Tis the season for gift giving and receiving. While I can easily admit that I like being on the receiving end (anyone wanna buy me a mac charger that actually works? or maybe a spice rack?) there is nothing I enjoy more than finding or creating special gifts for special people.

Over the long Thanksgiving weekend, I spent many hours curled up on my parents couch creating a book for my Grandma. I wanted to send her a collection of some of my favorite blog posts and poems, since she hasn’t read any of my work since a “novel” I wrote back when I was eight. My Grandma has an incredible knack for writing, and has always supported my own creative endeavors. 

I used Blurb Book Smart, since I read you could import posts directly from WordPress and other hosts. I gave myself about three seconds to try and figure out how to use this feature, and then just decided to create the layout on my own. I designed the front and back cover, table of contents, and figured out what I wanted to fill the pages with. I included stories I knew she’d want to read, like my marathon recap, one-year anniversary with Greatist, and upcoming Costa Rica trip. I also added fun stories about laundry and cheese pilgrimages, camping adventures and the famous John Carlos. I sprinkled in some of my favorite poems, too.

With so much of the world digitized (is that really a word? sounds like a Pokemon) I often miss what once was only tangible: text, photos, music, etc. Sometimes I don’t trust computers and am afraid I’ll lose everything I store in gmail drafts and miscellaneous folders.

 It was weird holding my writing in my hands and seeing in on paper, but it also felt permanent. It felt real. And I can’t wait to get it in the hands of someone who I know will appreciate it most.

Tuesday, December 4^th, was a very special day. It was both my mom’s and best friend Nicole’s birthday. (Happy birthday Mom! Happy birthday Nicole!) And since it would be nearly impossible to write a post on what life should be like when you’re 40-something (right, ma?) Nicole and I decided to write a joined post on how 25 is a “drastically different” age than 24 while we were away this weekend. Luckily, I still have a few months to do foolish-24 year old things, and then I can look back at this advice and be the best quarter-of-a-century-old person I can be.

First thing’s first — we thought about the things you can get away with when you are 24 that you can no longer when you’re 25. Some include, in no particular order:

You are allowed to funnel a beer (Nicole, Bud Light cruise, FloRida concert) or shot gun a beer (Laura, outside trailer in Alabama, unclear.)

You are allowed to lock yourself in your apartment.

You are allowed to go to the wrong airport terminal and spend three hours wondering why you cannot check into your flight. (You are, however, not allowed to miss the flight.)

You are allowed to be hungover.

You are allowed to be confused and sometimes lonely.

You are allowed to clean your apartment not often as you should, and let laundry always ends up at the end of your to-do list.

You are allowed to not own a smart phone/ or not understand how the iPhone works and continuously and accidentally call your ex boyfriend.

You are allowed to spill coffee on white things.

Things you must be able to do once you turn 25:

You must be able to make coffee in any situation, with any sort of contraption, with or without sugar packets.

You must be able to drive up an icy hill with skidding tires, sand, and sticks.

You must be able to start thinking about starting your own business and what that entails.

You must have a general idea of what you want out of life for the next five years (because then you’re 30 and that’s horrifying).

You must know how to self improve.

You must know how to no longer be passive aggressive. 25 is the age you must actively start sticking up for yourself.

You must know how to get places with a real map. Besides, the new iPhone maps app is very confusing and will get you lost, and oddly, some places in the world do not get cell phone service.

You must be able to start a fire. (You are allowed to use matches but are not allowed to use gas from portable camping stoves. That is a 24-year-old thing to do.)

You must know how to cook a few decent meals (sweet potato quesadillas, stuffed squash, banana walnut pancakes, and the damn-best scrambled eggs for examples)

You must find a friend who loves listening to the same band album over and over again and be perfectly content doing so. This will serve you well on road trips and weekend getaways.

You must pay your rent on time.

You must understand that 25 is an age for adventure, but realize you have to always journey back towards a path that permits some sort of  stability and thoughtfulness for others.

You must treat your body well. Go for a run. Maybe take a multi-vitamin. Stop going to tanning salons and stop smoking cigarettes. Always wear your seatbelt. This will guarantee longevity.

You must be happy or know what makes you happy … and continuously work on getting there.

