Friday, October 30, 2009

Paris Marathon - April 11, 2010



A little about the Marathon from Wikipedia:
“The present Paris Marathon dates from 1976. It is normally held on a Sunday in April and is limited to 37,000 runners. It is organised by the Amaury Sport Organisation. It is notable for the attractive route through the heart of the city of Paris, and for the food and drinks stations which include wine, beer, cider and oysters. It is also known for lack of crowd support, especially through the final miles around the Bois de Boulogne.
The race starts on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées going downhill to circle round the Place de la Concorde before turning right onto Rue de Rivoli. The route passes the Louvre, then goes round the Place de la Bastille, and down Boulevard Soult to the Bois de Vincennes. A long loop of the Bois de Vincennes returns the route into the heart of Paris. The halfway point is reached at Rue de Charenton. The route now follows the course of the Seine, passing Île de la Cité and going under the Pont Neuf, then a series of tunnels. There is a large drinks station and foot massage at Trocadéro, opposite the Eiffel Tower. The route continues along the Seine, before branching off east to eventually pass though Bois de Boulogne, emerging for the final 200 metres and the finish on the Avenue Foch.”


From Adventure Marathons:
“Every year in April, 35,000 runners crowd the streets of Paris in the annual Marathon de Paris – or Paris International Marathon. This event, in the form that it appears in today, has been happening ever since 1977, and the next time is on Sunday, April 11, 2010.
The first time a marathon was run in Paris was as early as 1896 over the at that time official distance of 40 km. Present day's Paris Marathon is limited to 37,000 entrants, and the maximum is reached almost every year - usually as early as six months before marathon day. But it is not enough to send your registration off in time. Before your entrance is submitted, you need a medical certificate affirming your physical fitness.
Throughout the marathon runners get a good view of the magnificent city and some of its famous sights. The course starts out right in front of the Triumphal Arch and continues down the broad Champs Elysées. The route passes through two Parisian woods and past fabulous landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral and Place de la Bastille. A large part of the course runs along the banks of the calmly flowing Seine River providing pleasing scenery and ensuring flat streets at the same time. The wide avenues at the start prevents overcrowding, and the overall flatness of the course makes it fairly fast. PB setting is definitely an option.
If the historic city, the world famous sites and the peaceful, shady parks don’t quite do it for you, you can count on the 250,000 onlookers and the 70 music scenes to keep you going. And if that isn’t enough, you can always look forward to the red wine and cheese served at the 35th km – apparently, the organisers want you to be absolutely sure that you’re in France.
If a 42 km jog on the Parisian asphalt doesn’t sound like your favourite pastime but you still want a chance to run this beautiful city and experience the intense atmosphere of a marathon, you can do the 5.2 km Breakfast Race on race day. Or – if you’re really tough – use the race as a warm-up for the marathon. The Breakfast Race course will take you past the Eiffel Tower, the imposing Trocadéro and almost up to the Triumphal Arch. “There is also the possibility of a half marathon, if you plan your trip to Paris in March. The 1/2 marathon shares most of its course with the full marathon.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Article Help

Friends - can you help me with this? I have been procrastinating FOREVER on writing this article and I think I need to send it off to Fred soon. How is this? THANKS!


Riverkeeper Projects Underway with New Funding

Our local waterways will be receiving some much needed care from the Severn Riverkeeper Program in the next several years, thanks to several recent grants. The Program, whose watchdog methods help preserve and improve Maryland’s Capital River, use donations and grants to counteract the research backed negative effects of development and increased stormwater runoff.

Severn Riverkeeper Program received $450,000 from the President's Stimulus Plan to improve water quality in Clements Creek, and another $1 million will go towards the Creek's Restoration Project, to be further reviewed for later funding. Saltworks Creek will also benefit from several grants, including a $600,000 plan pending EPA’s approval to move forward with the builders. Chesapeake Bay Trust donated $21,000 for a restoration study to use to acquire larger grants for further projects.

These projects include researching where the greatest amount of heavy stormwater flow is coming in to the creek, bringing along with it large amounts of sediment and chemicals. These areas pose great threats to creeks as the more nutrients and chemicals that are introduced, the less oxygen is available for fish and underwater grasses that keep the water clear and healthy.

Methods that help restore creeks, and our Chesapeake Bay's tributary rivers, include engineering coastal plain outfalls and other innovative systems. Howard's Branch was affected greatly after the Riverkeeper and its partners installed a Regenerative Stormwater Conveyance System in 2002 that re-directed heavy stormwater flows. A similar system will be put in place in Clements Creek, where the greater filtration will allow for grasses to grow back and fish to thrive.

The Riverkeeper is planning on using equally innovative and resourceful methods to clean up and restore the mouth of Saltworks, where the greatest amount of stormwater and sediment floods the creek from runoff from the Annapolis Mall.

