I learned that to avoid hitting someone in front of you you can’t look at the person. LOOK WHERE YOU WANT TO GO. Wow, what a concept. My gaze shifted from my feet to the ocean to the shore.

One of the things I was most afraid of regarding surfing was losing one or both contacts, and not being able to see anything beyond my board. I went with the contacts in my eyes and six spare pairs, one for each day. I brought them all home and can’t even remember what I was so afraid of in the first place.

I’m going to write more about this trip to Mexico, but I’m still musing, pondering, processing. I know the topic though: VULNERABLE:

vulnerable |ˈvəln(ə)rəbəl|, adjective, susceptible to physical or emotional attack or harm

Processing

I’m still processing and absorbing my incredible week in Sayulita with old and new friends. I need a minute to get my thoughts together enough to write about it, but until then….a HAPPY shot of me and one of my oldest and bestest.

slowing down. sort of.

Life has been busy lately. It seems to be moving a clip so quick that days become weeks, and something that seems recent is far in the past and something that felt like it would never arrive does. Tomorrow I leave for surf camp with my college friend Ady, and on the way there I get to spend the night in Seattle where I’ll see Shannon, another great college friend, and will meet Bryan and Baby Hazel. My bag is by the door despite the twelve hours between now and my departure to the airport. Patience.

The past few weeks have been full. There was a weekend at the lake with a terrific group of ladies, which also coincided with Lucky’s 10^th birthday.

There was a fun Easter picnic on the Blackfoot River with old and new friends complete with smorgasbord of awesome food including salmon cooked over a fire on the beach.

There was a trip to a local farm that raises sheep and goats to graze on Missoula’s hillsides to rid them of noxious weeds and encourage the return of native grasses. I asked the rancher if he accepts volunteers or if we’re more trouble than we’re worth, and he said I’m welcome to come out to milk or to help drive the herd the nine miles from his ranch to Missoula City’s open space. I fell in love with the babies and…why not?

And now onto the next adventure. I estimate that Ady and I have been talking about a girls’ surf trip for about seven years. A lot of things got in the way, and then suddenly nothing did. Last fall Ady made it official. She chose the place, booked it, and said, “Who’s in?” I wavered. Ashley booked it. I sold my house in Honduras and wondered if I deserved this treat. I wasn’t sure. I was. I wasn’t. I was all over the place. I couldn’t commit, but once I did the countdown was on.

Our accommodations are gorgeous hillside villas, a place I drooled over on my last visit to Sayulita, and dreamt of going back to. We’ll do yoga, have surf lessons, get massages, and eat amazing food, but best of all we’ll be together. Ady walked into my freshman dorm room at William Smith moments after my mother drove off and we’ve been friends ever since. Our good friend in common thought we’d get along and he was spot-on. When we’re together we’ll toast our friends who couldn’t join us, and especially Michele, who we miss dearly.

J,A,M — Camping in the Adirondacks circa 1993: Ady and me with Michele in the middle.

I started packing last week, and when I emailed Ady to tell her she said, “I’ve been packed for two weeks.” We’re just a little bit excited. This surf camp claims to make girls out of women, but I think that’ll happen as soon as we smother one another with hugs and kisses at the Puerto Vallarta airport.

But first things first. Tomorrow: Hazel Blaisdell Lhuillier. I can’t wait to squeeze that baby.

One Week Later

One week after finishing up the Master Cleanse I have a new(ish) perspective on food, life, and all relationships, even the ones with inanimate objects . The short story is I still love cookies, the long story is…..

The last day of my cleanse I went to a nutritional counselor for muscle testing. It was an interesting process and it turns out I don’t have intolerances to any foods except wheat and sugar. The health intake asked what my typical diet is like and I said “mostly healthy except I’m a sucker for a cookie.” Uh-oh.

Most people shouldn’t eat too much wheat or too much sugar, and Dr. Pat said I should really try to avoid those things. All other forms of gluten are okay and so is honey; I’ll take what I can get.

I reacted to one other thing which was in the tray of metals. Dr. Pat worked her muscle testing magic and finally figured out it was antimony, an element she’d never seen anyone react to. We both claimed to have never heard of it, but we had because in high school chemistry we all had to memorize the periodic tables. I’d actually dropped out of high school chemistry in favor a remedial science class where we got to test the pH of our saliva, but not before I bombed the periodic tables quiz.

