Monday. Ha. No shame.
Last Monday, I got down to the gym and did a new circuit training regime: 3-2-1 for short. Circuit A is 10 minutes of cardio, Circuit B is 10 minutes of functional training, Circuit C is core training. The routine plays out like this: A-B-C-A-B-A (3As, 2Bs, 1C). After 50 minutes of a sweat fest, I decided dips are overrated, and the plank is my personal nemesis.
Tuesday: Got in the pool after work and did some laps. A macho-type guy calling himself 'Phelps' challenged me to a 25m race after seeing how strong my butterfly stroke was. I lost, but we were doing freestyle, and he was at least a foot taller than me. Next time though, he won't be so lucky.
Wednesday: I got some great running tips from a friend of mine who trains firemen. In addition to working on my form (pose technique, anyone?), I went for 30 minutes just working on 'feeling uncomfortable' with my heart rate. Basically working consistently at a high THR will help build capillaries on the muscles that eat up fat before carbs. Yes, please.
Thursday: Ouch. Everything is sore, but I went to an hour and a half of Vinyasa yoga, which is strength and balanced based. Later that evening, I attended a workshop at school for a new emsemble piece we're garnering. We ended up doing A LOT of movement-based work, including Suzuki walking, core training, and group flocking - which is like it sounds - flocking in the sense you clump together and move as one. Unfortunately, we were being led through the flocking by a former ballet dancer from Puerto Rico who seemed to ignore the flexibility challenges some of us faced that day.
Friday: Double Ouch. I blame the Puerto Rican. Four hours of Grotowski - cat work and plastiques. For those unfamliar with the Polish theatre guru, Grotowski developed a process of movement work that confuses the central nervous system so as to access emotional levels unavailable to us in our conscious body state. Basically, circling your head counter to your hips in an upside-down triangular position will either make you laugh maniacally or weep uncontrollably while kicking out sideways at imaginary terrors. Four hours of this sort of work will indeed deplete your body of sweat, anger, and any compassion you may have had for the human race.
Saturday: REST. Glorious rest. Helped out at the Spring Ball at the House, checking coats and listening to the live band play standards from the 1940s. Alumni guests danced the foxtrot, tango, cha-cha, waltz, and two-step...all the while I was wondering why the tallest girls always seem to get paired with the shortest guys in this kind of setting.
Sunday: Slept in. (Those ballroom dancers stay up until all hours. You literally have to send the band packing and turn off the lights before they will take their coats home.) More rest for the body, and light eating to compensate for lack of cardiovascular exercise.
I also talked to a few friends this week, and everyone has been so supportive! I have a fear that I will fail at this, but the challenge lies in concentrating on small successes. In the past, I got discouraged because I felt like I wasn't seeing/feeling any results after such hard work. So, I've had to redefine how I'm measuring success.
This week, I'll try to find a word besides 'Ouch' to describe my workouts.
Hopefully it will be something like, 'I want a fifth helping of lunges, with a side of box jumps!'
Ever the overachiever, me.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Any Given Monday
Mondays always burden me. A wise Italian grandmother once said, "Get everything done on a Monday." Achieving productivity on even the smallest scale will make Mondays seem terrific. What a way to start the week: getting stuff done. Mailing that letter, paying that bill, taking out the trash, getting the shopping done - small human feats that grow heavier if they remain on the To-Do List past Thursday.
I started thinking about this Monday on yesterday's Sunday. I have grown tired of feeling hopeful about the productivity I imagine will occur at the beginning of every week, especially when I make a plan to get something done and miraculously allow myself to put it off until Thursday. Or, sometimes indefinitely.
I realized that the problem with my To-Do Lists inevitably have to do with the accountability factor involved in making the list. As author, I am usually the only one privvy to its contents, and the sole authority monitoring completion of any given task. Furthermore, the list serves my own purposes, and so when something gets done, I'm the only one who can truly revel in the satisfaction of making a swift slash across the page.
Now, I'm not saying I need glorious banners of praise unfurling whenever I take out the trash, but there is something else to be gained with this insight: when something doesn't get done on my private To-Do List, I'm the only one who has to deal with the shame/guilt/disappointment/burden/(insert weighty feeling here) of knowing that, at the end of the day, I didn't follow through on my goal.
What I've discovered this Monday is the existence of my Life To-Do List. Unbeknownst to me (or perhaps I simply refuse to acknowledge that it looms indefinitely), there are a few items on my Life To-Do List I've been anxious to cross off permanently. I've managed to cross off a few items on previous productive Mondays: the Monday I mailed my grad school application, the Monday after I ran a marathon and managed to oversee a cross-country videoconference for a bunch of surgeons, the Monday I arrived in a foreign country and found a job, hotel, and pub with four hours, the Monday I cleaned the house without being asked.... Small feats that take on enourmous significance once completed.
That being said, there has been a consistent, persistent item on my Life To-Do List that I have figured out how to conquer...or at least take a stab at getting it crossed off for good. I'm making it PUBLIC. This way, the shame of unproductivity or, worse, persistent off-putting, will be a burden I can no longer tuck away as I crawl into bed in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning.
Here's the bare bones:
The item I'll have crossed off by my 28th birthday is "Get In Shape".
That means an acceptable BMI by September 14, 2010.
Henceforth, the Public To-Do List starts today.
...Tuesday.
The irony is not lost on me, but at least the shame will force me to improve by next week. Feel free to check back next Monday. My sense of pride is at stake now.
I started thinking about this Monday on yesterday's Sunday. I have grown tired of feeling hopeful about the productivity I imagine will occur at the beginning of every week, especially when I make a plan to get something done and miraculously allow myself to put it off until Thursday. Or, sometimes indefinitely.
I realized that the problem with my To-Do Lists inevitably have to do with the accountability factor involved in making the list. As author, I am usually the only one privvy to its contents, and the sole authority monitoring completion of any given task. Furthermore, the list serves my own purposes, and so when something gets done, I'm the only one who can truly revel in the satisfaction of making a swift slash across the page.
Now, I'm not saying I need glorious banners of praise unfurling whenever I take out the trash, but there is something else to be gained with this insight: when something doesn't get done on my private To-Do List, I'm the only one who has to deal with the shame/guilt/disappointment/burden/(insert weighty feeling here) of knowing that, at the end of the day, I didn't follow through on my goal.
What I've discovered this Monday is the existence of my Life To-Do List. Unbeknownst to me (or perhaps I simply refuse to acknowledge that it looms indefinitely), there are a few items on my Life To-Do List I've been anxious to cross off permanently. I've managed to cross off a few items on previous productive Mondays: the Monday I mailed my grad school application, the Monday after I ran a marathon and managed to oversee a cross-country videoconference for a bunch of surgeons, the Monday I arrived in a foreign country and found a job, hotel, and pub with four hours, the Monday I cleaned the house without being asked.... Small feats that take on enourmous significance once completed.
That being said, there has been a consistent, persistent item on my Life To-Do List that I have figured out how to conquer...or at least take a stab at getting it crossed off for good. I'm making it PUBLIC. This way, the shame of unproductivity or, worse, persistent off-putting, will be a burden I can no longer tuck away as I crawl into bed in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning.
Here's the bare bones:
The item I'll have crossed off by my 28th birthday is "Get In Shape".
That means an acceptable BMI by September 14, 2010.
Henceforth, the Public To-Do List starts today.
...Tuesday.
The irony is not lost on me, but at least the shame will force me to improve by next week. Feel free to check back next Monday. My sense of pride is at stake now.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
The Jetta and the Journey
I did not make a New Year's Resolution this year. A certain friend will claim that I have resolved to do whatever I want to do without regard for consequence in 2010, but how much trust can you place in a resolve that is made at 1am in the throes of fresh-start hysteria? The only resolution I've committed to consistently over the past two years is the resolution to not make resolutions.
Regardless, 2010 has been a year of surprisingly good luck...luck of the sort that may result in a whole decade of stellar moments. From cross-country escapades to gasp-inducing spectacles, my daily adventures have taken me from sunny, beloved California back to the wintry Northeast, and I have been collecting trunksfuls of memories which will, in retrospect, award this year as being the beginning of a great decade.
All I can say is, it's about time.
Some of you may recall that I drove cross-country at the beginning of January this year. The beloved Jetta (faithful manual friend to the family), myself, a long-time friend, and a finnicky GPS navigator lovingly named Greta journeyed from the golden hills of California across the wintry landscape of Route 70 to Northern New Jersey, where Jetta will now permanently reside. The trip was a success, given that it was a) the dead of winter, b) Jetta was in no way equipped with snow-proof anything, and c) two slightly madcap artists were clocking 50 hours of driving in under 6 days.
My brother-in-soul Chad accompanied me from gorgeous San Jose down to gaudy Las Vegas, through overly-arid, overly-nice Utah, into winding, quaint Colorado, past fog-laden Kansas, beyond frighteningly zealous Missouri, around peaceful Ohio, into delicious and restful Virginia, all the way up the Eastern thoroughfare I-95 to bustling JFK...whilst engaging me for 4 days in that exquisite rhetorical debate of "Would you rather...?"
For those who have not yet been blessed with the opportunity to engage in this game of choosing between two life-altering disasters, know that it ultimately results in sacrificing either your dignity or your vanity. In any case, debates can (thankfully) rage for days, and when faced with a barren landscape of trees in West Virginia that reminds one of adolescent facial hair, choosing between no arms or no legs becomes an inherently fascinating topic.
(And for the record: General opinion agrees that to have screaming faces on your fingernails is far better than sporting an assortment of noses on your scalp, and although I'd rather be a unicorn than a phoenix, choosing between smelling faintly of clam chowder or tasting like sour milk simply renders one speechless with despair.)
The journey being long, I was prepared for foot cramps and long streches of pavement, but I was unprepared for the simply extaordinary experiences of Americana. The first hint at the stellar-ness of this new year was the Farewell Ceremony at the California-Nevada border at sunset on Sunday. After rolling into the Last Gas Station in California on a tank full of Red-Light Empty, I stretched my legs and perused the store for a memento to mark the occasion of Jetta's Last Night in Cali. I searched fervently for christening agents: an avocado and some sunscreen (California mascots), only to settle on a surfboard keychain (the only item in the store that paid homage to California). Chad joined me in the checkout line, eyes urgent, meaning he either just witnessed human inanity in all its splendor, or finally discovered the Sacred Waterfall Urinal Mecca, that glorious Las Vegas-style spectacle in what would elsewise be a forgettable pit stop event. It was the latter. And a little bit of the former. (Nothing says Darwin Award like a urinal that splashes back.)
While he explained the sheer absurdity of relieving oneself into a tropical paradise pool, I tried to explain the lack of California memorabilia to be found at this Last Pit Stop Til Nevada. Both of us exited the storefront with mouths agape at the unlikely findings...the tiny keychain and the plethora of "Welcome to Nevada" kitch (fanny packs for your gambling coins, anyone?), but more memorably the scenic urinal experience. Debating whether or not to continue into Nevada before sunset, we realized that this would indeed be Jetta's last few moments of California Life. What better way to commemorate the years of service Jetta had provided along Highways 280 and 101 than a changing of the keys?
Phoning Dan for his last thoughts, I recorded a few words of gratitude, and then proceeded to thank Jetta for its service to us over the years, and officiated the new journey by slipping on the surfboard keychain, all the while symbolically facing West, with the sun slowly withdrawing behind the silhouette of two Mack trucks and their onlooking corn-fed, buckle-heavy drivers (who were staring with eyes urgent in our direction). After a few breaths, we slipped back into the car and crossed the border out of California and into the Jetta's New Life, precisely as the radio crooned that we were "little children out on a lucky streak".
A stellar Last Moment if ever car had one.
Venturing across the country the rest of the week merited even more awesome, stellar moments (the bulk of which would be too numerous to recount in detail for this post). However, highlights included the Muddy River Cafe (aka GOOD FOOD, a desert establishment complete with decent food, an over-sized soft-focus portrait of John Wayne, and a set of six-year old triplets aptly named after famous Hollywood cowboys), snowy Utah's Fishlake National Park (escaping a near-lock-out situation with the car keys when one went missing off a snow-laden sandstone cliff), fog-covered Kansas (the only part of Kansas we actually saw was a large billboard proclaiming that "Jesus is Real"), unforgettable home-cooked meals (special thanks to Colorado, Ohio, and Virginia households for the sumptuous meals and warm and cozy beds!), Missouri in all its glory (some Bible Belt stereotypes are indeed alive and resplendent), and staying ahead of the raging storms (we missed every single storm that was predicted for the route, a miracle which cemented the journey as lucky).
Upon arriving in the Tri-State area on the first Friday of 2010, I felt a twinge of sadness after dropping my co-pilot off at JFK, as if the journey had been halted without warning. So much had happened, everyday, that I felt fearful of the events ahead - would the luck continue? Would I have more adventures like this, and (most importantly) would I be able to continue feeling lucky? However, as I was sitting at a red light on the corner of Brooklyn and the End of the First Week of 2010, I couldn't help feeling triumphant - as if I had started off the New Year right, and though Jetta had ended one life, another was beginning...and the good fortune of the journey would lay the groundwork for a decade of lucky streaks in my own life. I couldn't predict how or when these streaks would come, or what they would deliver, but I was confident in having no resolve for 2010.
After all, the beauty of having no expectations nor resolutions is that everyday miracles take on life-altering significance, and the elation of a lucky streak can fuel you through uncertainties the same way that memories of California sunsets will warm you through the remainder of a New England winter.
All I can say is, it's going to be a good year.
Regardless, 2010 has been a year of surprisingly good luck...luck of the sort that may result in a whole decade of stellar moments. From cross-country escapades to gasp-inducing spectacles, my daily adventures have taken me from sunny, beloved California back to the wintry Northeast, and I have been collecting trunksfuls of memories which will, in retrospect, award this year as being the beginning of a great decade.
All I can say is, it's about time.
Some of you may recall that I drove cross-country at the beginning of January this year. The beloved Jetta (faithful manual friend to the family), myself, a long-time friend, and a finnicky GPS navigator lovingly named Greta journeyed from the golden hills of California across the wintry landscape of Route 70 to Northern New Jersey, where Jetta will now permanently reside. The trip was a success, given that it was a) the dead of winter, b) Jetta was in no way equipped with snow-proof anything, and c) two slightly madcap artists were clocking 50 hours of driving in under 6 days.
My brother-in-soul Chad accompanied me from gorgeous San Jose down to gaudy Las Vegas, through overly-arid, overly-nice Utah, into winding, quaint Colorado, past fog-laden Kansas, beyond frighteningly zealous Missouri, around peaceful Ohio, into delicious and restful Virginia, all the way up the Eastern thoroughfare I-95 to bustling JFK...whilst engaging me for 4 days in that exquisite rhetorical debate of "Would you rather...?"
For those who have not yet been blessed with the opportunity to engage in this game of choosing between two life-altering disasters, know that it ultimately results in sacrificing either your dignity or your vanity. In any case, debates can (thankfully) rage for days, and when faced with a barren landscape of trees in West Virginia that reminds one of adolescent facial hair, choosing between no arms or no legs becomes an inherently fascinating topic.
(And for the record: General opinion agrees that to have screaming faces on your fingernails is far better than sporting an assortment of noses on your scalp, and although I'd rather be a unicorn than a phoenix, choosing between smelling faintly of clam chowder or tasting like sour milk simply renders one speechless with despair.)