Our small decisions make a large impact as well - maintaining rain barrels, not using chemical fertilizers, and preserving natural vegetation within a critical area of shorelines ensures steadier sediment and less chemicals so you can better enjoy the fishing and swimming in your creeks and rivers.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Decisions, or, Young and In Love

I have reached a conclusion – I am bored. And usually, in my boredom, I make bad decisions.

Today I had to go downtown to the District office of Regulatory and Consumer Affairs to apply for a foreign Limited Liablity Corporation registration. It was a beautiful morning, and as I walked down North Capital Street, tired and looking haggard, people were smiling at me. At first this made me nervous, and then I laughed at the fact that it made me nervous. I realized that people were smiling because it was a beautiful morning and I looked haggard, and because people are people and have their lives to smile about.

There was a line at the office, and I waited. I had been listening to music from senior year of college. Last night I went to bed after several glasses of wine, missing my apartments from previous years, understanding that my new home did not yet smell like me and did not yet feel like home. But the years before feel like home, because I lived in them. I walked down North Capital Street with my coffee and passed by people smoking cigarettes outside of Union Square, and this made me miss senior year even more, and even more acutely, junior year.

I made a mess at security, but the whole process was quite quick. I still had time, so I decided to linger at Union Square, watching people coming and going. I almost bought a train ticket – to anywhere – but didn’t because I had to use the bathroom and the tickets, honestly, are pretty expensive. So I sat out in the sun and watched people, wondering why I missed these past years.

These years were so painful – so tormenting and so full of doubt – why do I remember them fondly? They are, perhaps, like relationships, when we only remember the good parts. But no, I like these years because they were challenging, because I overcame so much. I like these years because I made so many bad decisions. And on the metro, coming to work, I slumped in my seat, still looking haggard, and smiled.

I like my bad decisions. They are my secrets. Nobody knows when I walk down the street that I stayed up too late last night, that I drank too much, that the smell of cigarettes make me feel at home. Nobody knows the agonizing memories of the men whom I have loved, the songs I have listened to over and over to get me through the walk to class. My bad decisions are little vices, they are easily overcome when I decide to, but I still make them because they make me interesting to myself. Making all the right decisions, being thoroughly and fully good to myself is boring. Since this is, after all, my life, there are no right or wrong decisions. There are just ones that provide different smells, and different memories.

Slumped in my seat, I smiled more. Not feeling very well, and tired, I knew I would be home later today after a day of work at the computer, and I would be alright. My home would smell like my home, and my secret decisions would still be mine. And the smile came because I thought how wonderful life is when you are young and in love!

Monday, October 19, 2009

Meditation in Fall

It is quiet in the city today, as in August, or after the first snow. Yet it is only fall – the nearby harbor boat show has come and gone, the first autumn rain has flooded the sewers, and school is under way for parents. The senate is up and arguing again.
But this Monday voices are quieter, steps lighter and fragile, perhaps the flu has gripped us all prematurely. Perhaps our impending cold has caused us all pause.

I know I promised a series on religion, but perhaps I will rescind that as I am finding the muse of that particular subject varying and fickle. Maybe I will just promise that eventually those thoughts will come out. The cleaning one, especially, has be thinking as I have been amassed in the past few months of dredging out muck – from my body, from my wardrobe, from my relationships as I close more gaps of past grudges and miscommunications. This, in conjunction with Danny’s death, makes me wonder on the impulse to be light upon this planet – easing the transition from the muck that holds us consumers down and allowing greater joy to flow between people and between myself and my experiences. And, of course, the idea that the less there is of my life to deal with now, the less there will be at my death. A similar vein is expressed in this blog entry about feature creep: http://zenhabits.net/2009/10/simplicity-how-to-avoid-feature-creep-in-your-life/.

A deepening need for simplicity and a great responsibility to the agent of my life and my universe have predominated recently, finding voice in yoga, environmentalism, love, and focus. Rory’s thoughts on mindfulness are indeed an adamant aspect of my past summer, alas perhaps without the intended focus as I had hoped but every little bit goes a long way, right?

I am beginning to read Kierkegaard again (Either/Or) and in his preface he comments on hearing: “Little by little, hearing became my favourite sense; for just as it is the voice that reveals the inwardness which is incommensurable with the outer, so the ear is the instrument whereby that inwardness is grasped, hearing the sense by which it is appropriated”. There is always the chance that I have been vague and thick all through St. John’s, but it was not until this morning that the great wideness of this sense has reached me. We spoke of seeing many times, in its different elements, related to thinking and to viewing and to identifying, but all of a sudden I “see” that “hearing” is also a medium for thought, and it is indeed through this sense that we communicate much of our thoughts.