We looked up antimony—Dr. Pat in her hardbound desk reference and me on my iphone—and I left determined to find its source in my life. Antimony is toxic (great) and dates back as far as 3100 BC. Its first (and continued) use was in makeup in Predynastic Egypt, and it’s used in fire retardants. Neither of those things applies to me too much, but apparently most bed sheets have fire retardant woven in, which makes me want to go out immediately to buy organic, non-GMO, free-range sheets.

I can live with that, but apparently fire retardant has been found in butter, of all things, because all of the chemicals that are used in nearly everything have a way of getting into…everything. Gross. Butter? That’s the third ingredient in cookies and I can make wheat and sugar free cookies, but butter? No, I’m not giving up butter. (side note: Smart Balance and other “alternative” butters sometimes seem like a good idea, and you can get used to the taste, but I hate that there are so many ingredients and prefer just the two—cream and salt—that it takes to make incredible butter.)

Most antimony is mined in Hunan, China, though it’s been mined in Mexico, California, Nevada, Arkansas and Butte, Montana. Apparently there’s a company in Thompson Falls, Montana (about a hundred miles west of here) called United States Antimony Corporation. Does my

(next) husband work there? Is he a smelter?

Antimony and silver are often underground neighbors, and this is getting the attention of investors in US Antimony and its Mexican mine, whose stock went from fifty cents (where it had sat for a decade) to well over two dollars between April and June of last year. Today it was up, again, closing in on four bucks a pop. Its year to date performance is up 54%; not many stocks can claim that right now. Should I buy some? Is my (next) husband a broker?

There’s a chance, as always, that the Chinese could flood the market with antimony and push out non-Chinese Antimony peddlers and smelters, but according to http://www.usantimony.com/ “the Chinese produce and control 92% of the world market and their production is down and their consumption is up.” Forbes said: “U.S. Antimony recently signed a large contract with a major U.S. producer of all things electrical, rumored to be worth $65 million over 2.5 years…One cheery estimate puts U.S. Antimony’s production from the Mexican operations at 40 pounds of antimony and 8 ounces of silver per ton of mined rock. At current prices, that would equal $23 million a year and $18 million, or 30 cents a share, in earnings before interest and depreciation. At 10x cash flow, that’s only a $3 stock, but if production grows to $100 million a year as the bulls anticipate…”

Seriously. I better get some.

All joking aside I may or may never know why I reacted to antimony. I’m going to get checked again in a couple of months to see if I’m still reacting, but in the meantime I’ll keep doing research and asking questions. Does it have something to do with the process of heating, molding, and reshaping? Does it have to do with the translation of the word which means “not alone,” or something to do with antinomy (the two words are, for good reason, often confused) which is a paradox or “a contradiction between two beliefs or conclusions that are in themselves reasonable.”

I’ll keep pondering this, but for this weekend I’m going to embrace contradiction. I know, this does not make sense, but indulge me the guilt-free opportunity to eat cake in celebration of my kid’s tenth birthday. Here he is shortly after I brought him home, and below that is him today.

“The more things change, the more they are the same.” –Alphonse Karr.

Day 8

I’ve been fasting on the Master Cleanse for eight days. I had no idea I had access to foreign concepts like self-control and delayed gratification, but I’ve surprised myself. It was an impulsive decision inspired by a visit with some old friends in Scottsdale two weekends ago. In the air between their home and mine I decided to start as soon as I got home. If I thought about it for too long I might have bailed, so I leaped.

Amy was one of my first friends in Missoula, and will remain one of my best lifelong friends. Even though I hadn’t seen her in almost eight years we didn’t miss a beat. Amy’s husband Kevin is also an old friend, and I was honored to read at their beautiful beachside wedding in October 2004, the last time I saw them. It’s a tragedy that so much time passed, but the tragedy is no more; that gap of time will never be so great again. This is how young we were in 2004:

{Me and Amy at her wedding}

Amy and I visited Kevin at his winter gallery/workspace and I was blown away (bad pun, he’s a glass blower) by how amazing his work is and how far he’s come as an artist. Here’s a link to his website which hasn’t been updated with photos of his latest and greatest—think abacus and totem inspired sculptures in vibrant colors—but if you’re interested in seeing more drop him a line.

http://www.powersglass.com/

Amy and I ate some out-of-this-world meals. Most were very healthy, one was decidedly not. We visited Cave Creek, a sweet little Western town, where we relived our old Missoula days doing shots of cilantro and parsley. These are not new Stoli flavors, people. This was the real deal.