The journey being long, I was prepared for foot cramps and long streches of pavement, but I was unprepared for the simply extaordinary experiences of Americana. The first hint at the stellar-ness of this new year was the Farewell Ceremony at the California-Nevada border at sunset on Sunday. After rolling into the Last Gas Station in California on a tank full of Red-Light Empty, I stretched my legs and perused the store for a memento to mark the occasion of Jetta's Last Night in Cali. I searched fervently for christening agents: an avocado and some sunscreen (California mascots), only to settle on a surfboard keychain (the only item in the store that paid homage to California). Chad joined me in the checkout line, eyes urgent, meaning he either just witnessed human inanity in all its splendor, or finally discovered the Sacred Waterfall Urinal Mecca, that glorious Las Vegas-style spectacle in what would elsewise be a forgettable pit stop event. It was the latter. And a little bit of the former. (Nothing says Darwin Award like a urinal that splashes back.)
While he explained the sheer absurdity of relieving oneself into a tropical paradise pool, I tried to explain the lack of California memorabilia to be found at this Last Pit Stop Til Nevada. Both of us exited the storefront with mouths agape at the unlikely findings...the tiny keychain and the plethora of "Welcome to Nevada" kitch (fanny packs for your gambling coins, anyone?), but more memorably the scenic urinal experience. Debating whether or not to continue into Nevada before sunset, we realized that this would indeed be Jetta's last few moments of California Life. What better way to commemorate the years of service Jetta had provided along Highways 280 and 101 than a changing of the keys?
Phoning Dan for his last thoughts, I recorded a few words of gratitude, and then proceeded to thank Jetta for its service to us over the years, and officiated the new journey by slipping on the surfboard keychain, all the while symbolically facing West, with the sun slowly withdrawing behind the silhouette of two Mack trucks and their onlooking corn-fed, buckle-heavy drivers (who were staring with eyes urgent in our direction). After a few breaths, we slipped back into the car and crossed the border out of California and into the Jetta's New Life, precisely as the radio crooned that we were "little children out on a lucky streak".
A stellar Last Moment if ever car had one.
Venturing across the country the rest of the week merited even more awesome, stellar moments (the bulk of which would be too numerous to recount in detail for this post). However, highlights included the Muddy River Cafe (aka GOOD FOOD, a desert establishment complete with decent food, an over-sized soft-focus portrait of John Wayne, and a set of six-year old triplets aptly named after famous Hollywood cowboys), snowy Utah's Fishlake National Park (escaping a near-lock-out situation with the car keys when one went missing off a snow-laden sandstone cliff), fog-covered Kansas (the only part of Kansas we actually saw was a large billboard proclaiming that "Jesus is Real"), unforgettable home-cooked meals (special thanks to Colorado, Ohio, and Virginia households for the sumptuous meals and warm and cozy beds!), Missouri in all its glory (some Bible Belt stereotypes are indeed alive and resplendent), and staying ahead of the raging storms (we missed every single storm that was predicted for the route, a miracle which cemented the journey as lucky).
Upon arriving in the Tri-State area on the first Friday of 2010, I felt a twinge of sadness after dropping my co-pilot off at JFK, as if the journey had been halted without warning. So much had happened, everyday, that I felt fearful of the events ahead - would the luck continue? Would I have more adventures like this, and (most importantly) would I be able to continue feeling lucky? However, as I was sitting at a red light on the corner of Brooklyn and the End of the First Week of 2010, I couldn't help feeling triumphant - as if I had started off the New Year right, and though Jetta had ended one life, another was beginning...and the good fortune of the journey would lay the groundwork for a decade of lucky streaks in my own life. I couldn't predict how or when these streaks would come, or what they would deliver, but I was confident in having no resolve for 2010.
After all, the beauty of having no expectations nor resolutions is that everyday miracles take on life-altering significance, and the elation of a lucky streak can fuel you through uncertainties the same way that memories of California sunsets will warm you through the remainder of a New England winter.
All I can say is, it's going to be a good year.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Going Global
My return to New York this fall brought with it a new housing situation: I am residing in an international abode, with about 500 other students from 94 different countries, studying everything from opera to peace teaching to organizational sociology. Dinner this evening consisted of steak fajitas and conversation about interntional criminal justice with a Belgian. This afternoon I said hello to a resident from Ghana on my way to check my mail, and earlier this morning I read the paper next to two musicians from Germany. I live down the hall from a structural engineer, a classical singer, and a German banker.
Life is good.
The house itself is complete with a fitness facility, dining hall and staffed kitchen, music practice rooms, commons rooms, library, gymnasium, parlors, auditorium, a rooftop terrace, a private park, furnished bedrooms, wi-fi, and a pub. It's rather easy to find something to do on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
The history of the house itself dates back to the 1920s, when Harry Edmunds met a lonely Chinese student on the steps of the Columbia Library and invited him to supper. Thus began a simple tradition which blossomed into a global community: one supper turned into many suppers, and one guest turned into nearly 500. The venue shifted from a single house to a Rockefeller-sponsored mansion, and yet the tradition continues on Sundays as per usual.
Being among so many professionals (the average age is 27 - taken from a range of 21-52), and experiencing how many different ways of living and learning are possible gives me hope for my own path. The feeling is one of being in the "right place at the right time"....
I recently attended a Community Weekend, at a camp north of Manhattan, and there were about 40 of us for an overnight stay. Bonfires, boating, team-building (ropes course), and games galore. It was encouraging to see and hear how everyone was eager to meet one another, to engage in a meaningful dialogue about who they were and where they were from, and make a new friend...or forty. No sense of timidity or closed-off behavior - these were people who take to heart the idea that life is an adventure, and to approach it with open arms.
My only disappointment is that I cannot spend more time inside the house, getting to know everyone - alas, my school schedule keeps me busy to the hilt, and with the recent addition of being cast in the Fall production (yay!) I don't expect to have a lot of free socializing time until later in the semester. There are a whole host of programs that will boggle the mind: language exchanges, community mentorships, jazz evenings, open mic nights, dance classes, intramurals, study groups, and field trips galore! Living here could be someone's full-time job.
Yet, I'm looking forward to this coming Sunday, which will mark the 100th anniversary of the supper tradition. (Again, right place, right time....)
The guest speaker is an environmental journalist from the New York Times - so I'm brushing up on my nature news.
Truth be told, I'll probably just go down to the 3rd floor and ask one of the Australian residents to get me up to speed over some coffee tomorrow....
Life is good.
The house itself is complete with a fitness facility, dining hall and staffed kitchen, music practice rooms, commons rooms, library, gymnasium, parlors, auditorium, a rooftop terrace, a private park, furnished bedrooms, wi-fi, and a pub. It's rather easy to find something to do on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
The history of the house itself dates back to the 1920s, when Harry Edmunds met a lonely Chinese student on the steps of the Columbia Library and invited him to supper. Thus began a simple tradition which blossomed into a global community: one supper turned into many suppers, and one guest turned into nearly 500. The venue shifted from a single house to a Rockefeller-sponsored mansion, and yet the tradition continues on Sundays as per usual.
Being among so many professionals (the average age is 27 - taken from a range of 21-52), and experiencing how many different ways of living and learning are possible gives me hope for my own path. The feeling is one of being in the "right place at the right time"....
I recently attended a Community Weekend, at a camp north of Manhattan, and there were about 40 of us for an overnight stay. Bonfires, boating, team-building (ropes course), and games galore. It was encouraging to see and hear how everyone was eager to meet one another, to engage in a meaningful dialogue about who they were and where they were from, and make a new friend...or forty. No sense of timidity or closed-off behavior - these were people who take to heart the idea that life is an adventure, and to approach it with open arms.
My only disappointment is that I cannot spend more time inside the house, getting to know everyone - alas, my school schedule keeps me busy to the hilt, and with the recent addition of being cast in the Fall production (yay!) I don't expect to have a lot of free socializing time until later in the semester. There are a whole host of programs that will boggle the mind: language exchanges, community mentorships, jazz evenings, open mic nights, dance classes, intramurals, study groups, and field trips galore! Living here could be someone's full-time job.
Yet, I'm looking forward to this coming Sunday, which will mark the 100th anniversary of the supper tradition. (Again, right place, right time....)
The guest speaker is an environmental journalist from the New York Times - so I'm brushing up on my nature news.
Truth be told, I'll probably just go down to the 3rd floor and ask one of the Australian residents to get me up to speed over some coffee tomorrow....
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Finding the Story
Our family vacation in Disney World: Mom's birthday landed on the last day of our park admission, and we lucked out with 36 Fast Passes, resulting in a terrific whirlwind of efficient ride-activity. The sun held for most of the day, and cloud cover during the evening was a welcome relief after a day of meandering around the Magical Kingdom.
I couldn't help but notice, on our third go-round of Splash Mountain, that each ride told a very succinct story, and in the most concise and entertaining way possible. Splash Mountain, in particular, tells the story of Brer Rabbit's escape from the hungry grasp of Brer Fox and his dopey sidekick, Brer Bear. Brer Rabbit and his escape from Brer Fox: only the essential story bits were created in an underground waterway, with little songs and scene settings to complete the theatricality of the storytelling.
But in the short three minutes before the big drop-down under the briar patch, each rider became Brer Rabbit, and shared in the thrill of the escape from Brer Fox's clutches. Each corner was like a chapter in the story: first you entered his world, with singing pelicans and doo-wopping frogs; next came the villains (Fox and Bear) and their plans to catch themselves some dinner; two more corners and you watched Rabbit escape a tar pit and get tangled up in honeybee nests; the final corner revealed Rabbit, captured and hanging over Fox's cauldron.
As you ascended the rickety water tracks to the final drop, vultures overhead proclaimed eventual doom. The last thing you hear before the surprise of a stomach-jumping descent is Brer Rabbit begging Brer Fox not to toss him into the briar patch - at the same very instant you catch sight of the tangle of plastic thorns ahead of you. You can't help but scream when the drop happens - either the drop itself or the fact that you might hit the thorny mess will do you in. Afterwards, you turn the final corner and a large animal-laden showboat greets Brer Rabbit (you) home to the land of zippi-dee-doo-dah.
Our third time on the ride, my brother leaned over and asked a story-related question. I realized that the whole story was laid out in such a way through the ride that even someone unfamiliar with the whole plot can follow the tale quite easily. His question had to do with what Disney cartoon the story was based on - and I realized that still-unknown Disney stories exist for audiences to discover for years to come. However, the Imagineers have got it figured out. Who, what, where, when, why - the essential and only components you really need to create magic anywhere.
I couldn't help but notice, on our third go-round of Splash Mountain, that each ride told a very succinct story, and in the most concise and entertaining way possible. Splash Mountain, in particular, tells the story of Brer Rabbit's escape from the hungry grasp of Brer Fox and his dopey sidekick, Brer Bear. Brer Rabbit and his escape from Brer Fox: only the essential story bits were created in an underground waterway, with little songs and scene settings to complete the theatricality of the storytelling.
But in the short three minutes before the big drop-down under the briar patch, each rider became Brer Rabbit, and shared in the thrill of the escape from Brer Fox's clutches. Each corner was like a chapter in the story: first you entered his world, with singing pelicans and doo-wopping frogs; next came the villains (Fox and Bear) and their plans to catch themselves some dinner; two more corners and you watched Rabbit escape a tar pit and get tangled up in honeybee nests; the final corner revealed Rabbit, captured and hanging over Fox's cauldron.
As you ascended the rickety water tracks to the final drop, vultures overhead proclaimed eventual doom. The last thing you hear before the surprise of a stomach-jumping descent is Brer Rabbit begging Brer Fox not to toss him into the briar patch - at the same very instant you catch sight of the tangle of plastic thorns ahead of you. You can't help but scream when the drop happens - either the drop itself or the fact that you might hit the thorny mess will do you in. Afterwards, you turn the final corner and a large animal-laden showboat greets Brer Rabbit (you) home to the land of zippi-dee-doo-dah.
Our third time on the ride, my brother leaned over and asked a story-related question. I realized that the whole story was laid out in such a way through the ride that even someone unfamiliar with the whole plot can follow the tale quite easily. His question had to do with what Disney cartoon the story was based on - and I realized that still-unknown Disney stories exist for audiences to discover for years to come. However, the Imagineers have got it figured out. Who, what, where, when, why - the essential and only components you really need to create magic anywhere.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Assembling the Ensemble
Our class has nearly reached the end of its first year together at the New School for Drama's graduate program. We've learned so much this year, somewhat without realizing it fully. The daily osmosis consists of a variety of theatrical information: a short history of European actors, memorizing perfect pronunciations of "str" combinations, careful selection of a well-placed word for a pivotal moment in a script, synthesizing rehearsal blocking with proper Alexander Use... we've experienced the osmosis in class, in hallway discussion, over the much-needed third glass of wine on Friday nights...our brains have picked up a new vocabulary and a new outlook on theatre and what "THEATRE" is. And somehow, we find that the year has gone by too fast, that there is so much more we need to know, and that we are developing into artists of immense potential...far beyond anything we could have imagined in our application letters.
Many of us came to school to be with like-minded individuals; students who want to create better "THEATRE", students whose colors scream potential, challenge, and big dreams. This first year has challenged us, yes. Our horizons have broadened in possibility and shrunk in terms of market reality. Our dreams have become anxious, fervent thoughts of the day, residing next to the essential craft work we have to finish that evening. We've been concentrating on building our skills individually...and in the meantime have realized that we need to build our ensemble within the Drama walls, in order to achieve that elusive THEATRE we're yearning to create in the outside world.
In the midst of all the craft work (by that I mean the individual skills of elocution, stage movement, and script analysis), our class has experienced an underlying crisis in unity of spirit. We're suddenly facing, in our last two weeks of our first year, the threat of a weak ensemble. This threat may not seem ominous if you believe that artists are their own business - in that case, ensemble is something that comes and goes with every project. However, in the spirit of creating THEATRE as we have discovered this past year, the threat looms like the rustling of leaves amidst the hunt.
Our class is divided in more than a few ways, and leveling our experiences so as to create a solid foundation is an item we have yet to tackle. The faculty has tried to create a technical foundation that we can build upon, but when your art depends on another's in such close proximity, tensions appear and questions of esprit de corps arise. We start seeing that our so-thought "like-minded" colleagues are rather inexperienced, or cannot communicate, or would rather concentrate on their own pursuits within the industry.
Creating an ensemble. There is no business manual for this task. Theatre professionals love to pretend that the theatre business is different than other businesses: really it's all venture capitalism at heart. VC work environments can be exciting and a little uncouth at times, but there are ways of succeeding. The theatre ensemble rests on many of the same tenets. There is no company; there's Broadway (consider that the IPO). If you do well, you only have so much time on the market before your idea becomes stale, or historic, and is replaced by another. You can revive, re-stage, re-finance...but the theatre is always looking for the next big thing. Creating an ensemble means creating a group that will consistently create something new and essential for the market. And finding just the right mix of talent for this requires sacrifice and blind faith in the prospect of potential IPOs.
Some artists are too afraid to lay aside their own insecure future for the insecure future of an ensemble. (Working towards your own goal is much more secure than working towards a group goal, isn't it?) Students who show up late to class, are consistently under-prepared, and don't memorize their lines give those artists seeking a strong ensemble reasonable doubt in the future of their classmates. So we've got to either throw in the towel or confront the issues which sometimes become personal. Why isn't my classmate prepared? What is s/he going to do about it? The ensemble is only as strong as the weakest link. When does it become appropriate for the person in the cubicle next to you to point out your lack of commitment to the project? Is that employee threatening the group's success?
We're having a town hall meeting this week to discuss the threats to our ensemble. Management has failed us a little bit - the teachers are not holding some students to a like-minded standard in class coursework. There are some suggested pink slips circulating, but not with enough weight to satiate the students who are shelling out $500 an hour to learn from that other student who was 20 minutes late for their scene work. Many of us are discussing our original hope: to come to graduate school to be challenged by artists of the same caliber, of the same desired potential. Like-minded individuals. Creating an ensemble. The like-minded are showing their true colors now, and it's threatening our pursuit of the IPO.