Happy, happy birthday mom and Nicole. Love you both very very much 🙂

Here is another update about my running journal aaand journey with Believe I Am — which I have found to be super helpful during these last few months. (Read more on why I’m doing it, my first goals update, and how journaling helped me take flight.)

Here are the initial goals I set, and how the heck I’m doing with them…

Gain back my speed. I had basically abandoned speed work when I took off during November (obviously…) but I tested out my speed the other day on the track to see if focusing on strength/yoga magically fostered some speed inside of me. And lo and behold — 200 meter repeats were not a disaster. In fact, I’m pretty much where I was before, if not a tiiiiny bit faster. Do I truly believe doing yoga over and over and over somehow unveiled the old sprinter in me? Not totally, but I think I went into the workout with more focus, and an understanding that it would feel hard…. but I had to push through it.

Move outside my comfort zone. In other words, I pushed myself out of my comfort zone. I am getting better at this as I realize some of the “numbers” goals I’ve set for myself are not as daring as they could be. Jocelyn told me I could run a 3:10 marathon (she also has a very interesting imagination). But maybe my initial goal of sub 3:40 wasn’t enough, and perhaps BQing isn’t as crazy as it sounds. Maybe sub 3:30 is where I should be. Maybe 7:30’s on the roads should be my “normal” pace. I’m trying to figure that out, and having a coach help me train for Eugene in the spring will really help me learn where my potentially truly lies.

Stop being so hard on myself. Again, this one will always be the hardest, but I’m working on it. I work up yesterday, and for whatever reason, felt frustrated. I was bitter that my morning run routine was “taken away” from me for so long, and that I didn’t want to feel slow, and I wanted to just go out there and run how I used to run. I flew out the door and tried to run that frustration to the ground— doing a loop around East Williamsburg up to North Greenpoint, the the two east river ferry’s, and back to the track. Yet when I looked at my watch, I saw I was running 8:10 splits, even though I felt like I was running 7:10. (I guess that’s what taking off a month will do to you.) I told myself to calm the heck down, to turn off my watch, and just go by feel. I came home and reminded myself that I need to build back to where I was sloooowly, and that I have months before another marathon knocks at my door.

There is time.

This weekend, Nicole and I sort of went off the grid.

We went to Conesville, NY (ever heard of it? no?) to stay at her parent’s little house on a lot of land. We had barely any cellphone service, no Internet, and all the time in the world. We listened to the Fleet Foxes on repeat for hours. We read books, wrote stories, made fires, talked about life, and love, and loving life, and made delicious, delicious White Russians. We went on a two-hour escapade to make pancakes.  (We forgot eggs, so tried to drive down the road and visit a small farm that sold eggs. However, it has snowed the night before and we couldn’t get the car up the icy, hilly driveway. After an hour of unsuccessfully throwing down sand, shoving sticks under the wheels, and shoveling the snow, we called Larry [Conesville handyman] who got the car out in one embarrassing rev of the engine. We then found the farm, got squawked at by very rude and apparently non-fertile chickens , searched for the General Store, found the General Store, and purchased eggs. We finally made the pancakes and proceeded to fall into a post-pancake nap while listening to Iron and Wine. It was amazing.)

We then ventured outside and walked the property trails, smelling the fresh pine and breathing in the fresh air, before digging into an amazing VHS collection and watching The Insider (circa 1992), which just so happens to be a very, very long movie. We talked some more, ate some more, slept some very more, and drank our weight in coffee the next morning before heading back in the big city.

We decided to stop at Martin Munoz’s house on the way out — the Argentinian mans who lives right outside of town. He has a barn, and collects things, and sells the things he collects, so we decided to stop by to say hello and take a look around. We wanted to be back in the city by early afternoon, but by that time… we were still at Martin’s.

All people have a story to tell, and Martin is no exception. He’s from Mendoza, Argentina, and has been living in the States since 1970 — collecting antiques, painting, writing poetry, and working on a novel. He took us to his greenhouse and picked us fresh swiss chard and carrots. He invited us inside and read us poetry. He showed us the solar panels he’s installed so he can have hot water, and the tomatoes and pumpkins he picked and froze to have a freezer stocked with vegetables. He has also managed to collect over 20,000 books with the dream of transporting them back to Mendoza and building a library. He told us he’s on the earth for such a short amount of time, so wants to do the best he can for others while he’s here.