We played with her gorgeous girls (no pictures, sigh) and went on a fantastic hike. The visit was short but oh so sweet. Visiting old friends can be multi-faceted, reminding you of who you’ve been and where you’re headed. The effect can be an odd blend of bittersweet and inspirational.

Over the course of the past eight days I’ve learned a lot about myself, but the greatest lesson I’m taking away from the fast is that it’s my right and responsibility to take care of my body. I don’t know about you, but i treat my body like shit sometimes. I hope those days are over. Amy has been available for texting and telephone consultations and pep talks the whole time, and on day five she gave me the word I was looking for but couldn’t find: protective.

I feel intensely protective of myself both physically and emotionally. I am the only one who can determine how I feed myself, who I surround myself with, and what emotions are truly mine. Sacred and temple are words that also come to mind, but that seems like a little much. Or a lot much. But why? I think it’s worth exploring why disrespecting our bodies and treating them like junkyards can be excusable, but to say they are sacred temples just seems over the top. Am I (are we?) really that out of whack with our priorities?

As years of toxins release the opportunity presents to sift through what is left. It’s still happening and I look forward to my last two days and what will continue to unfold, but right now I can tell you what is not left: self doubt, lack of focus, and wavering perseverance.

Good riddance.

Instead of wishing I was on day ten, I’m going to savor these last few days. I realize I could continue beyond ten—I read about a woman who went for forty—but I don’t want to use the cleanse as a crutch. My energy and clarity are astounding me, and I feel absurdly peaceful. The real test will be finding out if I’m capable of retaining those qualities once I resume “normal life.”

I’ll keep you posted. Wish me luck. Let me know if you have any idea what normal life is or where I might pick one up.

{me and Amy coming down from Pinnacle Peak}

staycation

Last Sunday Gina and I took a day trip to the Symes Hot Springs in Hot Springs, Montana. It was perfect.

I’d looked at the forecast in advance, and when I saw sun and fifty degree temps for Sunday I knew it was meant to be. Gina was in, and we made a plan that didn’t involve many plans.

On Saturday I had to talk her into not talking herself out of going. She was able to get all of her chores done and we said we’d leave at 10:00 on Sunday.

Gina, Albert, Lucky, and I were loaded into my car and on our way by 10:30. Our first stop was supposed to be the Ronan Café where everything is made from scratch and where they’re known for their pies. It was pretty much all we talked about for 45 minutes.

We pulled into Ronan and it was incredibly ghost-town-esque. It appeared that everyone was at church or at the bar. The Ronan Café was closed! We’d already realized that the turnoff to Hot Springs is before Ronan, so we were already committed to driving to Hot Springs the long way which meant we’d 1) get to drive along Flathead Lake a little bit, and 2) get to do a loop.

Everything was perfect…Even the snafus.

We hit up Betty’s Diner in Polson, and stuffed ourselves with a terrific view of the lake. We continued on, let the dogs play at an empty campground, and arrived at Hot Springs just as the crowds were starting to roll in for the talent show fundraiser.

Ok, the Symes is hilarious. It’s decrepit. It smells like the minerals in the water (sulfur, but you get used to it. Sort of.). The clientele is usually eclectic and interesting, and often international. Nobody sort of likes the Symes; you either love it or you hate it.

We soaked for almost two hours, got a little sun on our winter white skin, and walked down to the health food store for energy drinks to fuel us up for the ride home. On our walk in town we spied some interesting real estate and did a little scheming and dreaming, which apparently left us ravenous, because on the way home we stopped for buffalo burgers, homemade fries, and huckleberry shakes. YUM. And thus began a new tradition.

It was perfect.

P.S. We have to go back soon because I left my bikini top there and they’re holding it for me at the lost and found. Yeah us!

We didn’t take too many pictures, but here are a few as well as a couple I took when I was at the Symes last year.

and then…

the girl could see….