Many of us came to school to be with like-minded individuals; students who want to create better "THEATRE", students whose colors scream potential, challenge, and big dreams. This first year has challenged us, yes. Our horizons have broadened in possibility and shrunk in terms of market reality. Our dreams have become anxious, fervent thoughts of the day, residing next to the essential craft work we have to finish that evening. We've been concentrating on building our skills individually...and in the meantime have realized that we need to build our ensemble within the Drama walls, in order to achieve that elusive THEATRE we're yearning to create in the outside world.
In the midst of all the craft work (by that I mean the individual skills of elocution, stage movement, and script analysis), our class has experienced an underlying crisis in unity of spirit. We're suddenly facing, in our last two weeks of our first year, the threat of a weak ensemble. This threat may not seem ominous if you believe that artists are their own business - in that case, ensemble is something that comes and goes with every project. However, in the spirit of creating THEATRE as we have discovered this past year, the threat looms like the rustling of leaves amidst the hunt.
Our class is divided in more than a few ways, and leveling our experiences so as to create a solid foundation is an item we have yet to tackle. The faculty has tried to create a technical foundation that we can build upon, but when your art depends on another's in such close proximity, tensions appear and questions of esprit de corps arise. We start seeing that our so-thought "like-minded" colleagues are rather inexperienced, or cannot communicate, or would rather concentrate on their own pursuits within the industry.
Creating an ensemble. There is no business manual for this task. Theatre professionals love to pretend that the theatre business is different than other businesses: really it's all venture capitalism at heart. VC work environments can be exciting and a little uncouth at times, but there are ways of succeeding. The theatre ensemble rests on many of the same tenets. There is no company; there's Broadway (consider that the IPO). If you do well, you only have so much time on the market before your idea becomes stale, or historic, and is replaced by another. You can revive, re-stage, re-finance...but the theatre is always looking for the next big thing. Creating an ensemble means creating a group that will consistently create something new and essential for the market. And finding just the right mix of talent for this requires sacrifice and blind faith in the prospect of potential IPOs.
Some artists are too afraid to lay aside their own insecure future for the insecure future of an ensemble. (Working towards your own goal is much more secure than working towards a group goal, isn't it?) Students who show up late to class, are consistently under-prepared, and don't memorize their lines give those artists seeking a strong ensemble reasonable doubt in the future of their classmates. So we've got to either throw in the towel or confront the issues which sometimes become personal. Why isn't my classmate prepared? What is s/he going to do about it? The ensemble is only as strong as the weakest link. When does it become appropriate for the person in the cubicle next to you to point out your lack of commitment to the project? Is that employee threatening the group's success?
We're having a town hall meeting this week to discuss the threats to our ensemble. Management has failed us a little bit - the teachers are not holding some students to a like-minded standard in class coursework. There are some suggested pink slips circulating, but not with enough weight to satiate the students who are shelling out $500 an hour to learn from that other student who was 20 minutes late for their scene work. Many of us are discussing our original hope: to come to graduate school to be challenged by artists of the same caliber, of the same desired potential. Like-minded individuals. Creating an ensemble. The like-minded are showing their true colors now, and it's threatening our pursuit of the IPO.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
We're Human. Again.
Well. Here it is, October, and despite my best intentions, it has been over a month since my last post. Life has been busy...and I have been rather lazy about getting round to writing about it.
To summarize:
Have started classes at The New School.
Boxes from California have finally arrived, thought still unpacked in the living room.
Am contemplating donating them because I've been able to survive with out them for the past five months.
Have joined a climbing gym, and experienced the immense pleasure of sore climbing muscles after a month's respite.
Am re-learning how to be human.
It's true. The classwork I do and the homework I'm assigned all falls under the existential title of "Learning How To Be A Human."
I will take you through it, because it really has consumed my life and I think most of you will find it most interesting, even perhaps ridiculous, but mostly you will envy it.
A typical day at school. (Grab something to drink while you read. I'll wait.)
You ready?
Okay....
8:30am. We arrive at the building and go upstairs to learn Neutral American Speech. NAS, as we commonly refer to it, consists of a new alphabet (called the International Phonetic Alphabet) and very specific, and detailed instruction in the use of articulators and breath control. Ever wonder how we make sounds? That's our area of study. If you are holding a drink at the moment, take a sip. What happens? You swallow it. Yes, and the liquid also passes through several different areas of your mouth, which we refer to as articulators: the lips, teeth, alveolar ridge, tip, blade, front, middle, and back of tongue (yes, your tongue has five areas), the soft palate, the hard palate, and finally past your uvula down into your esophagus and past your larynx. Wave hello to your vocal folds on the way to the stomach. Don't forget to let out a nasal "mmmmm" that will reverberate in your turbinates as you enjoy the sensation of quenching your thirst.
Armed with the knowledge of how each sound is placed in the mouth, we learn how to speak in a neutral pattern and how to write out words as they sound so that we can imitate any speech pattern of any person in the world. Ask me to write you a secret note in IPA sometime. Not only will I write one, I'll write it out in an Australian dialect.
10:00am. We change into movement clothes and head downstairs for Alexander Technique. This class consists of the study of how your body moves and whether or not you should trust how you move. The primary area of study is the spine, and how we can prevent compression. Imagine coming into this class and learning that you've been creating lower back pain for yourself for years without knowing it. When you inquire about how you can correct it, there is no simple solution, because one of the tenants of this area of study is to not focus on the end result. The answer lies in a three-fold tier of awareness: sensory appreciation, directing, and primary control. I could get into it, but then you would be worrying about the cup in your hand and how it's creating compression in the thoracic region of the spine when you lift it to your lips to take that next sip.
11:35am. We float out of Alexander class and across the hall into Vocal Production. Let us not confuse this class with the earlier sound-as-speech class (NAS). Vocal Production is the study of how to maximize your vocal registers. Everyone has two registers: chest voice, and head voice. Those high notes that come out of Mariah Carey's vocal chords? Head voice. The rumbling bass voice of James Earl Jones? Chest register. And by the year's end, we will all be able to imitate both to an exciting and terrifying degree of accuracy. Currently, we are working on developing strength in the registers, which involves a daily ritual of intimating sirens and emitting primal calling. We make so much vibrational noise that were I in the room with you now and demonstrated a warm-up, the liquid in your cup would start sloshing around.
1:00pm. Lunch. A well needed break from the physical rigors we've worked on all morning. Lately, we've been eating outside, but the fall is beginning in New York, and soon it will be soup and scarf weather.
4:00pm. After an afternoon of practicing spelling in IPA and calling out to each other in low rumbling tones while staying relaxed through the cervic region of the spine, we travel upstairs yet again for the motherload of the day: Stanislavski Technique. Stan-iz-lav-ski, properly pronounced, was the father of acting who lived in Russia in the early 20th/late 19th century and developed a logic path of study which we all know and love and recognize today as "acting technique". His followers went on to develop many different branches of acting based on certain tenants of their own fused with his, which comprise the wide range of acting styles we have in America (and somewhat abroad) to this day. In this class, however, we are concerned with Stanislavski and one of his followers, Lee Strasberg. Strasberg is credited with founding what is referred to as "The Method" or "Method Acting", and the difference between Stan and Strasberg is not a topic I intend to visit today. Just know that Strasberg's technique involves an area we will refer to as "sense memory".
We take our seats in class and immediately assume "relaxation position" - sitting in the chair in such a way as to promote total relaxation of the body without falling asleep. This is somewhat difficult, given the comfort level of the chairs themselves, but our teacher assures us that we will not often have the luxury of even a chair, so we must plough through with the given circumstances.
Relaxation is harder than you imagine. The effect is stunning. Everyone holds tension in their bodies in different areas, and when we actually achieve a state of total relaxation, those tensions escape in varied ways. It is not uncommon to hear the person next to you start crying because she has relaxed her forehead, or the guy on your left let out a long scream because his jaw was clenched too tightly. Our instructor calls these effects "general emotion" - and he reminds us that not only is it okay to release these sentiments, but also that everyone carries general emotion around and we would all be better off if people learned to relax more often with deeper intention. I am inclined to agree with this. I am not suggesting that we go about screaming at random times, nor crying over our lunchtime bento box, but rather noticing in your day where and why and when you feel tense...and gently asking the tension to leave as you take a deep, satisfying breath.
Once we have achieved an acceptable level of relaxation, we begin the sense memory work. Take the cup in your hands, for example. Take your time in examining it. How does it feel? What is the texture? Weight, color? Temperature of the container? Is it hard, soft? Plastic, glass, metal? Does it smell? If you tap on it, does it make a sound? What about the perspiration on the outside of the cup? Is there a handle? What does it feel like to hold it in your left hand compared with your right hand? If you set it down near you, does it make a sound? Can you smell what's inside it? What does it taste like? What happens when you hold the liquid in your mouth without swallowing it? Can you feel anything leftover on your lips? What about the sensation in your chest as the liquid travels to your stomach? How about the tension in your arm or shoulder or back as you lift the cup to your face? Does the rim touch your forehead when you drink? How does your breath feel inside the cup?
These, and even more questions, are the questions we ask when we sit down to recall something from our memory within the sensory realm. Visual, visceral, aural, oral, tactile, pungency...they all are contained in any experience you have in your day. However, we rarely take the time to process the full sensation of any moment or any object. Can you imagine what would happen if you did? Can you imagine firing up every sense to its fullest capacity?
We concentrate on sense memory for over an hour during class. Just sitting there, recalling the senses and trying to feel what it's like to be in the shower, drinking coffee, feeling sunshine on your body. Putting on a sock, a shoe, taking off your coat. Little things. By the time we are finished, we have to take a mental break. We continue with this after the break even more, so that by the time we are finished at 7:00pm that evening, we're exercised our minds, bodies, and souls to exhaustion during the course of our day of studies.
And that's what it's like...at least on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fridays are a whole bevy of three other, new classes. But that's another entry altogether. Right now, I'm going to go journal a little bit about the feeling of the keys under my fingers and the clackety-clack of the keyboard keys, while recalling the sounds of the park below my apartment and the slight chill incoming from the cracked window reminding me that the fall is coming and the light is fading into evening.
I hope you're enjoyed your cup of whatever it was as you read...and I hope that maybe you'll start paying more attention to relaxing and experiencing the moments of your day.
It's such a gift, learning to be human again.
To summarize:
Have started classes at The New School.
Boxes from California have finally arrived, thought still unpacked in the living room.
Am contemplating donating them because I've been able to survive with out them for the past five months.
Have joined a climbing gym, and experienced the immense pleasure of sore climbing muscles after a month's respite.
Am re-learning how to be human.
It's true. The classwork I do and the homework I'm assigned all falls under the existential title of "Learning How To Be A Human."
I will take you through it, because it really has consumed my life and I think most of you will find it most interesting, even perhaps ridiculous, but mostly you will envy it.
A typical day at school. (Grab something to drink while you read. I'll wait.)
You ready?
Okay....
8:30am. We arrive at the building and go upstairs to learn Neutral American Speech. NAS, as we commonly refer to it, consists of a new alphabet (called the International Phonetic Alphabet) and very specific, and detailed instruction in the use of articulators and breath control. Ever wonder how we make sounds? That's our area of study. If you are holding a drink at the moment, take a sip. What happens? You swallow it. Yes, and the liquid also passes through several different areas of your mouth, which we refer to as articulators: the lips, teeth, alveolar ridge, tip, blade, front, middle, and back of tongue (yes, your tongue has five areas), the soft palate, the hard palate, and finally past your uvula down into your esophagus and past your larynx. Wave hello to your vocal folds on the way to the stomach. Don't forget to let out a nasal "mmmmm" that will reverberate in your turbinates as you enjoy the sensation of quenching your thirst.
Armed with the knowledge of how each sound is placed in the mouth, we learn how to speak in a neutral pattern and how to write out words as they sound so that we can imitate any speech pattern of any person in the world. Ask me to write you a secret note in IPA sometime. Not only will I write one, I'll write it out in an Australian dialect.
10:00am. We change into movement clothes and head downstairs for Alexander Technique. This class consists of the study of how your body moves and whether or not you should trust how you move. The primary area of study is the spine, and how we can prevent compression. Imagine coming into this class and learning that you've been creating lower back pain for yourself for years without knowing it. When you inquire about how you can correct it, there is no simple solution, because one of the tenants of this area of study is to not focus on the end result. The answer lies in a three-fold tier of awareness: sensory appreciation, directing, and primary control. I could get into it, but then you would be worrying about the cup in your hand and how it's creating compression in the thoracic region of the spine when you lift it to your lips to take that next sip.
11:35am. We float out of Alexander class and across the hall into Vocal Production. Let us not confuse this class with the earlier sound-as-speech class (NAS). Vocal Production is the study of how to maximize your vocal registers. Everyone has two registers: chest voice, and head voice. Those high notes that come out of Mariah Carey's vocal chords? Head voice. The rumbling bass voice of James Earl Jones? Chest register. And by the year's end, we will all be able to imitate both to an exciting and terrifying degree of accuracy. Currently, we are working on developing strength in the registers, which involves a daily ritual of intimating sirens and emitting primal calling. We make so much vibrational noise that were I in the room with you now and demonstrated a warm-up, the liquid in your cup would start sloshing around.
1:00pm. Lunch. A well needed break from the physical rigors we've worked on all morning. Lately, we've been eating outside, but the fall is beginning in New York, and soon it will be soup and scarf weather.
4:00pm. After an afternoon of practicing spelling in IPA and calling out to each other in low rumbling tones while staying relaxed through the cervic region of the spine, we travel upstairs yet again for the motherload of the day: Stanislavski Technique. Stan-iz-lav-ski, properly pronounced, was the father of acting who lived in Russia in the early 20th/late 19th century and developed a logic path of study which we all know and love and recognize today as "acting technique". His followers went on to develop many different branches of acting based on certain tenants of their own fused with his, which comprise the wide range of acting styles we have in America (and somewhat abroad) to this day. In this class, however, we are concerned with Stanislavski and one of his followers, Lee Strasberg. Strasberg is credited with founding what is referred to as "The Method" or "Method Acting", and the difference between Stan and Strasberg is not a topic I intend to visit today. Just know that Strasberg's technique involves an area we will refer to as "sense memory".
We take our seats in class and immediately assume "relaxation position" - sitting in the chair in such a way as to promote total relaxation of the body without falling asleep. This is somewhat difficult, given the comfort level of the chairs themselves, but our teacher assures us that we will not often have the luxury of even a chair, so we must plough through with the given circumstances.
Relaxation is harder than you imagine. The effect is stunning. Everyone holds tension in their bodies in different areas, and when we actually achieve a state of total relaxation, those tensions escape in varied ways. It is not uncommon to hear the person next to you start crying because she has relaxed her forehead, or the guy on your left let out a long scream because his jaw was clenched too tightly. Our instructor calls these effects "general emotion" - and he reminds us that not only is it okay to release these sentiments, but also that everyone carries general emotion around and we would all be better off if people learned to relax more often with deeper intention. I am inclined to agree with this. I am not suggesting that we go about screaming at random times, nor crying over our lunchtime bento box, but rather noticing in your day where and why and when you feel tense...and gently asking the tension to leave as you take a deep, satisfying breath.