I really want to help Martin build his library, and until I can figure out how to do that, I’m going to share one of his poems he gave me, which I read aloud in his living room for him: 

Muses Of The Night

What might the night have in her lank hair of a dark woman
that so many times I went through her beauty
to mend my poet’s dream.

The naughty children of my cooing
went out through the onyx of her grandstands
to disentangle the strophes of some verse
that was baking the soul with a hot bread flavor

Night, beloved night, to love you the way I do,
has furrowed the tints of my memory,
fugitive and untouchable muses
of such a beauty were they,
that I could never remember their faces,
only the consequent tingling of their free will.

Only the charm that they could have existed makes me happy
and I pick up pieces of poetry that as darts pass
by the gloominess of the firmament
leaving the fresh aura
of what it was, but not what it was of.

Jet black mermaid to offer you my gift I search for crowns
of enchanted quietness with the sailors of the hours
and their netting in the splendid abysses of the solitude
that keeps us communicated.

Murky pulp cover my thoughts with a silence that flies
and to the fountain of my presage
put a faucet of colors to converse with you my romance.

Night, embrace the bohemic pendulum of my being,
spice my senses
although it be not more than an echo of aromas
but that which bursts over the grass and the land
as lemon, mint, tomato and lavender do.

Tell me night, the electromagnetic configuration irradiated
by that one who wanted to see with his spirit
your marine coral of mist and never could
and the broken harmonies of that other one
who wanted to sing for you with the help of
neighboring heavenly bodies
neither could he
tell me night why did they disregard you.

But more important yet, tell me of the blind men
who could sing to you without the light of the moon
tell me night when and how appears on them the harp of the rhyme
and from the sunken galleon of their quietness
emerges choruses of orpheous to give you chimeric serenades
in the undulating and calm wresting of the flora
in which they gravitated
lit up by the modulated rhythm of subcutaneous little guppies

At the same time that one thousand black swans
with eyes of two thousand lightning bugs
steal their thoughts to exist in their vagabond full moon.
Beloved night, they made out of their souls
the lamp of your house.

The bitchy moon came out to rejoin the sheep of the clouds
violent hymns disbanded from the stillness
by the twang of their bells
a gallop of return was bringing the last of my dreams
following a childish amazonic muse
on which was mounted a squat pegasus
in every direction and all of a sudden
it ceases to stir up events
as if the night were not any more the inside of a guitar.

November has been an interesting month. Between Hurricane Sandy, the marathon drama, going away to Florida (hi Grandma!), going home for Thanksgiving, and oh…not running, it was just, well…different.

The non-running thing has been especially interesting. I didn’t really write about it, but I injured my foot pretty badly right before nycm. (I actually probably would not have been able to finish the race had it went on.) I was also generally feeling exhausted, sore, and burnt out — my shins were constantly hurting, my legs always tired walking up the subway stairs, and my mind kind of fuzzy. So after the marathon was canceled and I went out for an unsuccessful run that had me walking two miles back to my apartment in tears, I told myself it was time for serious rest. A month’s worth.

To “spoil” the “surprise,” I cut my rest early. I ended up going for two runs while I was home for Thanksgiving — both only four or five miles — and while it was cold and windy and super hilly (hello suburbs), it was pain-free. The only thing that matters.

Since my Running Rx was taken away from me and I needed a way to stay sane, I turned to yoga. I probably did yoga almost everyday in the month of November, even if that meant ten quick minutes of sun salutations at home while a foster-kitten looked at me like I was crazy. (<3 nena.) I practiced poses that are particularly challenging for me (damnit half-moon, I can’t balance for the shit of me) and got the hang of a headstand (for all of 1.3 seconds, but whatever). I feel like I am always “ok” at yoga, and taking the month to really focus on doing poses correctly was awesome. I also felt significantly stronger, and….get this….wayyyy less stressed. November has been such a “calm” month for me. Savasana FTW.

I also have been writing way more, a bit on my tumblr, and a lot in my super secret online journal. Rather than mornings being rushed to get in a long run, I’ve had more time to write, which I’m best at in the morning. (It’s 8am right now, just for a visual.) It seriously has been a life-saver.