“Ah, I see!” is our common “Eureka!”, but as well do we say “I heard myself thinking” or “I told myself”. What a delight to feel this translation between thought and articulation as a sense that is as diverse as hearing, as widely directional as sight itself. I have thought much on sound, writing on the power of the song and poetry of Psalms, musing on the theory found in Darwin that perhaps bird song and human singing is the predecessor to man’s language. Philosophy’s freshman bats around the worry that a deaf man does not think in language. Sound must exist before articulation; must hearing be experienced for enunciated ideas? The different format of thought without surrounded sound is what we strive for in meditation – no particulars in words but true experience in concept, through feeling we arrive at understanding.

This idea has helped me with my push forward in meditation, as has finding Easwaran’s ideology that focuses on valuing a memorized passage and replaying it in your head as your meditation (his translations of the Upanishads and the Gita are some of the most valuable I have found). I am hoping that once I am dedicated enough to push forward with this meditation, than perhaps it will bring an added element of depth in my mindfulness practice and attempts. As I am often reminded, one must change one’s self in order to change one’s actions. And as many of you often remind me, it is the mark of insanity to repeatedly expect different outcomes to the same actions. Truly, a different result must come from doing something different. So does experiencing the world differently come from thinking differently?

The pain of monday

This morning, driving home from Annapolis, the world was beautiful. I had a perfect, soft weekend full of sleep and love, and I was awake and excited for a week of new thoughts and small victories, and yoga. Music on the radio was good, the lightening sky was beautiful, traffic swift, coffee hot, the day ready for me.

Now, five hours later, I am huddled over my desk, in tears, tight and gasping in the pain all women feel. I am tired, hungry and cold, and ill to my stomach. I have a runny nose, and an ear ache, and no more work to do. It is beautiful outside, as I can see from the reflection on the window that I can see through the office across the hall from me. But I can barely move. I am weak and I hurt and the only conversation in my head is “it goes away, it always goes away”.

Some days the mornings are all they can be, and by noon we are no longer what we are capable of.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Religion Series, Introduction

I have come to understand a piece of the purpose of this confusing year of my life. First, why is it confusing? I have been having difficulty with the calmness – with the 9-5:30, the perfectly allotted time slots of morning, work, evening activity, sleep, and how to use it. Used to a busy, stuffed day full of a wide variety of activities, I am now relegated to a simplicity that has been frustrating. I am aware, however, of the importance of this imposed calm in my life, knowing that this year is fundamentally important.

But the why of this important has eluded me. Today I realized a few things about it. My job is boring so that I have the mental energy to improve myself in fundamental ways that I lacked in college, or that I will lack in future studies and life changes. My time is allotted to ensure that I spend it on specificity. I am discovering the slow importance of movement, the fundamentals of cooking, and the power of growing things. I am searching out the tenets of my beliefs that I believed I would discover at St. John’s, but instead learned the foundation to the beginnings of these thoughts.

I have started several posts that, through further thought, seem to be related on their margins. One giant post would be nonsensical, so I will group them as a series, with the feeling that you can turn the page from one and read the next one as related, but a separate thought. The first will be about cleaning, the second about faith and religious belief, and the third on belief systems. Yes, they are related.

On another note, I read on someone’s blog a chart of Buddhist beliefs that I will reprint here because it is so simple and beautiful. In all of the self-improvement and efficiency blogs and papers that I read, they all hold the same thing as a fundamental part of the productivity: Intention. Buddhism, as seen in the Eightfold Path, does as well. Intention, applied to every aspect of our internal selves as relating to everything else, is utterly the most productive, and perhaps the most spiritual. Perhaps the only place I can discover intention is in this calm of my life, the only place to spark the storm of learning in the tranquility of less.

Buddhism – Four Noble Truths
1. Suffering exists
2. Suffering arises from attachment to desires
3. Suffering ceases when attachment to desire ceases
4. Freedom from suffering is possible by practicing the Eightfold Path
Noble Eightfold Path
Three Qualities Eightfold Path
Wisdom (panna) Right View
Right Thought
Morality (sila) Right Speech
Right Action
Right Livelihood
Meditation (samadhi) Right Effort
Right Mindfulness
Right Contemplation
Three Characteristics of Existence
1. Transiency (anicca)
2. Sorrow (dukkha)
3. Selflessness (anatta)
Hindrances
1. Sensuous lust
2. Aversion and ill will
3. Sloth and torpor
4. Restlessness and worry
5. Sceptical doubt
Factors of Enlightenment
1. Mindfulness
2. Investigation
3. Energy
4. Rapture
5. Tranquillity
6. Concentration
7. Equanimity

How beautiful and simple this is!

Monday, October 12, 2009

Daniel West Memorial Service Speech

Danny was my teacher.
When I was small he taught me that there was never a time NOT to dance.
Later he taught me that those you care about are worth putting up a stink so as to be near them. He gave me books, and when we knew I was going to St. John’s, he gave me French books to translate (including this, of Baudelaire, that he bugged me to read). At this point, he began to ask me opinions about philosophy, theology, feminist theory, and relationships, insisting two months ago that I read EB White’s Essays. Danny’s reading recommendations have consistently become, page by page, more influential and more important in my own writing and thought, through some insight of his own.