Once we have achieved an acceptable level of relaxation, we begin the sense memory work. Take the cup in your hands, for example. Take your time in examining it. How does it feel? What is the texture? Weight, color? Temperature of the container? Is it hard, soft? Plastic, glass, metal? Does it smell? If you tap on it, does it make a sound? What about the perspiration on the outside of the cup? Is there a handle? What does it feel like to hold it in your left hand compared with your right hand? If you set it down near you, does it make a sound? Can you smell what's inside it? What does it taste like? What happens when you hold the liquid in your mouth without swallowing it? Can you feel anything leftover on your lips? What about the sensation in your chest as the liquid travels to your stomach? How about the tension in your arm or shoulder or back as you lift the cup to your face? Does the rim touch your forehead when you drink? How does your breath feel inside the cup?
These, and even more questions, are the questions we ask when we sit down to recall something from our memory within the sensory realm. Visual, visceral, aural, oral, tactile, pungency...they all are contained in any experience you have in your day. However, we rarely take the time to process the full sensation of any moment or any object. Can you imagine what would happen if you did? Can you imagine firing up every sense to its fullest capacity?
We concentrate on sense memory for over an hour during class. Just sitting there, recalling the senses and trying to feel what it's like to be in the shower, drinking coffee, feeling sunshine on your body. Putting on a sock, a shoe, taking off your coat. Little things. By the time we are finished, we have to take a mental break. We continue with this after the break even more, so that by the time we are finished at 7:00pm that evening, we're exercised our minds, bodies, and souls to exhaustion during the course of our day of studies.
And that's what it's like...at least on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fridays are a whole bevy of three other, new classes. But that's another entry altogether. Right now, I'm going to go journal a little bit about the feeling of the keys under my fingers and the clackety-clack of the keyboard keys, while recalling the sounds of the park below my apartment and the slight chill incoming from the cracked window reminding me that the fall is coming and the light is fading into evening.
I hope you're enjoyed your cup of whatever it was as you read...and I hope that maybe you'll start paying more attention to relaxing and experiencing the moments of your day.
It's such a gift, learning to be human again.
Friday, August 29, 2008
The Place Where Nomads Go
My boxes are still in a storage unit in California.
I flew out to NYC last Saturday, and successfully moved into my apt, however. The boxes I shipped in July actually did not get sent. $500 to have them stored for two months, 20 minutes down the road from my house. Needless to say, there is some hell to pay.
Luckily, the past week has left me with a full heart - a heart full of joy, excitement, hope, and laughter. There were a few items on my brainworry list: roommates, weather, colleagues, administration, finances. These topics manifested themselves in various detailed form: Will my new roommate talk in her sleep as well? What am I going to do about running in the infamous NYC humidity? How does my loan refund get deposited? Where am I going to find a good burrito on the East Side?
Amazingly, all these questions were resolved in a matter of 48 hours. :)
As for starting in the program, I know I promised to write all about it, but there is too much to say about the experience of meeting your collective soulmates, after waiting for years to discover something you couldn't exactly define until you found it. You have to forgive me for the next portion of this blog, because I'm writing on the fumes of a residual life high. Ahh...actors.
I've come up with a little story that will best sum up the experience as a whole of this week's journeying:
A nomad wanders around in the desert by herself, meeting people along her various walks of life, scrounging for what she can, and surviving how she will. She lives her life from one adventure to the next, and though sometimes feels pressure to find a town and settle down, something in her soul tells her to keep searching.
She hears of a place where nomads go, and decides to venture forth to see what is there.
When she arrives, there is a group of people who have also wandered like she, scrounged for what they could, and survived how they had. They had lived from one adventure to the next, and though they too had felt the pressure to find a town and settle down, they knew they were to keep searching for something. They too had heard about the place where nomads go, and as these nomads suddenly find each other all in the same place, they recognize that they have found what they did not know they were looking for all this time. They cannot place the feeling, but something is happening. They know it by the heart's leaping, and by the spirit's trumpeting.
The first day they feast together, and there is an excitement in the air that cannot be satisfied, and as they look at each other, each nomad taking in the other's countenance, they see there reflected pieces of themselves. And the longer they stare, and the more stories they share, the harder it becomes to distinguish between the nomads and the self. (When one has been wandering like only a nomad can wander, it is quite unsettling to discover that there are others like yourself.)
They agree to feast again on the second day.
The second day arises and the feast they have then heralds a new sentiment: terror. Each nomad realizes that the life they knew is on the brink of extinction. Studying each other for a while, sensing bubbles of doubt in their throats and weights of fear in their hands, they discuss what to do. A passerby would find this scene most peculiar - a collective of nomands, standing close in a circle, not knowing if they should stay in this place or run for their lives.
Suddenly, a voice breaks through the thick fog of panic and it tells them to be kind, respectful.
Engage in a dialogue, it urges. Take care of each other, is the echo.
They set up camp, sharing what little they have, and exchanging each fear for a sprinkle of hope. Bit by bit, they begin to breath again, and the breath becomes a sigh, ebbing in with the new life of their collective. They talk long into the night, and under the twinkling smiles of the stars, they discover their home in each other. They fall asleep, side by side, and a dream hangs over their heads like the cool shade of a plum tree.
When they awake, they will see each other in the dawning, look happy, and say,
Good morning, I am excited and terrified.
I flew out to NYC last Saturday, and successfully moved into my apt, however. The boxes I shipped in July actually did not get sent. $500 to have them stored for two months, 20 minutes down the road from my house. Needless to say, there is some hell to pay.
Luckily, the past week has left me with a full heart - a heart full of joy, excitement, hope, and laughter. There were a few items on my brainworry list: roommates, weather, colleagues, administration, finances. These topics manifested themselves in various detailed form: Will my new roommate talk in her sleep as well? What am I going to do about running in the infamous NYC humidity? How does my loan refund get deposited? Where am I going to find a good burrito on the East Side?
Amazingly, all these questions were resolved in a matter of 48 hours. :)
As for starting in the program, I know I promised to write all about it, but there is too much to say about the experience of meeting your collective soulmates, after waiting for years to discover something you couldn't exactly define until you found it. You have to forgive me for the next portion of this blog, because I'm writing on the fumes of a residual life high. Ahh...actors.
I've come up with a little story that will best sum up the experience as a whole of this week's journeying:
A nomad wanders around in the desert by herself, meeting people along her various walks of life, scrounging for what she can, and surviving how she will. She lives her life from one adventure to the next, and though sometimes feels pressure to find a town and settle down, something in her soul tells her to keep searching.
She hears of a place where nomads go, and decides to venture forth to see what is there.
When she arrives, there is a group of people who have also wandered like she, scrounged for what they could, and survived how they had. They had lived from one adventure to the next, and though they too had felt the pressure to find a town and settle down, they knew they were to keep searching for something. They too had heard about the place where nomads go, and as these nomads suddenly find each other all in the same place, they recognize that they have found what they did not know they were looking for all this time. They cannot place the feeling, but something is happening. They know it by the heart's leaping, and by the spirit's trumpeting.
The first day they feast together, and there is an excitement in the air that cannot be satisfied, and as they look at each other, each nomad taking in the other's countenance, they see there reflected pieces of themselves. And the longer they stare, and the more stories they share, the harder it becomes to distinguish between the nomads and the self. (When one has been wandering like only a nomad can wander, it is quite unsettling to discover that there are others like yourself.)
They agree to feast again on the second day.
The second day arises and the feast they have then heralds a new sentiment: terror. Each nomad realizes that the life they knew is on the brink of extinction. Studying each other for a while, sensing bubbles of doubt in their throats and weights of fear in their hands, they discuss what to do. A passerby would find this scene most peculiar - a collective of nomands, standing close in a circle, not knowing if they should stay in this place or run for their lives.
Suddenly, a voice breaks through the thick fog of panic and it tells them to be kind, respectful.
Engage in a dialogue, it urges. Take care of each other, is the echo.
They set up camp, sharing what little they have, and exchanging each fear for a sprinkle of hope. Bit by bit, they begin to breath again, and the breath becomes a sigh, ebbing in with the new life of their collective. They talk long into the night, and under the twinkling smiles of the stars, they discover their home in each other. They fall asleep, side by side, and a dream hangs over their heads like the cool shade of a plum tree.
When they awake, they will see each other in the dawning, look happy, and say,
Good morning, I am excited and terrified.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Theatre and the Imagination
Julie Taymor is the director/designer of The Lion King, the musical. In this talk from TED, she speaks of "being aware of knowing that you've created a sacred space" - a phenomenon that makes theatre as necessary as religion. Theatre is, unlike some artistic forms, ephemeral and fleeting. There are a few chances to see certain performances, live and in the present moment. Yet the experience of a specific work is difficult to recreate, or even relate to a third party. Trying to converse about a specific theatrical moment usually ends with "you just had to be there." That difficulty however is what makes it so appealing, so eternal.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Ruminations
We had a clean-out-the-garage fest on Monday at the Cook household. It was predictable.
The amazing thing about living in one place for a long time is that you seem to accumulate a lot of stuff. And this stuff just kind of sits in various places until you need it. Then you use it and it sometimes returns to its place and sometimes it finds a new place and more often than not it gets misplaced. Then you decide to reorganize and somehow the stuff gets put back in its place and then you feel good about having cleaned up the stuff.
The amazing thing about living with my family is that I get to watch all this stuff move from place to place in the process of "reorganizing" and yet somehow it never gets "cleaned up"...or, God-forbid, reduced.
My mother in particular has an incredible knack for taking piles of stuff, reorganizing them into different piles of stuff, and then realizing after 5 hours of "cleaning" that there are still too many piles of stuff. For example:
On Monday, in an effort to clean up all the paperwork lounging around our family room, she successfully moved the five piles of stuff on the coffee table to the floor, and reorganized them into six piles. The two piles from the kitchen table were moved into three and a half piles by the fireplace, and somehow, there was a pile of other stuff from another room in the recycling bag. When prompted to throw it away (the verbal equivalent of "f@$#!" in our household) she first looked horrified, then insulted, and then started yelling about how no one helps her get stuff done. I can't bear to tell her that getting stuff done means actually doing something with the stuff other than moving it from place to place.
Monday was predictable in that my father got up early and proclaimed that we were "Cleaning Out the Garage!" - he wanted his home gym back. The garage used to be a destination for supreme workouts and full-fledged gym goings-on, until stuff happened. Over the course of 9 months, stuff from my brother's room and stuff from the guest closet and more stuff from the family room had been slowly migrating into the garage.
So out we trudged on Monday morning, and started misplacing the stuff. First, we moved all the stuff into the driveway. Then we dusted and vacuumed the clean space in the garage. By mid-afternoon, my mom looked around and said "What are we going to do with all this stuff?"
That's when I made the prediction.
"Well Mom," said I, "All this stuff is going to be in the driveway and Dad's going to realize that he will have to put it somewhere. Then he's going to want to throw it out. Then you're going to get upset and say 'No, no, we have to save it! No one helps me go through this stuff, and there are a million pictures we might need next year!' And then Dad will give you a big sigh and resign himself to the fact that we will have to move the stuff somewhere else. Loathe to mess up his now empty gym, he will suggest the side yard. Then next week you two will complain to each other than you need to clean out the side yard before anything gets ruined. And then you will end up doing next weekend exactly the same thing you did today, only the stuff might end up in the tool shed next Sunday."
"Scary." said my mom.
And lo and behold, I watched my prediction play out.
We looked at the piles of stuff in the driveway and my dad had a revelation. He whispered to me "You know, we haven't used any of this stuff in 9 months. We should just..." - he smiled, because my mother was nearby and God forbid we start swearing in front of her. I nodded vigorously. So then we got the Suburban and moved some stuff into the backseat. This was the giveaway pile, and we diminished the pile of stuff by 1/10 for this charitable deed. Then, my dad moved the remaining stuff in the driveway to the side yard. But first, we had to move the stuff in the side yard out of the way to make room for the other stuff. Then, in a futile attempt to pretend we had cleaned up, we covered the stuff in the side yard with three large tarps.
Here is a visual of the day's activities:
So, by 5:30pm that day, we had successfully cleaned out the garage by moving the stuff from the garage to the side yard...where it will remain until we move it to the tool shed next weekend. However, we're going to have to move the stuff in the tool shed somewhere.
I think the garage might be free.
The amazing thing about living in one place for a long time is that you seem to accumulate a lot of stuff. And this stuff just kind of sits in various places until you need it. Then you use it and it sometimes returns to its place and sometimes it finds a new place and more often than not it gets misplaced. Then you decide to reorganize and somehow the stuff gets put back in its place and then you feel good about having cleaned up the stuff.
The amazing thing about living with my family is that I get to watch all this stuff move from place to place in the process of "reorganizing" and yet somehow it never gets "cleaned up"...or, God-forbid, reduced.
My mother in particular has an incredible knack for taking piles of stuff, reorganizing them into different piles of stuff, and then realizing after 5 hours of "cleaning" that there are still too many piles of stuff. For example:
On Monday, in an effort to clean up all the paperwork lounging around our family room, she successfully moved the five piles of stuff on the coffee table to the floor, and reorganized them into six piles. The two piles from the kitchen table were moved into three and a half piles by the fireplace, and somehow, there was a pile of other stuff from another room in the recycling bag. When prompted to throw it away (the verbal equivalent of "f@$#!" in our household) she first looked horrified, then insulted, and then started yelling about how no one helps her get stuff done. I can't bear to tell her that getting stuff done means actually doing something with the stuff other than moving it from place to place.
Monday was predictable in that my father got up early and proclaimed that we were "Cleaning Out the Garage!" - he wanted his home gym back. The garage used to be a destination for supreme workouts and full-fledged gym goings-on, until stuff happened. Over the course of 9 months, stuff from my brother's room and stuff from the guest closet and more stuff from the family room had been slowly migrating into the garage.
So out we trudged on Monday morning, and started misplacing the stuff. First, we moved all the stuff into the driveway. Then we dusted and vacuumed the clean space in the garage. By mid-afternoon, my mom looked around and said "What are we going to do with all this stuff?"
That's when I made the prediction.
"Well Mom," said I, "All this stuff is going to be in the driveway and Dad's going to realize that he will have to put it somewhere. Then he's going to want to throw it out. Then you're going to get upset and say 'No, no, we have to save it! No one helps me go through this stuff, and there are a million pictures we might need next year!' And then Dad will give you a big sigh and resign himself to the fact that we will have to move the stuff somewhere else. Loathe to mess up his now empty gym, he will suggest the side yard. Then next week you two will complain to each other than you need to clean out the side yard before anything gets ruined. And then you will end up doing next weekend exactly the same thing you did today, only the stuff might end up in the tool shed next Sunday."
"Scary." said my mom.
And lo and behold, I watched my prediction play out.
We looked at the piles of stuff in the driveway and my dad had a revelation. He whispered to me "You know, we haven't used any of this stuff in 9 months. We should just..." - he smiled, because my mother was nearby and God forbid we start swearing in front of her. I nodded vigorously. So then we got the Suburban and moved some stuff into the backseat. This was the giveaway pile, and we diminished the pile of stuff by 1/10 for this charitable deed. Then, my dad moved the remaining stuff in the driveway to the side yard. But first, we had to move the stuff in the side yard out of the way to make room for the other stuff. Then, in a futile attempt to pretend we had cleaned up, we covered the stuff in the side yard with three large tarps.
Here is a visual of the day's activities:
So, by 5:30pm that day, we had successfully cleaned out the garage by moving the stuff from the garage to the side yard...where it will remain until we move it to the tool shed next weekend. However, we're going to have to move the stuff in the tool shed somewhere.
I think the garage might be free.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
And a little bit of This
Sometimes, after a full-night's rest, I wake up feeling as though I've lived the past 7-10 hours in a parallel universe. The feeling is so overwhelming that I'm undoubtedly certain of the existence of a Parallel Me. (Hah, P.M. Get it?)