That all said, I also have felt pretty disconnected from running — both the act of running itself, and being a part of the community. I watched people run amazing PR’s and meet up for weekend long runs, and I felt totally removed from the scene. It definitely made me feel a bit lonely, but I also think I needed the physical and mental break.

But of course, I am itching to get back into the groove. I’m going to start running for serious this Monday, and come the new year, the awesome Jason Fitzgerald is helping me with a marathon plan for Eugene. On so many different levels, I have a feeling 2013 is going to kick even more ass than 2012.

Helllloo and happy November 20th. Here is another what I am reading post.
Since this is the Internet.
And there are so many friggaan things you can read.

Fleeting In the Ear, Forever In the Heart  (The New York Times)

“There are comparable moments in many pieces we love — a fleeting passage, a short series of chords, some unexpected shift in a melodic line — when something occurs that just grabs us. I’m not talking about the obvious ones, those climactic blasts that pound you into submission, or those soaring lyrical lines that sweep you along. I’m thinking of subtle, almost stealthy musical moments that we might or might not notice at first hearing.”

Struggle for Smarts? How Eastern and Western Cultures Tackle Learning (NPR shots)

“In Eastern cultures, Stigler says, it’s just assumed that struggle is a predictable part of the learning process. Everyone is expected to struggle in the process of learning, and so struggling becomes a chance to show that you, the student, have what it takes emotionally to resolve the problem by persisting through that struggle.”

Many Health Apps are Based on Flimsy Science (The Washington Post)

“[Certain apps] take some therapeutic method that is real — and in some cases experimental — and create a grossly simplified version of that therapy using the iPhone. Who knows? Maybe it works.” But until testing shows otherwise, “my feeling would be that it doesn’t.””

13 Lucky Racing Tips for Your Next Personal Best (Strength Running)

This is an e-book I contributed to for Jason Fitzgerald, who runs an awesome running website. I’m excited to have my advice on there with some way more awesome people. Ch-ch-check it out!

What We Learn From 5 Million Books (TED Talk)

“Ladies and gentlemen, a picture is not worth a thousand words, in fact we found some pictures are worth five-billion words.”

Good Things Brewing (Acqtaste)

On brewing beer in Brooklyn “So we can start with the Lobster Saison. It actually has lobster in it, you throw the shells right in. They’re oyster stouts basically, and that’s a stout that has oysters. When you’re making it, there are actually oyster shells in the beer. They do it in Ireland; we had it on our backpacking tour. Before we started the company, we went on a seven-week backpacking trip. We quit our jobs, and it was kind of a way to see if we still liked each other.”

Around the World in Concept Coffee Shops (The Atlantic)

“Bizarrely themed cafes have been popping up all over Japan. Among the strangest, these “neko” (Japanese for “cat”) cafes originated in Taiwan and have since been imported to Tokyo. One of the more famous, Cat’s Store, allows patrons to simultaneously get a caffeine fix and indulge their need for feline companionship in a city where limited space often means pet-free apartments.”

The Most Recent 25 (of 730, and counting) (Altered Books)

“The Idea: Cut the bindings off of books found at a used book store. Find poems in the pages by the process of obliteration. Put pages in the mail and send them all around the world. Lather, rinse, repeat.”

How to Live Without Irony (The New York Times)

“Furthermore, the nostalgia cycles have become so short that we even try to inject the present moment with sentimentality, for example, by using certain digital filters to “pre-wash” photos with an aura of historicity. Nostalgia needs time. One cannot accelerate meaningful remembrance.”

A Guide to the Meaning and Usefulness of Puncuatation Marks (McSweeneys)

“Everybody thinks punctuation marks are useful. They keep them in jars. They use them to feed ageing relatives. They think they will stop that bear from shooting them. They won’t. Punctuation marks actually have extremely limited uses. ¿Seriously… You’re, doing- it- wrong”

I’ve written about getting my Believe I am Journal, and how it helped me rest up and push through an awesome 10 mile run. And now, I want to go back to the initial goals I set and see if I’m making any progress… (fingerscrossed)

Gain back my speed.
This is still on my to-do list. I had grandiose plans to get back on the track after Wineglass and find that 200 and 400 meter speed I had in high school. However, after I took some time off after my first marathon, I late-in-the-game registered for New York, had one week to get in some LSD (long slow distance) and then taper — again. And then I got hurt. And then Sandy happened. Marathon was canceled. And now I am forcing myself to take 3-4 weeks off. So here I am, probably not so speedy.