Danny was my mentor.
He spoke to my girl scout troup about his dances.
He was at holidays every year (when, and which one, was always a question though).
He instigated a many-year long surprise gift-exchange involving a strange, extremely old set of pliers he once owned and my grandmother, showing that it is always worthwhile to give whatever you had.

Danny was a father.
He told us all stories that he refused to repeat, revealing more and more fascinating parts of his person than previously considered.
He moved me in to college.
He drove me to the hospital when I had surgery.
He met my boyfriend and warned him to love me.

In the last year or so of his life, Danny seemed to be forgetting this.
He would call me with questions he was very concerned about. He talked to me about the woman’s position in the church, asking me if his opinions were permissible. He asked me about water quality, concerned not only about his beloved Chesapeake Bay, but that I was learning enough to protect it. He asked me about matters of life, of love, of family, of faith, of philosophy and of friendship. He turned me into his teacher.

Danny is now something else. He is not around anymore to hold me, or to ask me things, but he is around. He is still my teacher, because he is teaching me about how to live in a world where my love perhaps is no longer requited, but just as strong. He is still my mentor because he is showing me how time and trust can truly humble you. He is still my father, as he shows me that sometimes your strongest family comes later in life than you thought.

Danny will always be these people to me, and I am excited to see how these roles change as I continue to grow up. He will not be standing there with me when I get a masters degree, or get married, or have a child, or get promoted. But he will be, because he has sat and talked with me through all of the fundamental principles necessary for these things to happen, and I am indelibly marked by his insight.

This Baudelaire was a gift, that I used all through my junior year, translating line by line the Frenchman’s poetry, opening up questions from Danny every day in class. He asked me for years if I had read these pages, and when finally I explained that yes, I translated them, he asked why it took me so long. I explained that I had to learn ancient greek first, and he told me it was a poor excuse. When searching for something to read here today I landed upon this one, that touches upon how we are all in the same boat as danny now, he just happens to have reached his destination sooner than we will.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

My Wedding Speech



Diotima speaks of love as a child of need and resource, lowly and ugly from his mother, shy and persistent from his father. In the Symposium speech recounted by Socrates, we become aware of Loves place as a mean, as a true philosopher in his adoration of wisdom. Diotima and Socrates come to understand a nature of love that is always becoming, always changing, always growing.’ “for love, Socrates, is not, as you imagine, the love of the beautiful only” ‘what then?’ “ the love of generation and of birth of beauty.” ‘yes’ I said, “yes, indeed” she replied”’.

I knew I wanted to read to Schuyler and Julia a sufi poem at their wedding, he sufi’s are an old religious sect that I hold very dear- they have the unique gift of being literally moved by their love. They experience love for their creator as pure joy and unity, and have been particularly gifted in their talents for communicating this relationship. Rumi is one such gifted sage, and here is a poem that encapsulates what I wish for my friends:

Be Lost in the Call

Lord, said David, since you do not need us,
why did you create these two worlds?

Reality replied: O prisoner of time,
I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity,
and I wished this treasure to be known,
so I created a mirror: its shining face, the heart;
its darkened back, the world;
The back would please you if you've never seen the face.

Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw?
Yet clean away the mud and straw,
and a mirror might be revealed.

Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn't wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,
you must do a little work.

My King addressed the soul of my flesh:
You return just as you left.
Where are the traces of my gifts?

We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.
This Sun doesn't want a crown or robe from God's grace.
He is a hat to a hundred bald men,
a covering for ten who were naked.

Jesus sat humbly on the back of an ass, my child!
How could a zephyr ride an ass?
Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.
Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity.

Remember God so much that you are forgotten.
Let the caller and the called disappear;
be lost in the Call.

I have ruminated over these analogies for a while now, and it was not before I applied Diotima’s words to it that I understood them. I mean – what does Rumi mean about the mud and the mirror? What does time have to do with this?

The message I am taking from Socrates’ teacher is this: Love is hidden. It is not in the flashes of beauty, or the extreme satisfaction of your beloved’s arms. Love does not rest. Instead, it is in the struggle, in the long attempts to “birth” a new idea, or a new you, from each other. Who knows whether, when we came upon a mud pile, whether it is mud or not? He who uncovers it and puts in the hard work of clearing it away just may find a mirror, reveal the heart of the earth shining to reflect the sun, which will clothe him, in his ignorance and nakedness.