It's supposed (by brain scientists) that your subconscious plays out all the daily items of unfiltered substance during your snooze time. The details of your life that go unnoticed to the naked eye are vacuumed up by your involuntary senses every 30 seconds of your day. Between morning rush hour, incessant admin meetings, and the perils of family life, your brain simply tucks the little bits of phone calls, familiar faces, and extra cups of coffee away for another time. The next day, you wonder why you were dreaming about your dead aunt calling you from a phone booth in Mumbai, berating you for making her cappuccino without enough pepper spray.
Easy to speculate then that your dreams are just the mumblings of your prefrontal cortex on laughing gas.
But what about the dreams that aren't quite clear? The ones that shadow over the beginning of your day, as you rub your eyes and yawn, and swear you were just there in a boat with a purple octopus? There is something so unclear about their manifestation, something eerily familiar; you are convinced that your Parallel Me was up to her usual travels in the Land of Lucidity.
I suppose that belief in PMs are also a way of keeping our sanity. All those witty retorts you had stored up for infuriating moments? The moments of incredulity over what seemed to be a two-hour long meeting on the effectiveness of the refrigerator in the staff lounge? The aggravation you felt when informed by your best friend that she's canceling on your birthday party (again)...? All these inner monologues are delightfully splayed across the vast sky of your dreamscapes - bright, colorful things that shock and inspire your Ambivalent Me to live the life she dreams about. Blinking off the shady cloud of another PM adventure, you swear that you can still see these striking subconscious images behind your tired little eyelids, and that one thought stays with you until about 11 am on Thursday, at which time you become too absorbed in another day's work to filter it's relevance.
Friday, April 18, 2008
A little bit of That
"Tomorrow will have an island. Before night
I always find it. Then on to the next island.
These places hidden in the day separate
and come forward if you beckon.
But you have to know they are there before they exist.
Some time there will be a tomorrow without any island.
So far, I haven't let that happen, but after
I'm gone others may become faithless and careless.
Before them will tumble the wide unbroken sea,
and without any hope they will stare at the horizon.
So to you, Friend, I confide my secret:
to be a discoverer you hold close whatever
you find, and after a while you decide
what it is. Then, secure in where you have been,
you turn to the open sea and let go."
—William Stafford
I always find it. Then on to the next island.
These places hidden in the day separate
and come forward if you beckon.
But you have to know they are there before they exist.
Some time there will be a tomorrow without any island.
So far, I haven't let that happen, but after
I'm gone others may become faithless and careless.
Before them will tumble the wide unbroken sea,
and without any hope they will stare at the horizon.
So to you, Friend, I confide my secret:
to be a discoverer you hold close whatever
you find, and after a while you decide
what it is. Then, secure in where you have been,
you turn to the open sea and let go."
—William Stafford
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Brain Candy
Since I've now dedicated this blog to my adventures in the arts, I thought I'd kick off with a little artsy-fartsy idea. My dad sent me a link to a great website the other day, and if you haven't heard about it, you should go there now. It's called TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) and it's a right-brained human's mecca. The video below is a small excerpt from one of their annual conferences. This particular video is about 24 minutes long, but well, well worth it.
Just sit back, relax, and engage...
I'll be posting little bits and pieces of brain candy like this from here on out, so you can be sure to exercise your right brain functions every now and then. I mean, your arts education is just as important as mine, you know.
Just sit back, relax, and engage...
I'll be posting little bits and pieces of brain candy like this from here on out, so you can be sure to exercise your right brain functions every now and then. I mean, your arts education is just as important as mine, you know.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
A Comfortable Three Minutes
It was a long process, applying for graduate schools.
It all started over a pint, as most adventures do. (Thanks Thom!) First came the decision to apply, knowing full well that if I got in, I was headed back to Debt Central. Comfortable with that fate (and completely sober) I made a list of degree curricula preferences, did my research, and selected seven schools to which I applied. After selecting the most competitive programs, I filled out application after application, agonizing over application letters, searching for the magic words that would secure my acceptance into each school. I begged for recommendations (Thanks Ally, Peter, and Jeanie!) and paid fee after fee for audition slots. I had a binder. A binder with colored tabs and organized information on each school. I carried that binder with me everywhere for five months.
Then came the prep work.
Searching for the right monologues took nearly three months of selection and dismissal. Pouring over play after play, I tried to pair two pieces that would show my full range of capabilities. The goal: in under three minutes, prove that you can perform work that embodies every extreme of emotion and style. This includes but is not limited to classical, contemporary, comedic, dramatic, solemn, frantic, angry, sad, happy, disgusted, surprise, betrayal, love, hate, movement, stillness, exceptional vocal ability, extreme imagination, and (of course) truth.
I finally found four pieces that would become the repetitive dialogue of the next two months. (Everlasting gratitude to Jeanie Forte for coaching me into what will become the next chapter of my life.) One school required a scene. (Chad, thank you for the gift of your talent.) Two solid months of rehearsing for a three minute stint.
Herein lies the rub of the theatre industry: you have three minutes to prove yourself to your auditor. But, within the first 10 seconds of your audition, an auditor will have decided whether or not you are right for the part. Forget interviews. This industry doesn't do 'interviews' - you have to show them your focus, professionalism, intelligence, imagination, and sense of humor in less time than it takes to fry an egg. Your career is dependent on first impressions and pretending to be someone you're not for 180 seconds. And you can take comfort in the fact that the three-minute 'interview' standard will allow auditors to 'interview' five times as many 'applicants' who look and sound just. like. you.
Graduate auditions are a toss-up - sometimes you get a comfortable three minutes, other schools are exceedingly generous and chat with you about your career goals for a few minutes afterwards. Programs that are admitting students for work with a repertory company will generally do three minute rounds, as they are looking for type. The more academic schools will consider your intelligence factor in a longer round. The New School was innovative: prepare a scene, a classical monologue, and be prepared to chat about anything under the sun with your auditor.
As grad school Audition Weekend approached, I grew nervous. Three days spent traversing back and forth from San Francisco, holed up in a 9-story building swarming with other actor hopefuls left me drained and full of doubt. After initial auditions, schools generally invite their favorites back for a school visit. This is called "Callback Weekend". There were some auditions that I knew would not result in callback weekend. Others, seeming promising, baffled me when rejection letters arrived in the mail.
Nearly two months of waiting (the agony!) finally resulted in a small success: the New School wanted me to come for a callback in March. Immediately, travel and lodging were arranged (thank you my NY friends!) and I was thrown back into prep work, as the school was requesting different audition material. Two weeks leading up to the callback were spent in nauseous anticipation and fitful nights of sleep.
Now, let me preface the end of this story (or the beginning?) by saying that the callback weekend was an exceptional experience. I was quite proud of my performance, and thrilled with the prospect of studying with such a talented group of artists. I could go into detail about the whole weekend, but the most important aspect was what I took away from the experience. I learned that the arts are still alive and necessary amongst the older generation, that there are faculty and staff who believe in the power of theatre, and that I am now going to embark on an incredible three years which will change my life.
It all started over a pint, as most adventures do. (Thanks Thom!) First came the decision to apply, knowing full well that if I got in, I was headed back to Debt Central. Comfortable with that fate (and completely sober) I made a list of degree curricula preferences, did my research, and selected seven schools to which I applied. After selecting the most competitive programs, I filled out application after application, agonizing over application letters, searching for the magic words that would secure my acceptance into each school. I begged for recommendations (Thanks Ally, Peter, and Jeanie!) and paid fee after fee for audition slots. I had a binder. A binder with colored tabs and organized information on each school. I carried that binder with me everywhere for five months.
Then came the prep work.
Searching for the right monologues took nearly three months of selection and dismissal. Pouring over play after play, I tried to pair two pieces that would show my full range of capabilities. The goal: in under three minutes, prove that you can perform work that embodies every extreme of emotion and style. This includes but is not limited to classical, contemporary, comedic, dramatic, solemn, frantic, angry, sad, happy, disgusted, surprise, betrayal, love, hate, movement, stillness, exceptional vocal ability, extreme imagination, and (of course) truth.
I finally found four pieces that would become the repetitive dialogue of the next two months. (Everlasting gratitude to Jeanie Forte for coaching me into what will become the next chapter of my life.) One school required a scene. (Chad, thank you for the gift of your talent.) Two solid months of rehearsing for a three minute stint.
Herein lies the rub of the theatre industry: you have three minutes to prove yourself to your auditor. But, within the first 10 seconds of your audition, an auditor will have decided whether or not you are right for the part. Forget interviews. This industry doesn't do 'interviews' - you have to show them your focus, professionalism, intelligence, imagination, and sense of humor in less time than it takes to fry an egg. Your career is dependent on first impressions and pretending to be someone you're not for 180 seconds. And you can take comfort in the fact that the three-minute 'interview' standard will allow auditors to 'interview' five times as many 'applicants' who look and sound just. like. you.
Graduate auditions are a toss-up - sometimes you get a comfortable three minutes, other schools are exceedingly generous and chat with you about your career goals for a few minutes afterwards. Programs that are admitting students for work with a repertory company will generally do three minute rounds, as they are looking for type. The more academic schools will consider your intelligence factor in a longer round. The New School was innovative: prepare a scene, a classical monologue, and be prepared to chat about anything under the sun with your auditor.
As grad school Audition Weekend approached, I grew nervous. Three days spent traversing back and forth from San Francisco, holed up in a 9-story building swarming with other actor hopefuls left me drained and full of doubt. After initial auditions, schools generally invite their favorites back for a school visit. This is called "Callback Weekend". There were some auditions that I knew would not result in callback weekend. Others, seeming promising, baffled me when rejection letters arrived in the mail.
Nearly two months of waiting (the agony!) finally resulted in a small success: the New School wanted me to come for a callback in March. Immediately, travel and lodging were arranged (thank you my NY friends!) and I was thrown back into prep work, as the school was requesting different audition material. Two weeks leading up to the callback were spent in nauseous anticipation and fitful nights of sleep.
Now, let me preface the end of this story (or the beginning?) by saying that the callback weekend was an exceptional experience. I was quite proud of my performance, and thrilled with the prospect of studying with such a talented group of artists. I could go into detail about the whole weekend, but the most important aspect was what I took away from the experience. I learned that the arts are still alive and necessary amongst the older generation, that there are faculty and staff who believe in the power of theatre, and that I am now going to embark on an incredible three years which will change my life.
Monday, October 22, 2007
If You Can't Be An Athlete, Be An Athletic Supporter
This past Sunday was the final summer season event, the Nike Marathon in San Francisco. What a day! I went to cheer on my teammates with whom I've been training these past five months, and to help run them in at the last mile. I had to leave at 6:15am on Sunday in order to get up to the city and find a place on the course for optimal cheerleading. I went with my mentor, Ron, and we settled on a large hill around miles 8 and 9 on the course (near the Presidio coming out to the Cliff House) for the beginning of the day. We were dressed for running, had some hydration strapped to our backs, and were prepared to lose our voices.
The first wave of participants were the walkers. They had started at Union Square at 5:30...1 and 1/2 hours before the runners were scheduled to take off! They came ambling up the hill and it didn't get too lively, but the first thing I noticed was that there were so many purple jerseys! This is the signature clothing piece of the TNT runner, and I had forgotten that the Nike Marathon is a joint effort between Team in Training and Nike, so there were naturally going to be thousands of TNT runners/walkers from across the country. Plus, the majority of them were going to be women. So, for the next six hours, my cheers were filled with "Let's go, ladies!" and "Looking strong, girls!" - and it was odd when in slipped the occasional "Way to go, dude!" However, I think the men appreciated the individualized attention amongst the swarm of females.
The attitude during the first 10 miles of the race was considerably excitable and light. The runners were cheery, vocal, and waving - full of energy and not too sweaty either. We could chat a little bit, and here and there I ran alongside my friends, dispersing little bits of advice for the journey ahead: "Save it for mile 20 - everyone else is going to drop like flies at that point - conserve it now - drink a few cups at every aid station! - stick to your walk/run! - grit your teeth and push at the end! - see you at mile 25! - we're rooting for you!" They were feeling good, were unbelievably fresh in the legs, and prepared for anything. Little could I predict that mile 25 would be a while different cheerleading experience.
After warming up on the hill with five or six of my teammates who were competing, I headed down to mile 10 (on the Great Highway) and out to the finish. The finish had to be situated near the half marathon mark (13.1 miles), but the full marathoners went an extra loop back around near SFSU. The half marathoners looped up from the Great Highway into Golden Gate Park, and then back out to the finish, while the marathoners looped through the park, back out, past the finish, up towards Lake Merced via the Great Highway for the second half of their race, and then back out to the finish. I can only imagine the mental strength it took for the full marathoners to pass the finish area on their way out for the second half of their race.
The finish itself was located near the intersection of Fulton Street and the beach, and it took up nearly a mile with all the promotional tents, food tables, finisher memorabilia, and the mainstage where the bands were playing. Mile 10, however, was right near the Cliff House, and for those of you who are familiar with that viewpoint, it is quite breathtaking on a clear, sunny day such as yesterday was. The ocean pans out at the bottom of the hill, lapping at the sandy beach dotted with patrons, and the crest of the city lies just beyond that in the glinting sunlight, beautifully framed by the distant foothills of the surrounding mountains. While I breezed down this hill with a smile on my face, Ron was running our teammates down and travelling back up to catch the next group. Up there, cheering on the team, he said it was quite amusing to hear the constant steam of expletives from out-of-state participants while rounding the corner and coming face-to-face with the startlingly gorgeous scene before them. Ron heard the phrase "Holy S***!" more times than he can count...and he helped all of them record the Kodak moment more times than he cares to mention.
I moved in towards mile 25, which was as simple as jogging down from Mile 10 to the start of the park leg, and crossing the street to where the Mile 25 marker stood. How awful, I thought, to have to run out on your Mile 14, and have the finishers coming in from the other direction barely 100 feet across from you...you literally see how far you have yet to go!
By the time I got down to that area, it was around noon, and the first runners were coming in...the very strong runners. But as the next two hours passed, form and function degenerated in most participants, and by 1:30, some of the finishers were looking really haggard. These were the runners who burned everything up in the first half of the race, believing that the first 10 miles would be an indication of how their last 10 would go. They forget that the last 2.2 are the actual definition of the marathon.
It was very tough to try to cheer the runners on during this stage of their race. Many were silent, painful grimaces etched on their faces, others were in tears, and some were absurdly weaving back and forth. There were those who had to walk, there were some who pushed through while cursing up a storm, and still some who deliriously thanked you for running alongside them during those last few hundred feet. I hope that my cheers of "3 stoplights left!!" helped them then; I remember wanting only to see the actual finish line when I ran in Portland - for some reason, having a view of the finish will get you through the mental storm when you're on that last leg of the race. Most of the spectators were silent; I assume because when faced with those expressions of true grit and painful determination, you're just not quite sure what to say. However, I remembered that the simplest act of just clapping, merely showing your support, was truly appreciated during that last push for the finish.
As I helped run in some of the team members, I was struck by their strength and mental willpower. My brain was mostly mush when I was running into the Portland finish, that little voice in my head a booming loudspeaker "Finish. Finish. Push. Breathe." I could see them struggling against that same voice, their bodies ready to collapse from the repetitive pain of putting one foot in front of the other. And somehow, beyond all belief, they pushed. At the very end, the most inspiring of actions was that final give-all from a runner who was torn up, chewed up, and spit out by the grueling, unforgiving course. The statement was unspoken, but resonated deep within all and anyone who was there to watch it happen. It's a raw, pure glimpse of that which we try to define as the human spirit.