Move outside my comfort zone.
Which takes me here. Originally, this goal only meant my “physical” comfort zone. And I was well on my way: I started consistently running sub-8’s on runs. I ran a bit faster and a bit longer than what I felt was comfortable, but calmed myself down and realized pushing my limits would not physical kill me. (I am living breathing evidence!) But … now I’ve sort of created a new plan, which is moving me outside my “mental” comfort zone. My weekly mileage is at a good ol’ zero. I had a nice conversation with my stubborn self, where I realized that my pained feet, sore legs, and exhausted body needed a break. While running is such a stress reliever for me, I’m learning to find relief in other ways: yoga, stretching, meditation, and writing. I do not like rest, but I understand that my body needs a damn break. All I had to do was look at the workouts I logged in my journal for reinforcement…

Stop being so hard on myself.
Alas. I feel like all of these goals intertwine, which I like. I am taking this rest in stride. I am not worrying about the lack of mileage right now, since I know the recovery will be put to good use. I have big, big goals for Eugene in April, and I am beyond excited to start training hard to reach those goals come January. I’ve devoted my winter to Eugene, so until then, I am going to #gowiththeflow so I can feel rested, strong, and capable.

Yet, all the while knowing that if I don’t run what I want to in the spring, that’s OK too. Because all I want to do is feel this happy crossing the finish line, no matter what the time on the clock says.

During the week of Hurricane Sandy, the hardest thing I had to deal with was being by myself.

While I knew how lucky I was to be with power, with heat, and with a home, I was also sorta-kinda freaking out. For once, I had time to do all the things I always wish I could do more of — go for walks, do yoga at home, write letters, learn ukulele, read — and yet I lacked the motivation to do anything productive or creative. I found that I was bored, and boring, and lonely. And then I realized how WEIRD that was. Am I a lonely person? Do I need other people to stimulate me, inspire me? Can I not keep my own self company?

And then I remembered my 108 things post, and one entry in particular: “50. Hopefully going on a vacation by myself.”

So, I told myself: “Self, you are going on a vacation. Alone. And you’re going to love it.”

Honestly, traveling alone is way different than being cooped up in your tiny apartment while there’s a natural disaster occurring outside your window. Still, it’s something I’ve always wanted to do, and I think it will teach me how to love solitude (among other things, just check out this article!)

And while I will be traveling alone, I do not plan on being alone the whole time. I’m hoping to meet people along the way, connect with friends-of-friends-of-friends for places to visit, sleep, see, etc, but I want to do it by myself. I want to sleep alone and wake up alone and figure out things on my own. Learn by myself, and about myself! And see a new place through my own eyes.

As Alain De Botton wrote, “It seemed an advantage to be traveling alone. Our responses to the world are crucially molded by the company we keep, for we temper our curiosity to fit in with the expectations of others. They may have particular visions of who we are and hence may subtly prevent certain sides of us from emerging…”

So, where am I going? It took me some time to figure that out, too. I thought about going back to Africa, but with the price of airfare I may as well buy a one-way ticket. Then I oddly really wanted to go to Ireland, but it’d be so freakin cold. Colorado or Oregon? Too familiar. Bali? Way too Eat Pray Love. And then instead of continuing to think and never decide, never actually buy my ticket, I remembered what a friend told me: It doesn’t matter where you go. It’ll be somewhere new. And that’s all that matters.

When I purchased my plane ticket, I’ll be honest: I was nervous. But then I told myself that I should JFDI (just fucking do it). That in order to do the things I love, and the things that challenge me, and even scare me, I have to make the first move. I wanted to sing, so I joined a band. I wanted to run a marathon, so I signed up. I wanted to write, so I started this blog. And now I want to make sure I can travel when I have the opportunity, the flexibility, the money (kinda), and the freedom.

So I’m going to Costa Rica. In January. For nine days. I have no set plans and only my roundtrip ticket. And I couldn’t be more excited.

Pura Vida. Full of Life. I’m going after it.

source

The last time I voted for Barack Obama was the first time I voted for a President of the United States. I was 20 years old. I sent in an absentee ballot.  I was in Ghana.