Rumi places David as the inquisitor, a conqueror, a lover, a musician and a friend to his Lord. But is not Allah or God to Be Feared, but Reality that replies, with words of honesty and grace. This world we live in is a treasure, it is not bound by the time we fall prey to – it is and always will be a bright and shining vessel of love. And we can see this if we look for it. Fermentation is a pretty gross process – it is smelly and painful, as a partial transformation can only be. But once it begins it continues always – only growing stronger with time. And finally, the Sun wants nothing more than he already is – no accolades for showing the greatness of the world, and Jesus wants nothing more than what is already there for him. True beauty, true love, does not search for what is irrelevant, instead, it takes its gifts and strengthens it in its trust and faith. True, love sees the world of mud eroding in front of him, and takes the last of its fading time to make it beautiful, to create the ultimate beauty through his persistence.

Okay, so this is still cryptic, but here is what I mean. Diotima and Rumi are telling us that love, yes it is present here at this happy point, but even more so love is when it is not so happy. Schuyler and Julia have been and will continue in their love to re-discover each other, seeing the great shining gifts in each other birthing new ideas, fermenting into a strong and complex wine together. And we are here to call them into this service. They have asked us to give them our witness to their discoveries of each other – how honored we should be – and to view as step by step they clear away the mud, they see themselves in their human mirror, they become a new and inseparable unity, providing a purpose for each other every morning when they choose to love each other. We implore you, Schuyler and Julia, to be each other’s philosopher, finding in the birth of beauty in each other’s eyes, the aging of wisdom in the calm after a fight, to continue to identify that it is the work in your relationship that makes it worthwhile. We implore you to answer each other’s call to love, and once answered, to relinquish your individual attachments and lose your own self in each other. We implore you to lose yourself in the call of each other’s voices.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Birthday Wish/Water Geek


My friends,
I know it is a little bit early for this, but I figured out what I want for my birthday. (November 21, btw).
I found this on the internet today: http://www.choosecleanwater.org/cms/conference

It is the 1st annual Clean Water Conference. It takes place across the street from me (practically) and I want to go. However, It is $140. So, instead of buying me a drink or sending me a card or buying me a song off ITunes, I am asking everyone to donate a couple bucks to the Send Annelies to the Water Conference Fund, and I will supplement whatever is not covered. Sound good? Thanks that’s what I thought.

I have spent today, literally five hours of it, subscribing to RSS Feeds and newsletters for global and local environmental groups. I do this every other week. No joke. Five hours, every other week, acquiring the new information on water laws. The funny thing is, little changes. Every space for water organizations voices concerns over pollution and scarcity and poor quality etc. of the local water, or the global water, situation. So I have taken further action and contacted the local Riverkeepers (Anacostia, Shenandoah, Potomac) and hope they will give me a lunch time chat. I am volunteering for stream cleanups, volunteer training, and offering my pen/laptop as an editorialist (or making my way to that point). This all makes me happier than it seems it should – I am a total Water Geek. Reading the Kennedy/Cronin book “the riverkeepers” is making me want more and more to do this whole environmental law/ water activist thing.

I think I may have truly identified a passion. Score 10 for me!

Thoughts on Lawyers


I stood in my boss’ office, stacks of files all over the desk, and replaced the supplements in the Lexis Nexis books of DC Tax Code. The thin paper and ordered volumes felt like the Encylopedia used to as a child, heavy with information and valuable beyond its size. The DC Law Manual was held in two giant binders, the chapters needing individual replacement between labeled tabs. As I thumbed through the stack of papers to delineate each chapter’s sheets, I felt shaky and excited, as if I was handling the Top Secrets of our city. The replaced chapters were laid in a pile on the desk where there was room, growing as the binders were updated. With each movement from the binder I decided to take it all home, anxious to pour over the pages and see what was inside, to find all of the answers. It felt like organizing the Bibles used to, when I was quite little, when it was a privilege to handle such worthy words.

I have always been wary of lawyers. Growing up in an upper- middle class town, just north of Washington DC, parents were lawyers. Sometimes they were surgeons (the Dad) or nurses (the Mom) or Lobbyists (the Dad again), but most likely they were lawyers. And who knew what that meant? It meant they wore suits and sat in an office and were there rarely for the Halloween Parade and sometimes for the Spring Concert. They were always there at mass, fidgeting with their ties, and at the Parish Picnic in July, wearing flag-colored shorts and holding their seventh beer.

My father, on the other hand, was not a lawyer. He was a carpenter/cabinet salesman/graduate student/ snail farmer/ house restorer/boat captain/sculptor… the list went on. He never held a job for more than a few months and I am still unsure what to say when people ask what he does. I say “he works with wood” and leave it at that. He was never at the Halloween parade, never wore a suit, and did not come to the picnics and sometimes to the concerts. He always smelled like sawdust and beer and sweat. He always made up great stories. He was not a lawyer, but he was my father, so why were these other Dads any better when their stories were boring and dry?

In high school the lawyer Dad was equally disinterested in my friends’ lives, and entirely too involved, all at the wrong times. They pushed for Ivy League schools, bought them expensive cars, and showed up at our father-daughter balls. They not only had boring stories now, but seemed to be utterly confused at what to do with a daughter. They ignored you when you were dumped, but were furious when you had a date, and that certainly made no sense.