The runners streamed in until nearly 2pm, and the last walkers were escorted from behind by a police cavalcade. After the ceremonies and hugs and tears and bananas, we all headed out to get some more food, to shower, and prepare for the victory party. It was only when I finally sat back down in the car (after 6 hours and nearly 12 miles on foot), did I realize that I had forgotten to apply sunblock that morning. Thus, the nickname "Sunburn Sarah" was born.
For the rest of the evening, through the spectacular 10,000-person buffet dinner celebration at the Moscone Center, during the thumping DJ-inspired dance fest, and all the way to the after party at Jillian's at the Metreon, I was bowled over by looks of shock at my new skin tone: "Sarah, you are so RED!"
It was so unbelievable, people kept wanting to poke me and test out exactly how burned I was. (As if the grimace of pain on my face would give them a litmus test for the severity.) I had enough sense to apply ice packs and take some ibuprofen before we ate dinner, and while hydrating for the rest of the evening, I managed to temper the burn until I could get ahold of some aloe vera. The beautiful irony is that I work for a Cancer Center and know better than to stay in the sun with nothing less than SPF 30 for a maximum of an hour....
Hanging out with the team after the race, giggling at their limited range of movement, and commiserating with them on the intensity and immensity of completing the day's physical test, I smiled to myself as I thought about all the hard work we had completed for the past five months, all the early morning runs we conquered, and the triumph we shared in joining the "less than 1% of the population who have completed a marathon." As I looked around at the crowd, I couldn't believe that we could now call ourselves marathoners.
I was speaking with my running buddy, Cheytna, about the process of doing a marathon, of trying to define it for those who have yet to complete one:
She said that, at the beginning, you don't really have a reason for signing up for a marathon. Something just makes you do it, and you don't realize what an incredible journey you're about to have. The very idea is impossible to understand, or even focus on, and even while training, you're not conscious of how the race itself will change you. And then, one day, you wake up and you realize 'I've completed a marathon.' People will ask you to explain it, how it feels to have done it, but it's like trying to explain becoming a human being. The only thing you understand is what it feels like to have done it, to be changed in that manner.
Imagine being an astronaut, and preparing for space travel. You train and train hard, simulating what is going to happen, preparing for the unexpected and dangerous, dressing up as if, and planning out how to accomplish the journey. But the minute you step into that shuttle, strap in, and lift off, you embark on something so extraordinarily unimaginable to most people, you realize, right then, that no one has invented a way or words to express the experience. The only truth you know, the only proof that you have, is the feeling of the experience. Try as you might, your words fail you and you find yourself staring at someone who is staring back at you, the kinetic memory of an impossible feat struggling to express itself in a language you learn only by surviving a physical and mental monsoon. The feeling is there, but the appropriate words do not exist.
Then you find yourself out on the racecourse, cheering your teammates. You understand for the first time what 'unlimited potential' looks like, and your voice rises in your throat when you see someone complete a spectacular physical feat, understanding what they are experiencing, your own spirit igniting at the recognition of its mirror image in a stranger, and your humanity verified in the accomplishments of those who push themselves beyond the boundaries of what we know is possible. You become human, you become connected to all other humans, when you let out that shout in support of their spirit.
The first wave of participants were the walkers. They had started at Union Square at 5:30...1 and 1/2 hours before the runners were scheduled to take off! They came ambling up the hill and it didn't get too lively, but the first thing I noticed was that there were so many purple jerseys! This is the signature clothing piece of the TNT runner, and I had forgotten that the Nike Marathon is a joint effort between Team in Training and Nike, so there were naturally going to be thousands of TNT runners/walkers from across the country. Plus, the majority of them were going to be women. So, for the next six hours, my cheers were filled with "Let's go, ladies!" and "Looking strong, girls!" - and it was odd when in slipped the occasional "Way to go, dude!" However, I think the men appreciated the individualized attention amongst the swarm of females.
The attitude during the first 10 miles of the race was considerably excitable and light. The runners were cheery, vocal, and waving - full of energy and not too sweaty either. We could chat a little bit, and here and there I ran alongside my friends, dispersing little bits of advice for the journey ahead: "Save it for mile 20 - everyone else is going to drop like flies at that point - conserve it now - drink a few cups at every aid station! - stick to your walk/run! - grit your teeth and push at the end! - see you at mile 25! - we're rooting for you!" They were feeling good, were unbelievably fresh in the legs, and prepared for anything. Little could I predict that mile 25 would be a while different cheerleading experience.
After warming up on the hill with five or six of my teammates who were competing, I headed down to mile 10 (on the Great Highway) and out to the finish. The finish had to be situated near the half marathon mark (13.1 miles), but the full marathoners went an extra loop back around near SFSU. The half marathoners looped up from the Great Highway into Golden Gate Park, and then back out to the finish, while the marathoners looped through the park, back out, past the finish, up towards Lake Merced via the Great Highway for the second half of their race, and then back out to the finish. I can only imagine the mental strength it took for the full marathoners to pass the finish area on their way out for the second half of their race.
The finish itself was located near the intersection of Fulton Street and the beach, and it took up nearly a mile with all the promotional tents, food tables, finisher memorabilia, and the mainstage where the bands were playing. Mile 10, however, was right near the Cliff House, and for those of you who are familiar with that viewpoint, it is quite breathtaking on a clear, sunny day such as yesterday was. The ocean pans out at the bottom of the hill, lapping at the sandy beach dotted with patrons, and the crest of the city lies just beyond that in the glinting sunlight, beautifully framed by the distant foothills of the surrounding mountains. While I breezed down this hill with a smile on my face, Ron was running our teammates down and travelling back up to catch the next group. Up there, cheering on the team, he said it was quite amusing to hear the constant steam of expletives from out-of-state participants while rounding the corner and coming face-to-face with the startlingly gorgeous scene before them. Ron heard the phrase "Holy S***!" more times than he can count...and he helped all of them record the Kodak moment more times than he cares to mention.
I moved in towards mile 25, which was as simple as jogging down from Mile 10 to the start of the park leg, and crossing the street to where the Mile 25 marker stood. How awful, I thought, to have to run out on your Mile 14, and have the finishers coming in from the other direction barely 100 feet across from you...you literally see how far you have yet to go!
By the time I got down to that area, it was around noon, and the first runners were coming in...the very strong runners. But as the next two hours passed, form and function degenerated in most participants, and by 1:30, some of the finishers were looking really haggard. These were the runners who burned everything up in the first half of the race, believing that the first 10 miles would be an indication of how their last 10 would go. They forget that the last 2.2 are the actual definition of the marathon.
It was very tough to try to cheer the runners on during this stage of their race. Many were silent, painful grimaces etched on their faces, others were in tears, and some were absurdly weaving back and forth. There were those who had to walk, there were some who pushed through while cursing up a storm, and still some who deliriously thanked you for running alongside them during those last few hundred feet. I hope that my cheers of "3 stoplights left!!" helped them then; I remember wanting only to see the actual finish line when I ran in Portland - for some reason, having a view of the finish will get you through the mental storm when you're on that last leg of the race. Most of the spectators were silent; I assume because when faced with those expressions of true grit and painful determination, you're just not quite sure what to say. However, I remembered that the simplest act of just clapping, merely showing your support, was truly appreciated during that last push for the finish.
As I helped run in some of the team members, I was struck by their strength and mental willpower. My brain was mostly mush when I was running into the Portland finish, that little voice in my head a booming loudspeaker "Finish. Finish. Push. Breathe." I could see them struggling against that same voice, their bodies ready to collapse from the repetitive pain of putting one foot in front of the other. And somehow, beyond all belief, they pushed. At the very end, the most inspiring of actions was that final give-all from a runner who was torn up, chewed up, and spit out by the grueling, unforgiving course. The statement was unspoken, but resonated deep within all and anyone who was there to watch it happen. It's a raw, pure glimpse of that which we try to define as the human spirit.
The runners streamed in until nearly 2pm, and the last walkers were escorted from behind by a police cavalcade. After the ceremonies and hugs and tears and bananas, we all headed out to get some more food, to shower, and prepare for the victory party. It was only when I finally sat back down in the car (after 6 hours and nearly 12 miles on foot), did I realize that I had forgotten to apply sunblock that morning. Thus, the nickname "Sunburn Sarah" was born.
For the rest of the evening, through the spectacular 10,000-person buffet dinner celebration at the Moscone Center, during the thumping DJ-inspired dance fest, and all the way to the after party at Jillian's at the Metreon, I was bowled over by looks of shock at my new skin tone: "Sarah, you are so RED!"
It was so unbelievable, people kept wanting to poke me and test out exactly how burned I was. (As if the grimace of pain on my face would give them a litmus test for the severity.) I had enough sense to apply ice packs and take some ibuprofen before we ate dinner, and while hydrating for the rest of the evening, I managed to temper the burn until I could get ahold of some aloe vera. The beautiful irony is that I work for a Cancer Center and know better than to stay in the sun with nothing less than SPF 30 for a maximum of an hour....
Hanging out with the team after the race, giggling at their limited range of movement, and commiserating with them on the intensity and immensity of completing the day's physical test, I smiled to myself as I thought about all the hard work we had completed for the past five months, all the early morning runs we conquered, and the triumph we shared in joining the "less than 1% of the population who have completed a marathon." As I looked around at the crowd, I couldn't believe that we could now call ourselves marathoners.
I was speaking with my running buddy, Cheytna, about the process of doing a marathon, of trying to define it for those who have yet to complete one:
She said that, at the beginning, you don't really have a reason for signing up for a marathon. Something just makes you do it, and you don't realize what an incredible journey you're about to have. The very idea is impossible to understand, or even focus on, and even while training, you're not conscious of how the race itself will change you. And then, one day, you wake up and you realize 'I've completed a marathon.' People will ask you to explain it, how it feels to have done it, but it's like trying to explain becoming a human being. The only thing you understand is what it feels like to have done it, to be changed in that manner.
Imagine being an astronaut, and preparing for space travel. You train and train hard, simulating what is going to happen, preparing for the unexpected and dangerous, dressing up as if, and planning out how to accomplish the journey. But the minute you step into that shuttle, strap in, and lift off, you embark on something so extraordinarily unimaginable to most people, you realize, right then, that no one has invented a way or words to express the experience. The only truth you know, the only proof that you have, is the feeling of the experience. Try as you might, your words fail you and you find yourself staring at someone who is staring back at you, the kinetic memory of an impossible feat struggling to express itself in a language you learn only by surviving a physical and mental monsoon. The feeling is there, but the appropriate words do not exist.
Then you find yourself out on the racecourse, cheering your teammates. You understand for the first time what 'unlimited potential' looks like, and your voice rises in your throat when you see someone complete a spectacular physical feat, understanding what they are experiencing, your own spirit igniting at the recognition of its mirror image in a stranger, and your humanity verified in the accomplishments of those who push themselves beyond the boundaries of what we know is possible. You become human, you become connected to all other humans, when you let out that shout in support of their spirit.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Blood, Sweat, and Tears
The following posting will be very long. I'm warning you now, so that those of you who were just hoping for the highlights don't get frustrated with the details. Scroll down towards the end and you can brief yourself, if you have no time.
As I sit here and try my best to recall and relay the exhilaration and immensity of the marathon on Sunday, I'm a little at a loss for what to say. I'll try my best to take you with me on the incredible experience of the past 36 hours, but it's a little daunting.
I guess I'll start at the beginning of the end. As most of you have been following the blog since my training began, you know where I'm coming from and what this past weekend held in store for me. And the first answer to your question is "Yes. It was everything I expected and more than I could have imagined."
I had been nervous about the race a little bit, but not to the point of anxiety. We took off from San Jose on Saturday morning, a handful of Bay Area runners from the TNT team. We were a little groggy, a little snuffly, but in generally good spirits. We boarded the plane and taxied forever; the flight was scheduled to leave around 8:30, but we didn't take off until at least half past nine. When we finally landed in Portland, we stretched out; most of us had woken up by then, and we proceeded to the hotel with our luggage on a big old carrier bus. Arriving around 1pm, we checked-in and went out in search of food. This was my first look at Portland, and it was a charming city, I must admit. This time of year hints at fall foliage, and the weather is perfect "running weather" - you can wear a sweater if you're not running, but you won't cool off if you run in a light tee and shorts; there's a little breeze every now and then that bushes past, and the air is dry with the slightest hint of moisture.
We came across the registration expo at the nearby Hilton Hotel and stopped in to pick up our race packets, including our "bib" (the number you wear on your shirt) and our chips (a tiny device worn on the shoe that contains a sensor; you cross checkpoints along the race and your time is recorded via your chip). There were also a lot of companies with promotional flyers and handouts; I liked the honey sticks the best. We picked up our finisher's shirt (the air was rife with irony) and then headed over to get some lunch (a quesadilla with some rice). I went back at 3pm to hear Jeff Galloway speak, and managed to have him sign my race bib. It was wonderful to meet him in person; I read through his book "Marathon!" and had trained with the 'run-walk' program he outlines. Hearing him remind the audience about pacing, hydration, and other little details for race day calmed me immensely.
That evening, we went down to the ballroom for a TNT carb load. There were teams from Washington, Alaska, Oregon, New Mexico, and California. The room was filled with teammates who had traveled far and near, has raised over $95,000 collectively, and ranged from veteran runners to newbies. A lady named Terri shared her story about her daughter, Emily, who was diagnosed with myeloma at a very young age; they lost her after only six years of her life, and after sharing some tearful memories, they thanked everyone in the room for their efforts. Terri said to us, "You'll never know how much your fundraising touches other people's lives." It was a very poignant moment, and I was overwhelmed by the emotional response from the crowd.
After dinner, our mentors also passed along a few pages of well-wishes from all our honorees; they were generous in their thanks and well wishes, and it made me remember why I was truly running this marathon.
Most coaches will tout the benefits of mental preparation for an event such as a marathon, and I can vouch in favor of this training detail. I was lucky to have participated in running events previously and even more lucky that I was running for a cause other than myself; I felt prepared for what Sunday morning would bring in terms of pre-race preparations. When I got to the starting line on Sunday morning, I felt very Zen-like: I knew to use the port-o-johns long before the lines formed, to keep still and not waste energy before crossing the start line, and to stretch out a little and stay calm. I had a peanut butter-banana-honey-Wonder Bread sandwich about 45 minutes before we started running, and enough water to get me going for the first few miles. I thought about all the honorees and the folks I was running for, and that took a lot of stress out of the equation. Knowing how the first hour before the race would happen helped me concentrate on what would happen during the race. I had imagined how the race would go, and because of that I was able to hold back for the first 10 miles of the race, managed to climb the hill at 16, and had enough energy left over to complete the 6.2 miles down to the finish....
I slept rather well the night before, considering the advice my father gave me. In fact, I passed out about 9:30pm and didn't wake up until 5:15 the next morning. I did have a weird dream about wanting to get single bills in exchange for my $10 bill; no one would give me the change I wanted. It wasn't really an anxiety dream per se, but unsettling nonetheless.
We went down to the starting line around 6am, and I had decked myself out in the 10-gallon plastic garbage bag my father recommended I bring. Unfortunately, 10 gallons only covers the top half of your body. The other runners were sporting large 45-gallon bags that hung down to at least their knees, and had ample room for movement. I looked like tightly packed sushi in comparison; I only poked a hole for my head, preferring to keep my arms close to my body for warmth inside the sack. Waddling around for the half hour before the race with my red bandanna and saran-wrap-esque cover up provided some much needed pre-race entertainment for my peers. (It was a relief to let my arms out towards the race start, and I didn't shed the bag until after mile 1, at which time I was sufficiently warm.)