It was an interesting and incredible experience I will never forget. First and foremost, every single Ghanaian loved Barack. Whether or not they actually knew about his policies and his beliefs, they did know he was a black candidate, had roots in Kenya, and represented the democratic model for Africa. In a way, it was both inspiring and disheartening: Their expectations for what Barack could potentially do for Ghana — for Africa — were incredibly high.

Heck, they even wrote a song for him that played pretty much on repeat from September to January.

Election day was one giant party. Me and a bunch of friends heard they were showing the election at an outdoor hotel in downtown Accra, so we headed over there to check it out. What we ended up walking into was a huge space with two large screens: one airing CNN and the other Aljazeera. There was beer and food everywhere, a huge stereo system/DJ, and an area to buy what else, but oversized t-shirts with Obama’s face on the front.

We spent the entire night watching the election unfold. The news would be put on mute during commercials and classical Ghanaian Highlife would blast; people would get up and take huge swigs of beer, dance around, and yell “Barack Barack!” before sitting back down.

We did this for hours. Because of the time difference, I remember the sun was rising when Barack went up to accept his Presidency. It was one of the first times in my cynical youth I was proud to be from America. Nobody had slept all night, but once again the hotel turned into one, huge dance party:

The energy surrounding that day and the coming weeks is something that’s hard to describe. Ghana was having their own Presidential election a month later, and Obama’s victory was coupled with whether or not power would stay with the New Patriotic Party or change to the National Democratic Congress. The race was pretty much between Nana Akufo-Addo (NPP) and John Atta Mills (NDC). Atta Mills ended up winning in a revote in December (!! which was cray, ask me about that in person), and he sadly passed away this summer right before finishing his term.

This year there will be no huge bottles of beer, highlife music, or Ghanaians giving Americans huge, huge hugs. This election almost feels weird. It feels like it crept up on us with Hurricane Sandy, scared us with Paul Ryan (sorry, he actually terrifies me) and confused us as we looked back at the last four years and tried to evaluate whether or not Barack did enough. But for the sake of not turning this into a political blog (yikes) I’ll just say that my vote has not changed from 2008, and I hope with all my heart that today, the Blakk Rasta Obama song is echoing throughout the streets of Ghana.

It has been quite an interesting week here in NYC. I’ve been reading a lot of articles and tweets about the destruction, the hardship, and the dedication that has enveloped Hurricane Sandy’s path. Many people also wrote some cool blog posts on their thoughts about the nycm’s continuation, but rather than talk about my opinion, I’ll just gladly accept it’s still on, and get excited/prepared for Sunday.

Where I am in Brooklyn was pretty much spared, minus a few fallen trees and some power outages. I feel pretty damn lucky. (If anyone is still without power or water in Manhattan, you can take the east river ferry over here and stay with me!)

But to take a break from #Sandy, I wanted to write about a small act of kindness that happened to me this morning. After a 4-mile run, I went straight to a bodega around the corner from my haus to grab an egg sandwich and coffee. While waiting for my order, a man started talking to me.

“Aren’t you freezing? You’re wearing shorts.”

“I just went running. You warm up fast.”

“Wow, talk about dedication.”

“Haha, well I’m running the marathon this weekend, so need to get some final miles in…”

“For 19 years, I couldn’t even walk.”

For the next few minutes, the man told me his heartbreaking story of getting in an accident, being confined to a wheelchair, and then finally getting access to American doctors who were able to treat his condition and get him back on his feet. He started strength training in PT, and now is just happy he can walk again. I also learned that he hates New York City, wants to move to Miami, and his favorite color is orange.

When my sandwich and coffee was ready, I went up to the counter and paid for it. ($3, whaddup #Brooklyn!) I turned to him again to say goodbye, that it was nice chatting, happy he can walk, etc, and he waved a $10 bill in front of me. “Give her back the $3!” he told the cashier. I stood there sort of confused, as he handed the $10 to the cashier, paid for an orange juice, and apparently my breakfast.

I didn’t want to take the money back, but I also didn’t want to disrespect him. Also… it was three bucks.

“Darling, you can use that $3 way more than I can.”

(Do I look that poor?!) “That was too kind of you. Thank you. What’s your name?”

“John Carlos. By the way, I made that whole story up.”

“What?”

“I just wanted to talk to somebody.”