And in college the lawyer became something else altogether, it became my friends’ futures. The lawyer was what you studied to become, it was no longer your father or your friends’ father. It still made no sense though, because the lawyer was what made you stay home on Wednesday nights studying when you could be out at the bar, and it what made you sound like a pretentious asshole in class when you picked apart the logic of Pascal. The lawyer was obsessed with Nietzche, with Marx, with the particular application of words. The lawyer rarely recognized beauty, rarely made room for love. And the lawyer was boring. And he lawyer was confused.

So with this understanding of lawyer in mind, I interned for one. I had no idea he was a lawyer when I fought for the internship, and I understood entirely that he was not boring or confused or chauvinistic when I worked with him. Working with him gave an entirely new meaning to lawyer, as someone with a particular interest that wants to change the way it is applied in the world. Now, there was no “lawyer”, there were lawyers. There were divorce lawyers and tax lawyers, county defendants and litigators, lawyers who were not working as lawyers but were moms instead, or teachers and professors. This lawyer, in particular, was an environmental lawyer now only because he was working with the environment. Previously he had been a divorce lawyer. To me, that was two different people.

And so it came into my head that I wanted to be that one lawyer, the environmental lawyer, who did just what environmental lawyers do. They are not boring or confused. They are passionate and particular, studied and will trudge out knee deep without waders to get a great bottom sample. They too can smell like sawdust and beer and tell great stories.

Leaves, not Rings


A wedding took place here this past weekend, several miles north and to the east of this exact spot. Seventy people with smiles and fifth drinks’ in their hands danced for hours in celebration of two people proclaiming love and faith in the challenge of marriage. These trees, however, seem to need nothing so organized as matrimony to celebrate.
The groom grew up here, the wife moving up after college from Virginia. They live in Burlington, the be-laked college town, two hours away from the festivity, the largest city in the state. The couple created the ceremony themselves out of speeches from family and friends, refusing traditional views and exchanges and embracing the solidity of declaratives and self-direction. The scripted scene fell way to the party soon after, their guests exhilarating in the freedom of friendship and the surety that they will always fall in love and there will always be more weddings to reunited at.
Visitors to the Northeast Kingdom fall in love themselves with the quaint bridges, the rainbow of leaves, and the rural life that manages to capture all of the east coast charm without its hurry or judgmental downfalls. They move up to a cheap few acres of land, and stay through three winters and leave, or else they never leave at all. The roads are often dirt and winding, the cabins often lack electricity. All houses have fifteen square foot cubes of cut firewood to fuel their stoves for their winter’s warmth.
The views from the highway expand over marbled hills of rust and pumpkin forests and sheep-cleared pastures, and on past to the outlines of purple piles of upright trees. Speed limits jump back and forth from freeway to local-lane numbers, and arrows show the way on sidewalk signs to the local chiropractor, the dentist’s office, the mail room and the county clerk’s office. Every other barn has fallen down. Every other shop sends their blacksmithed metalwork, their creamed cheese, and their oat cookies down south to bakeries and kitsch shops where there are enough people who buy things that the artist can buy the salt to save his venison in the freezer.
Life here is certainly measured by the seasons, predictable and prepared as the snows come, the ice appears in the morning, the melt arrives and the mud flows in. Every shift in light necessitates a certain amount of fire wood, particular chains on the tires, several inches of boots or x layers of sweaters. Whatever freedom one feels from the distance from population and power lines can be stifled by the sheer planning necessary to survive when it may be a week before you can clear your way to the grocery store an hour away. Sturdiness must be measured in patience and introversion, success by the winters worn.
Yet it is this regularity that ensures when the smells of the long winter start to arrive, and the trees start falling prey to axes, the forests expend their extra energy in a great drunken dance of their own. Their familiarity with the length of fidelity necessary to survive nakedness through February inspires such a celebration that entire vacation packages are designed around the voyeurism of city dwelling visitors. What would we have done if a handful of paying suburbanites decided to watch the wedding party? That would be weird, but honestly we would probably have ignored them, or handed them a drink so they could come dance to Twist and Shout too.
What is it that we find fascinating about this chaos of nature? It is as if it is not permitted, it is a bit scandalous, it is three sheets to the wind. Nature is the responsible, constant, nurturing element, and we – well, we are the ones making choices for no other reason than the fun of it. But perhaps nature needs to rid itself of this foolish energy as well, and has made her choices to be bright and startling in the face of the tremendous sobriety needed in the marriage of winter.

Listen to the closets


I read a blog post the other day about “split-second aging”. You know, that one moment when you feel older. It usually happens when you don’t think it will – not when you get married, not when you graduate college, not when you have kids, but when your parent is in the hospital, or you pay all of your bills on time, or you open a retirement account. I have had one of these experiences this past weekend, but perhaps it was not so much as “split-second aging”, as that often comes with fear or confusion or frustration, but as “recognized maturity”.