Though we were close to the race start line, the gun went off at 7 and I didn't actually cross the start line until around 7:20. We were situated near the 6-hour pace group, and I struggled to hold myself back at the beginning, knowing that if I wanted to finish in under 5:30:00, I needed to do some serious catch-up. Oddly enough, despite all the conservative running I managed in the first 10 miles, I caught up to the 5:30-pace group after mile 4. It was a joyous moment, let me tell you.
Now, I'll just give you the mile-by-mile highlights, because let's face it, writing about running to that extent is rather inane at this point. I was wearing my purple TNT singlet, my comfy somewhat seamless running capris, my new Mizunos, and a fuel belt stuffed with shot blocks, GU, an Alka-Seltzer tablet (sodium replenishment) and a bit of water...
HIGHLIGHTS:
Mile 1: The drum line - some hot guys with drums and a rad beat...what a thrill! They showed up again at Mile 7, I could have run easy with them the whole way...
Mile 2: Shedding the plastic 10-gallon bag!
Mile 3: First (of many) water station and some Shot Blocks
Mile 4: Gradual downhill! I'm pretty sure this helped me catch up to the 5:30 group. By this point, the sweat starts to accumulate.
Mile 5: Running strong, heading further out of the city.
Mile 6: Realizing there are 20 more miles to go, and reminding myself not to push it, although I'm ready to just let fly on some of these intervals. Had some more Shot Blocks
Mile 7: for Joan.
Mile 8: for Kristi.
Mile 9: for Mary.
Mile 10: for Laurette.
Mile 11: for Jim.
Mile 12: for Laurette H. Shot Block time again.
Mile 13: for Donna.
Mile 14: for the Honorees.
Mile 15: Realizing that a half marathon might just be my event. Had some GU with caffeine in anticipation of the bridge hill - this got my legs kicking!
Mile 16: Mentally battling the hill to the St. John's Bridge, keeping up an awesome pace, controlled breath, and passing people while climbing it
Mile 17: Conquering the hill. I got a little teary on the bridge (the view was GORGEOUS) but realized I couldn't run and cry at the same time, so I held back. Besides, who cries in the middle of the marathon!?
Mile 18: Realizing we ran 18 miles out of the city into the suburbs. People are cheering from their porches and one dude is playing the theme song from "Chariots of Fire" on his boom box as we round the corner. Shot Blocks to ward off the tingly sensation in my body that signals I'm running low on fuel.
Mile 19: Alka-Seltzer break time. I mix a tablet in with the remainder of my water and I swear my body is refreshed in under 2 minutes. Or perhaps that's the power of placebo drug use. Sucking out the remaining salt water from my thermos, I cut my upper lip on the cap and taste a little bit of blood.
Mile 20: PAIN. Quads start to get sore, feet are hurting after 20 miles of pavement; the arms are moving, but the legs are having a hard time keeping up.
Mile 21: The Longest Mile Ever. Have some GU with double caffeine in anticipation of the last four miles.
Mile 22: The Longest Mile Ever.
Mile 23: The "course access" cyclist was rumored to be hit by a train and there were ambulances everywhere before the Steel Bridge. They redirected us up to the sidewalk. I think they saved the cyclist. At least, there was no one under the train.
Mile 24: Last taste of Shot Blocks, the tummy's feeling a little funny. I only have 2.2 more miles to go, and despite wanting to push through them, I still have to maintain the walk-run pacing. The transition from running to walking to running is rather uncomfortable. At this point, my clothes are drenched in sweat and my brain is part mush, and my body is on auto-pilot.
Mile 25: Back in the city, and it starts to sprinkle. My brain is complete mush. I want to stop running. My body is so exhausted, all I can think is "ice bath, ice bath, ice bath". People are cheering as we run past, and one cute guy on the corner calls out my name - I was completely discombobulated, I think I glared at him.
Mile 26: Rounding the corner of 3rd and Salmon, I put everything I've got into the last 0.2 mileage to the finish. I feel like puking, but I cross the finish running hard, and in good form. I even passed a few runners. A much needed space blanket is handed to me, along with my medal, a rose, and a tree sapling. I get weepy again after realizing I've just finished a marathon...but I don't have the energy to have a good cry! Someone tries to hand me a flyer for the Cinco de Mayo marathon for next year, but I can't even register why he's doing this. Of all the times to get you to sign up for another marathon...
And then I hobbled back to my hotel room, took that sought-after ice bath, took an hour-long nap, woke up to eat the most delicious hamburger I've ever had in my life (though I've been told anything you eat right after the marathon is the most delicious food you'll ever have), hobbled back to the hotel, slept for another hour, hobbled to the elevator and went down for dinner, had the most delicious garlic mashed potatoes, and then had a quick bout of dance fever. I danced (yes, it was quite a feat, I have video proof) for about two minutes near our dinner table to the "YMCA" and then realized that the only dance move I couldn't physically manage was the running man. How terribly ironic.
I had to leave the victory dinner early in order to catch my flight back home, and had a seizure when I found out they booked the wrong departure date and I was put on standby until the literal last minute before take-off. I mean, I had just completed a marathon: I couldn't handle any more obstacles that day. Luckily, Michael Partridge didn't show up for his booking, so I got seated in 10E and conked out on the 2-hour flight home. Mom picked me up from the airport, and Bandit was in the car, wagging his tail against my head for the whole ride home. I was truly, honestly exhausted, and I had just enough time to sleep that night before having to hobble into work at 6:30am for a live video conference kickoff to New Orleans from the Cancer Center. The soreness, though!! Rest and recuperation took on a whole new meaning for me on Monday. I managed to stand around in heels (granted, I couldn't feel my feet) for an hour or two during the video feed, but that took some effort. After the event however, I was sent home (thank God!) with orders to rest and rehydrate. All in all, a whirlwind of activity and barely any downtime to percolate what had just commenced only 12 hours previous.
And so there you have it. The whole kit and caboodle. Thanks for reading, those of you who made it to this point! And a huge, immense thank-you to everyone who contributed to this experience. I surpassed my fundraising goal, and thanks to you, have successfully completed my first (of perhaps many) marathons. A tremendous accomplishment, and I've been lucky enough to share it with all of you too!!
As for what's next: I have to work out the soreness from Sunday (once I can manage stairs again, I'll be a happy gal) and we have some wrap-up events for the team over the next few weeks. Some of the team members are competing in the Nike marathon in San Francisco in two weeks, so we'll be out there to cheer them on and run them in to the finish line. I'm excited for them, and even more happy to know that I'll be able to provide them with the well-needed encouragement along the last few miles. After that, I may sign up for a half-marathon...we'll see.
Until then, happy running, Marathon Fans.
As I sit here and try my best to recall and relay the exhilaration and immensity of the marathon on Sunday, I'm a little at a loss for what to say. I'll try my best to take you with me on the incredible experience of the past 36 hours, but it's a little daunting.
I guess I'll start at the beginning of the end. As most of you have been following the blog since my training began, you know where I'm coming from and what this past weekend held in store for me. And the first answer to your question is "Yes. It was everything I expected and more than I could have imagined."
I had been nervous about the race a little bit, but not to the point of anxiety. We took off from San Jose on Saturday morning, a handful of Bay Area runners from the TNT team. We were a little groggy, a little snuffly, but in generally good spirits. We boarded the plane and taxied forever; the flight was scheduled to leave around 8:30, but we didn't take off until at least half past nine. When we finally landed in Portland, we stretched out; most of us had woken up by then, and we proceeded to the hotel with our luggage on a big old carrier bus. Arriving around 1pm, we checked-in and went out in search of food. This was my first look at Portland, and it was a charming city, I must admit. This time of year hints at fall foliage, and the weather is perfect "running weather" - you can wear a sweater if you're not running, but you won't cool off if you run in a light tee and shorts; there's a little breeze every now and then that bushes past, and the air is dry with the slightest hint of moisture.
We came across the registration expo at the nearby Hilton Hotel and stopped in to pick up our race packets, including our "bib" (the number you wear on your shirt) and our chips (a tiny device worn on the shoe that contains a sensor; you cross checkpoints along the race and your time is recorded via your chip). There were also a lot of companies with promotional flyers and handouts; I liked the honey sticks the best. We picked up our finisher's shirt (the air was rife with irony) and then headed over to get some lunch (a quesadilla with some rice). I went back at 3pm to hear Jeff Galloway speak, and managed to have him sign my race bib. It was wonderful to meet him in person; I read through his book "Marathon!" and had trained with the 'run-walk' program he outlines. Hearing him remind the audience about pacing, hydration, and other little details for race day calmed me immensely.
That evening, we went down to the ballroom for a TNT carb load. There were teams from Washington, Alaska, Oregon, New Mexico, and California. The room was filled with teammates who had traveled far and near, has raised over $95,000 collectively, and ranged from veteran runners to newbies. A lady named Terri shared her story about her daughter, Emily, who was diagnosed with myeloma at a very young age; they lost her after only six years of her life, and after sharing some tearful memories, they thanked everyone in the room for their efforts. Terri said to us, "You'll never know how much your fundraising touches other people's lives." It was a very poignant moment, and I was overwhelmed by the emotional response from the crowd.
After dinner, our mentors also passed along a few pages of well-wishes from all our honorees; they were generous in their thanks and well wishes, and it made me remember why I was truly running this marathon.
Most coaches will tout the benefits of mental preparation for an event such as a marathon, and I can vouch in favor of this training detail. I was lucky to have participated in running events previously and even more lucky that I was running for a cause other than myself; I felt prepared for what Sunday morning would bring in terms of pre-race preparations. When I got to the starting line on Sunday morning, I felt very Zen-like: I knew to use the port-o-johns long before the lines formed, to keep still and not waste energy before crossing the start line, and to stretch out a little and stay calm. I had a peanut butter-banana-honey-Wonder Bread sandwich about 45 minutes before we started running, and enough water to get me going for the first few miles. I thought about all the honorees and the folks I was running for, and that took a lot of stress out of the equation. Knowing how the first hour before the race would happen helped me concentrate on what would happen during the race. I had imagined how the race would go, and because of that I was able to hold back for the first 10 miles of the race, managed to climb the hill at 16, and had enough energy left over to complete the 6.2 miles down to the finish....
I slept rather well the night before, considering the advice my father gave me. In fact, I passed out about 9:30pm and didn't wake up until 5:15 the next morning. I did have a weird dream about wanting to get single bills in exchange for my $10 bill; no one would give me the change I wanted. It wasn't really an anxiety dream per se, but unsettling nonetheless.
We went down to the starting line around 6am, and I had decked myself out in the 10-gallon plastic garbage bag my father recommended I bring. Unfortunately, 10 gallons only covers the top half of your body. The other runners were sporting large 45-gallon bags that hung down to at least their knees, and had ample room for movement. I looked like tightly packed sushi in comparison; I only poked a hole for my head, preferring to keep my arms close to my body for warmth inside the sack. Waddling around for the half hour before the race with my red bandanna and saran-wrap-esque cover up provided some much needed pre-race entertainment for my peers. (It was a relief to let my arms out towards the race start, and I didn't shed the bag until after mile 1, at which time I was sufficiently warm.)
Though we were close to the race start line, the gun went off at 7 and I didn't actually cross the start line until around 7:20. We were situated near the 6-hour pace group, and I struggled to hold myself back at the beginning, knowing that if I wanted to finish in under 5:30:00, I needed to do some serious catch-up. Oddly enough, despite all the conservative running I managed in the first 10 miles, I caught up to the 5:30-pace group after mile 4. It was a joyous moment, let me tell you.
Now, I'll just give you the mile-by-mile highlights, because let's face it, writing about running to that extent is rather inane at this point. I was wearing my purple TNT singlet, my comfy somewhat seamless running capris, my new Mizunos, and a fuel belt stuffed with shot blocks, GU, an Alka-Seltzer tablet (sodium replenishment) and a bit of water...
HIGHLIGHTS:
Mile 1: The drum line - some hot guys with drums and a rad beat...what a thrill! They showed up again at Mile 7, I could have run easy with them the whole way...
Mile 2: Shedding the plastic 10-gallon bag!
Mile 3: First (of many) water station and some Shot Blocks
Mile 4: Gradual downhill! I'm pretty sure this helped me catch up to the 5:30 group. By this point, the sweat starts to accumulate.
Mile 5: Running strong, heading further out of the city.
Mile 6: Realizing there are 20 more miles to go, and reminding myself not to push it, although I'm ready to just let fly on some of these intervals. Had some more Shot Blocks
Mile 7: for Joan.
Mile 8: for Kristi.
Mile 9: for Mary.
Mile 10: for Laurette.
Mile 11: for Jim.
Mile 12: for Laurette H. Shot Block time again.
Mile 13: for Donna.
Mile 14: for the Honorees.
Mile 15: Realizing that a half marathon might just be my event. Had some GU with caffeine in anticipation of the bridge hill - this got my legs kicking!
Mile 16: Mentally battling the hill to the St. John's Bridge, keeping up an awesome pace, controlled breath, and passing people while climbing it
Mile 17: Conquering the hill. I got a little teary on the bridge (the view was GORGEOUS) but realized I couldn't run and cry at the same time, so I held back. Besides, who cries in the middle of the marathon!?
Mile 18: Realizing we ran 18 miles out of the city into the suburbs. People are cheering from their porches and one dude is playing the theme song from "Chariots of Fire" on his boom box as we round the corner. Shot Blocks to ward off the tingly sensation in my body that signals I'm running low on fuel.
Mile 19: Alka-Seltzer break time. I mix a tablet in with the remainder of my water and I swear my body is refreshed in under 2 minutes. Or perhaps that's the power of placebo drug use. Sucking out the remaining salt water from my thermos, I cut my upper lip on the cap and taste a little bit of blood.
Mile 20: PAIN. Quads start to get sore, feet are hurting after 20 miles of pavement; the arms are moving, but the legs are having a hard time keeping up.
Mile 21: The Longest Mile Ever. Have some GU with double caffeine in anticipation of the last four miles.
Mile 22: The Longest Mile Ever.
Mile 23: The "course access" cyclist was rumored to be hit by a train and there were ambulances everywhere before the Steel Bridge. They redirected us up to the sidewalk. I think they saved the cyclist. At least, there was no one under the train.
Mile 24: Last taste of Shot Blocks, the tummy's feeling a little funny. I only have 2.2 more miles to go, and despite wanting to push through them, I still have to maintain the walk-run pacing. The transition from running to walking to running is rather uncomfortable. At this point, my clothes are drenched in sweat and my brain is part mush, and my body is on auto-pilot.
Mile 25: Back in the city, and it starts to sprinkle. My brain is complete mush. I want to stop running. My body is so exhausted, all I can think is "ice bath, ice bath, ice bath". People are cheering as we run past, and one cute guy on the corner calls out my name - I was completely discombobulated, I think I glared at him.
Mile 26: Rounding the corner of 3rd and Salmon, I put everything I've got into the last 0.2 mileage to the finish. I feel like puking, but I cross the finish running hard, and in good form. I even passed a few runners. A much needed space blanket is handed to me, along with my medal, a rose, and a tree sapling. I get weepy again after realizing I've just finished a marathon...but I don't have the energy to have a good cry! Someone tries to hand me a flyer for the Cinco de Mayo marathon for next year, but I can't even register why he's doing this. Of all the times to get you to sign up for another marathon...
And then I hobbled back to my hotel room, took that sought-after ice bath, took an hour-long nap, woke up to eat the most delicious hamburger I've ever had in my life (though I've been told anything you eat right after the marathon is the most delicious food you'll ever have), hobbled back to the hotel, slept for another hour, hobbled to the elevator and went down for dinner, had the most delicious garlic mashed potatoes, and then had a quick bout of dance fever. I danced (yes, it was quite a feat, I have video proof) for about two minutes near our dinner table to the "YMCA" and then realized that the only dance move I couldn't physically manage was the running man. How terribly ironic.