YOU SEEM DIFFERENT

I’ve gotten a break from the eye doctor for the past two weeks. As anxious as I am to get this resolved, I needed a break from the pain and pressure of deciding which of two non-perfect options is better.

The view from where I stand may not be flawless, but it’s the way I’ve always viewed the world and it may or may not be possible to change it right now. Or ever. For the past week I’ve gone back to my non-astigmatism-correcting lenses, and I have to say….It feels good.

Life has thrown some hard truths at and around me lately, and I don’t need one more factor to get between my heart and head as I sift the fact from the fiction.

Some things are meant to change and some are not. Forcing things to change is—at best—uncomfortable and futile. It is best to yield, if possible, to the present.

Although best known for her landscapes and flower pictures, I like this one. Check out Jennifer Ross at http://fineanddandeliondesigns.weebly.com/

Easier said than done. Even the most Zen among us slip out of the present. {right?} It’s just so tempting to think about the future. It’s dangerous to try to control the uncontrollable, but we go there anyway. We can’t control or change the past, but it doesn’t stop us from going there as well. We wonder “what might have been.” We wonder “what if?” We wonder ourselves into boxes and corners.

My favorite part of looking at the past is that we can gain appreciation for where we’re going by looking at where we’ve been. I got a reminder of this last week from a high school friend.

I have not seen P. in nineteen years. We went to college an hour from each other, but didn’t keep in touch. It was easy to lose touch back then without the convenience of cell phones, email, and Facebook. We weren’t super close friends—he was a year younger, so there was that division—but were far more than acquaintances. Almost twenty years later we’re the same age. Amazing how time does that.

P. lives in Sydney now, but lived in Japan for the fourteen years before that. Nobody I was in touch with had heard much from him after high school, and we were all excited when he surfaced on Facebook, albeit with a different last name. Facebook can be mundane, absurd, voyeuristic, and creepy, but it’s pretty awesome to see a classmate you knew as a boy out living life on the edge, being creative, taking chances.

I followed him like a hawk after the earthquake crushed Japan last year. Was he okay? Where did he go? Oh my; how scary. I witnessed the outpouring from people across the globe—myself included—saying, “You can hang your hat with me.” It’s heartbreakingly sweet, that global love.

Thanks to the Facebook chat feature you can communicate with anyone anywhere anytime. I was having a moment a few weeks ago, then all of a sudden P. popped onto my computer screen, “How you doin?”

Was it a coincidence? Yes and No. I think sometimes we can feel a friend’s aching heart from thousands of miles away. We may not know what or why, but they surface into our consciousness and we just want to say hello. Technology jams up and complicates our lives in ways we never could have predicted, but the other side of the coin is that it’s easier than ever to reach out.

P. and I had chatted on Facebook before, but it had been awhile. How do you answer the simplest questions when the answers are complicated?

We got past the intro and into the meat of work, art, life, and simultaneously getting older and younger. He told me I look happy in my profile picture, and I confessed that I was not GDTRFB the day I snapped that photo of myself driving. The sun in my face was disguising my state of mind. I could have said, “thanks!” but I wasn’t in a mincing words kind of mood. He corrected and said I looked like a mannequin—which I took to mean expressionless—and I thought that was more accurate. We left it at that.

We slipped easily into a conversation about the meaning of life. I went out on a limb and said some things that I cringed to be saying to someone whose facial expression I could not determine. I paused, breath held, while I waited for his response.

He told me I seem smarter than I did in high school.

It was a compliment, yet it stung because he was right. Smart was not something I projected about myself in high school, though I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I was terrified to have an opinion that someone might disagree with or challenge, so I said very little. I said so little that a high school history teacher referred to me as “the scenery.”

P. and I wrapped up our conversation, and said we’d chat soon. A week later I woke up to a Valentine’s Day message from him wishing me a good day with this photo attached. Roses in the shape of a heart. It really is the little things that make the world go round.

I’m still figuring out how to say more, and am caught between who I am and how I want to project myself to the world. It’s vicelike in there, which you probably know because odds are you’ve been there too. I heard something recently:

We are three people: who we really are, who we like others to see & who we want to be. Disagreements between them will hold back our true self.

SORRY I’M NOT WHO YOU THOUGHT I WAS.