This recognition came with much desired extras – the release of my fixation on the marriage topic, the awareness of the depth of my grief, the satisfaction in life that makes my boring job and restlessness settle (if only for a moment). After months of stressing over how I will possibly accomplish everything I want to do (will the boy be upset if I just cannot afford Chile? Will Mom be upset if I don’t have the patience to go to law school? What if I don’t want to be here anymore? How can I possibly afford to go to France, how can I possibly find the time or the courage to run?), I released that tension. These questions have not gone away at all, but I have no worries over them – It is my life, anyway, and if other people are upset at me because I said I was going to do one thing and it turns out I can’t, then so be it.

So now what, what’s the next step? Well, I try to squirrel away money. I try to get moving as much as possible. I try to focus on what I love doing – volunteering for water, spending time outside. I try to learn as much about what I love as I can. I focus on what I can do now and not what I may be able to do distantly from now. I have been reading a lot on people’s theories on “how to be happy”, which I always thought was hilarious. Sometimes I feel that being happy is a whole lot of work – having to maintain certain activities, managing stress, finding new challenges etc. But most of the time I feel that being happy is the simplest thing in the world – listen to yourself! That’s it! Listen to what you, the greatest authority on yourself, is telling you to do. Don’t over think it (ahem, annelies), don’t chase it uselessly down meandering roads when it is walking slowly straight in front of you.

And recently I read one post in the midst of all these Happiness articles and streams etc., that focused on Sadness. It was from a Buddhist magazine, touching on how sadness is very much a part of happiness, and even happiness is fleeting (as all moments are and we can ultimately only feel emotion in moments (is this true?) ), and the only way to move beyond unpleasantness is to acknowledge it, embrace it, and let it go. It is often hard to let go of sadness, as we find an easy comfort in indulgence and fear, and moving past it means that we must acknowledge unpleasantness exists. Happiness demands exertion, challenge, quests and growth from passion and breathe. Sadness asks simply for acknowledgement.

But still, it seems easier to me, and much like a responsibility, to follow your passions, to acknowledge where you are in life and pursue it. After all, we are best at what we are passionate about, and what are we here for but not to do all we can with what we have? True, sometimes I feel that perhaps that means I am supposed to re-organize the entire world for the sake of social justice (closets of fear.. get it?), but this is not a challenge! Passion requires effort, as well as talent and love. Now that I think about it, families, and love, and friendships, all require this as well. But most of all, open ears.

PS> I want hayley's blog address!!!!!

Sunday, October 4, 2009

The Sturm Wedding

The whole thing was ridiculously beautiful – the trees were endless and looked like the top of a cardboard crayola box after it has been sitting in the backseat for too long in august. Our 5:30 am Friday morning flight was fine, and tooling around Burlington was wonderful, and I have now fallen desperately in love with the town. We ate and rented a car and drove on out to Lyndon (the covered bridge capital of the northeast kingdom, btw) and stopped at a blacksmith shop and other various local events on the way, taking many many pictures and gasping for breath many many times. Pumpkins were carved, maple candy eaten, and naps much needed by the time we headed out to dinner at the foot of a lake whose upper 2/3 reside in Canada. The food there was oily and heavy and not overly fantastic, but for twenty people in a rural Vermont dinner setting it was perfect. Mr. Tuck talked our ears off, people arrived from out of the woodwork, and it was raining on our way back from dinner which thusly canceled the planned bonfire.






Saturday was lazy in the morning – I did yoga, we took a long walk, I disappointed myself that I was not yet living in Vermont, and we ate pancakes and bagels and greeted more and more and more visitors who had arrived during the night. I spent much time curled up in front of the wood stove, speeches were hashed over, baby played with, jokes made, and much coffee brewed. We got dressed and got lunch at a diner, the Miss Lyndonville Diner, where I had more utterly satisfying and fantastic diner food. The wedding was inside because it rained, but the whole thing was perfect. Julia was not nervous until about half an hour before the ceremony, but she and Schuyler were laughing and making jokes for the ten minutes before hand. The ceremony itself was perfect for them – completely run by them, with speakers giving short speeches, no vows, no exchanging of rings (they exchanged books instead), no visions for a false future, just simply the two of them proclaiming how much they love each other and their families attesting to its truth.







Tables were cleared, champagne poured, dinner served, the bar opened. There were not really any toasts, as most people who would have toasted had already said their thing in the ceremony (I do have to put in a word about the one real toast by Susan and Jenna – they deserve a nice firm slapping. They relayed a story about how they were friends with Schuyler and they needed a third girl to do girly things with and watch girly movies, so he went out and looked for one. He came back to the saying he had found their third girl, and it was Julia, and “even though they didn’t watch as many girly movies as expected, Julia will always be their third girl” The whole thing was rude and inappropriate. The End) Cake was served, dancing happened, and we all drank too much. The party ended at 11, or 12, or something, which was good because we were all too gone to go on much longer, and some people left for a bar, and some back to the house, and we tried to pilfer as much alcohol as possible thinking everyone would go back to the house for the rest of the party. I made a giant fool of myself, as per usual, by burning bacon and thoroughly annoying the boyfriend, and I woke up feeling all the usual repercussions of such an evening.







So more breakfast was eaten and people left and we got in the car again to make our way to Burlington, stopping at a farmer’s market on the way. The trip back was exhausting, but everything was pretty much as close to perfect as you can imagine. I am thoroughly saddened by being back in DC, but I do feel a huge weight lifted, a great excitement for what I can do now. I feel for the first time that the plans I have for the next year are actually feasible. I am doing exactly what I want to be doing.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Writing and a Wedding and No More Pizza

What I really feel I need to do right now is respond to the roommate’s blog post.
I am super excited – yes, about her feeling optimistic, but more so because of her recent discovery of skill.

Some background – I worked for lululemon, a notorious company renowned for their goal-setting and motivational resources for employees. One of the concepts we were encouraged to discover was called the “Hedgehog” concept, named after a story in one the several books we were expected to read. This concept relays how the hedgehog, a supposedly slow and relatively dull animal, is regularly chased by the fox, a quick and sly one. The hedgehog always gets away because as soon as the fox darts from a new angle, the hedgehog curls up in its spiny ball and remains impenetrable. Even though the fox could continuously come up with new and inventive ways of striking at the hedgehog, the small animal knew exactly what it could do and stuck to that. The idea being that if you know what you are best in the world at, you can outwit anybody else who tries every other project. And, for the record, being “best in the world” at something, does NOT mean that nobody else is better than you at that thing, it means it is what you are best at over all other things.

The greater principle can be seen in a Venn Diagram, a composition of what you do best in the world, how you are going to get your money, and what you are passionate about. Here, the small interconnected area is supposed to be how you will exceed in life doing what you love to do. This is supposed to be a concept that takes a very very long time to lock down, as we can be good at very many things but excellent at very few. It supposedly took many years for lululemon’s founder Chip to discover his hedgehog.

I adore motivational literature, and efficiency theories and stuff like ted talks and “getting things done” etc., so I tried to spend a lot of time figuring this out. I am utterly stymied, though, by all of the aspects. What in the world am I really passionate about? What am I best in the world at? How in the dear melting earth am I going to make money off of this??
Here, my friends, is the source of all my inner quests in the last year or so.

And here, my friends, I see my roommate moving ever so elegantly closer towards figuring out her hedgehog. She now has at least one thing down: she is best in the world at creative nonfiction. I applaud her, and envy her, and hope I don’t throw more pastries in our kitchen in sheer frustration (just joking!).

And no, I truly believe that we must work on what we are not so good at in order to make ourselves stronger people. But let’s be honest. None of us are going to make millions off of something we don’t do well. There is no way in hell I will earn my fortune debating physics, or playing chess, or modeling (food is necessary).

On another note, the wedding is this weekend! I am taking my camera, and its charger, and promise to upload many many photos of our dear friends tying the knot under Vermont leaves and the eyes of other dear friends (and many awkward and not so dear ones as well). I am uber excited, and feel very strong and confident about the whole mess of a weekend. No, I have not yet written my speech, and who cares? I have 44 hours!

The rough plan is the following:
Read some of Diotima’s speech from the Symposium on how love is the child of resource and need. Read a sufi poem from Rumi full of odd images of love (such as, “who knew a mirror lay beneath the mud and dirt, but wipe away the mud and you just may find a mirror”, complete with wine references). The idea being that many of these images are so very true to my belief of marriage – that it is not “the next logical step” of two people desperately in love, but a contract towards a satisfying life, a compromise, a promise, a journey, and you must identify and love all the bad things in it to get the most out of the situation. Somehow, I will write something thrilling and beautiful and touching about resource and need producing mud and mirrors and wine, and that will be that!
Somehow, I am not worried. I seem to write my most personable pieces under pressure, and my most academic ones far in the future. Let us not forget my caritas speech that I wrote one week ahead of time (too close for my college nerves) and had people crying. I digress.

Also, I am clearly more stressed than I would like to believe, as I have acquired a new physical ailment due to this whole minister-danny-is-dead-i-have-no-money issue that is my life right now. I am grinding my teeth, producing a major pain in my shoulder, and headaches, and many other grievances I will not bore you with. Also I have figured out the true core of my fascination with the marriage topic lately, and while it has a lot to do with schuyler and Julia, it also has a lot to do with danny himself and our own relationship. Interesting, right? I thought so.