I had to leave the victory dinner early in order to catch my flight back home, and had a seizure when I found out they booked the wrong departure date and I was put on standby until the literal last minute before take-off. I mean, I had just completed a marathon: I couldn't handle any more obstacles that day. Luckily, Michael Partridge didn't show up for his booking, so I got seated in 10E and conked out on the 2-hour flight home. Mom picked me up from the airport, and Bandit was in the car, wagging his tail against my head for the whole ride home. I was truly, honestly exhausted, and I had just enough time to sleep that night before having to hobble into work at 6:30am for a live video conference kickoff to New Orleans from the Cancer Center. The soreness, though!! Rest and recuperation took on a whole new meaning for me on Monday. I managed to stand around in heels (granted, I couldn't feel my feet) for an hour or two during the video feed, but that took some effort. After the event however, I was sent home (thank God!) with orders to rest and rehydrate. All in all, a whirlwind of activity and barely any downtime to percolate what had just commenced only 12 hours previous.
And so there you have it. The whole kit and caboodle. Thanks for reading, those of you who made it to this point! And a huge, immense thank-you to everyone who contributed to this experience. I surpassed my fundraising goal, and thanks to you, have successfully completed my first (of perhaps many) marathons. A tremendous accomplishment, and I've been lucky enough to share it with all of you too!!
As for what's next: I have to work out the soreness from Sunday (once I can manage stairs again, I'll be a happy gal) and we have some wrap-up events for the team over the next few weeks. Some of the team members are competing in the Nike marathon in San Francisco in two weeks, so we'll be out there to cheer them on and run them in to the finish line. I'm excited for them, and even more happy to know that I'll be able to provide them with the well-needed encouragement along the last few miles. After that, I may sign up for a half-marathon...we'll see.
Until then, happy running, Marathon Fans.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Taper!
Well Marathon Fans, I broke my word. Having a rough week at work, I settled down for a margarita last Thursday to temper the immense pressures that I've assumed in the past month. And it was great...except for the part when my mother reamed me the next day for "disheartening" her. Apparently, my blurb about how I had stopped drinking now falls under the category of lying. (Whatever happened to "changing your mind"...?)
In any case, my apologies. Weak character that I am, I couldn't resist having a small happy hour. I understand if I've compromised your trust in me, and if you call me a sneaky little liar behind my back, that's fair. However, I had the best intentions in mind, but work's been a little over the top recently. (Insert shoulder shrug here.)
The taper week has officially begun. In running lingo, "taper" is a period of rest time just before you go out to run some obscene mileage. The goal is to do no more than you have already trained for: e.g. we've completed our long 20-mile run, so now we are letting our muscles recuperate and until race day, we'll be working out at smaller distances, though the same intensity. The beautiful fact of tapering is that the distances that once seemed insurmountable are now like a favorite little dessert. What's that coach? We're having chocolate cake instead of hummus and carrots for track practice?
Okay, so the metaphor's a stretch, but you get the idea...it's a delicious feeling.
I'm also excited that I will be able to get out and run more with the team. The show has ended (tear) and we had a wonderful cast party this weekend after striking the set and cleaning the theatre. Saddened that it is over, but grateful for the freed weekends. Last week was the first time I had seen the team in over a month (in a workout setting), and both I and my teammates were surprised to see each other. Everyone was running strong, and I was pleased that I could keep up with them. I have become a bit nervous these past few weeks, mainly because I had no progress gauge. I have come to appreciate running on my own, but without a teammate or coach monitoring your work, it's hard to know if you're making strides. It was a relief to find that I have kept up on my own.
The marathon is this upcoming weekend! Nervous thoughts are still fluttering around in my head, but I've managed to wrangle them in, promising myself that I will finish strong and to not worry about the timing. According to my father (seasoned marathoner that he is), I can expect to be nervous the night before, and not get a wink of sleep; I should stay in the hotel room all day Saturday and rest my legs, I should wear a plastic garbage bag over my running clothes during the first mile or so to warm up, and I should look for the "pace guy" for 5:30:00 at the start line. According to my mother (seasoned marathon fan that she is), my father's advice is completely subjective.
All that aside, I'll be packing some peanut butter and shot blocks in my suitcase (airport regulations and all that jazz) for pre-marathon breakfasting, and I have yet to settle into the thought that I've never packed for a trip that specifically involved exercising. I mean, the basis of my wardrobe will be items I can run in, comfortably. Forget packing the high heels and perfume, I'll be debating which sock length will work best for five hours of pavement running, and how much body glide I'll need to slap on Sunday morning. There's something to be said for doing something you've never done before.
The next blog will perhaps be the last, or close to it, so stay posted for results, and thanks again for supporting me thus far!
In any case, my apologies. Weak character that I am, I couldn't resist having a small happy hour. I understand if I've compromised your trust in me, and if you call me a sneaky little liar behind my back, that's fair. However, I had the best intentions in mind, but work's been a little over the top recently. (Insert shoulder shrug here.)
The taper week has officially begun. In running lingo, "taper" is a period of rest time just before you go out to run some obscene mileage. The goal is to do no more than you have already trained for: e.g. we've completed our long 20-mile run, so now we are letting our muscles recuperate and until race day, we'll be working out at smaller distances, though the same intensity. The beautiful fact of tapering is that the distances that once seemed insurmountable are now like a favorite little dessert. What's that coach? We're having chocolate cake instead of hummus and carrots for track practice?
Okay, so the metaphor's a stretch, but you get the idea...it's a delicious feeling.
I'm also excited that I will be able to get out and run more with the team. The show has ended (tear) and we had a wonderful cast party this weekend after striking the set and cleaning the theatre. Saddened that it is over, but grateful for the freed weekends. Last week was the first time I had seen the team in over a month (in a workout setting), and both I and my teammates were surprised to see each other. Everyone was running strong, and I was pleased that I could keep up with them. I have become a bit nervous these past few weeks, mainly because I had no progress gauge. I have come to appreciate running on my own, but without a teammate or coach monitoring your work, it's hard to know if you're making strides. It was a relief to find that I have kept up on my own.
The marathon is this upcoming weekend! Nervous thoughts are still fluttering around in my head, but I've managed to wrangle them in, promising myself that I will finish strong and to not worry about the timing. According to my father (seasoned marathoner that he is), I can expect to be nervous the night before, and not get a wink of sleep; I should stay in the hotel room all day Saturday and rest my legs, I should wear a plastic garbage bag over my running clothes during the first mile or so to warm up, and I should look for the "pace guy" for 5:30:00 at the start line. According to my mother (seasoned marathon fan that she is), my father's advice is completely subjective.
All that aside, I'll be packing some peanut butter and shot blocks in my suitcase (airport regulations and all that jazz) for pre-marathon breakfasting, and I have yet to settle into the thought that I've never packed for a trip that specifically involved exercising. I mean, the basis of my wardrobe will be items I can run in, comfortably. Forget packing the high heels and perfume, I'll be debating which sock length will work best for five hours of pavement running, and how much body glide I'll need to slap on Sunday morning. There's something to be said for doing something you've never done before.
The next blog will perhaps be the last, or close to it, so stay posted for results, and thanks again for supporting me thus far!
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The Infamous Mile 19
Well, Marathon Fans, it's getting down to the grindstone. The countdown has started: T minus 18 days until the big event! Since realizing that the marathon is less than three weeks away, I've given up drinking, have been going to bed at 10pm, and have stopped eating sugar altogether. Okay, so maybe that last one is a stretch, but the drinking has ceased (believe it or not). I've also calmed down a bit since the show has opened. The weekday rehearsals have stopped, so I now get to actually see my family every once in a while. Proof that I was spending too much time away from home: my little sister didn't recognize my picture in the Crier last week. Luckily, my mom did, so she pointed out the obvious similarities to my doubtful sibling.
If you haven't caught a show yet, check out www.thepear.org for ticket information for Three Sisters, the production I will be in until September's end. I can't promise you that the show will be light, funny, and comedic. In fact, I would highly recommend you have a few drinks before you come to sober up. My parents, who came to see it last Friday, suddenly realized why I've come home this month in such a foul mood. Crying every night on stage while repeatedly berating your job, your love life, and your future will take quite a toll on a young lady such as myself.
The running has been going very well. Hill repeats have become the modus operandi as of late. They stink, there's no way else to describe it, but they get a little easier every time. (Hill repeats, for the novice runner, consists of repeatedly running up a stretch of steep hill, hamstrings straining, calves afire, then resting at the top while your burning lungs are doused with cool oxygen, and then walking down muttering obscenities to yourself about having to repeat that experience 8 more times.) This morning wasn't too bad: I went up around the neighborhood, where there are some long hilly climbs. It was amazing though, to see how the seasons change through a runner's workouts. This morning, for example, was the first time I've seen my breath condense on the exhale. Plus, my headband, riddled with sweat after two hills, froze my forehead on the jog home. Who needs fall foliage? I know Autumn has arrived.
The only running hurdle (if you will) has been my recent separation from the team. Granted, I've been keeping up with my workouts, but I have not seen my teammates in quite some time. It was quite a shock, then, that more than a handful of them showed up at my 25th birthday party this past weekend. It was odd to see them in regular clothes - I almost didn't recognize everybody. It was also a shock to see them at night. We usually blink at each other on our 6am Saturday runs. So jarring was the experience, I asked one of my running buddies (who looked so lovely in her party clothes) for her name and tried to re-introduce myself! You know you've been away from the track too long when.... However, I was pleased as punch that they showed up and we had a great time just shooting some pool and chilling out on a Friday night.
As for the mileage, I was worried about the 20 mile run two weeks ago, but it turned out to be one of the best tests I've had during my training. The morning of, I got up at 6am, and (having slept in my running clothes) threw my shoes in the car to go meet my carpool at Lucky's. Well, 15 minutes later, I suspected I had missed the bus. So, I thought to myself: "Sarah, you have to run today, you can't finagle it at any other time. And you're going to have to do this by yourself. And you haven't brought your iPod." I whimpered a little bit after thinking this. Then, I bought some water, drove around the neighborhood and hid it in various shrubbery, and odometered the route I would run. Starting from the local library, I ran through three towns (Los Altos, Mountain View, Sunnyvale), had some water along the way, looped back to the store in Los Altos, got some more water, and then huffed and puffed back to the library for the last five miles.
Let me tell you, that mile 19 mark is a bitch. There's no polite way to describe it. It is truly a mind-cramping physical browbeating. Your whole body and your whole brain are pounding on you to stop stop stop. And I found myself singing aloud in order to keep going, and when that didn't work, I just started yelling at myself: "Just finish it! Don't quit! Argh! My f***** legs!" (This outburst elicited quite a few glares from the Saturday-morning strolling public.) But, my legs were seriously cramped. I mean, there is nothing like a 'mile 19' to make you a believer in the power of day-before hydration. When I got to the car, it was all I could do not to keel over and cry from sheer joy at the wonder of automatic vehicles. After stretching a little bit, I realized I needed an ice bath, and soon, so I headed home to relax.
The only thing that stinks about finishing the 20 mile run without your teammates is that there is no one to cheer you on and commiserate with you afterwards. That, and I missed out on the ritual Hobee's breakfast gorging. Returning home, I was greeted by Mom, who cannot seem to grasp the importance of looking at least a tiny bit impressed when someone says "I just finished a 20 mile run on paved road, on my own with no music in 4:45." Luckily, Dad was running that far too that day, so when he got home, he said "Great!" and understood why I then needed to take a 2 hour nap.
All in all, I'm getting excited for the event, and since we're only running 10 miles this weekend, I can hardly believe my luck. I mean, I only have to run for 2.5 hours on Saturday, which, crazy as it sounds, is as exciting as finding out you don't have to go into work for a week.
If you haven't caught a show yet, check out www.thepear.org for ticket information for Three Sisters, the production I will be in until September's end. I can't promise you that the show will be light, funny, and comedic. In fact, I would highly recommend you have a few drinks before you come to sober up. My parents, who came to see it last Friday, suddenly realized why I've come home this month in such a foul mood. Crying every night on stage while repeatedly berating your job, your love life, and your future will take quite a toll on a young lady such as myself.
The running has been going very well. Hill repeats have become the modus operandi as of late. They stink, there's no way else to describe it, but they get a little easier every time. (Hill repeats, for the novice runner, consists of repeatedly running up a stretch of steep hill, hamstrings straining, calves afire, then resting at the top while your burning lungs are doused with cool oxygen, and then walking down muttering obscenities to yourself about having to repeat that experience 8 more times.) This morning wasn't too bad: I went up around the neighborhood, where there are some long hilly climbs. It was amazing though, to see how the seasons change through a runner's workouts. This morning, for example, was the first time I've seen my breath condense on the exhale. Plus, my headband, riddled with sweat after two hills, froze my forehead on the jog home. Who needs fall foliage? I know Autumn has arrived.
The only running hurdle (if you will) has been my recent separation from the team. Granted, I've been keeping up with my workouts, but I have not seen my teammates in quite some time. It was quite a shock, then, that more than a handful of them showed up at my 25th birthday party this past weekend. It was odd to see them in regular clothes - I almost didn't recognize everybody. It was also a shock to see them at night. We usually blink at each other on our 6am Saturday runs. So jarring was the experience, I asked one of my running buddies (who looked so lovely in her party clothes) for her name and tried to re-introduce myself! You know you've been away from the track too long when.... However, I was pleased as punch that they showed up and we had a great time just shooting some pool and chilling out on a Friday night.
As for the mileage, I was worried about the 20 mile run two weeks ago, but it turned out to be one of the best tests I've had during my training. The morning of, I got up at 6am, and (having slept in my running clothes) threw my shoes in the car to go meet my carpool at Lucky's. Well, 15 minutes later, I suspected I had missed the bus. So, I thought to myself: "Sarah, you have to run today, you can't finagle it at any other time. And you're going to have to do this by yourself. And you haven't brought your iPod." I whimpered a little bit after thinking this. Then, I bought some water, drove around the neighborhood and hid it in various shrubbery, and odometered the route I would run. Starting from the local library, I ran through three towns (Los Altos, Mountain View, Sunnyvale), had some water along the way, looped back to the store in Los Altos, got some more water, and then huffed and puffed back to the library for the last five miles.
Let me tell you, that mile 19 mark is a bitch. There's no polite way to describe it. It is truly a mind-cramping physical browbeating. Your whole body and your whole brain are pounding on you to stop stop stop. And I found myself singing aloud in order to keep going, and when that didn't work, I just started yelling at myself: "Just finish it! Don't quit! Argh! My f***** legs!" (This outburst elicited quite a few glares from the Saturday-morning strolling public.) But, my legs were seriously cramped. I mean, there is nothing like a 'mile 19' to make you a believer in the power of day-before hydration. When I got to the car, it was all I could do not to keel over and cry from sheer joy at the wonder of automatic vehicles. After stretching a little bit, I realized I needed an ice bath, and soon, so I headed home to relax.
The only thing that stinks about finishing the 20 mile run without your teammates is that there is no one to cheer you on and commiserate with you afterwards. That, and I missed out on the ritual Hobee's breakfast gorging. Returning home, I was greeted by Mom, who cannot seem to grasp the importance of looking at least a tiny bit impressed when someone says "I just finished a 20 mile run on paved road, on my own with no music in 4:45." Luckily, Dad was running that far too that day, so when he got home, he said "Great!" and understood why I then needed to take a 2 hour nap.
All in all, I'm getting excited for the event, and since we're only running 10 miles this weekend, I can hardly believe my luck. I mean, I only have to run for 2.5 hours on Saturday, which, crazy as it sounds, is as exciting as finding out you don't have to go into work for a week.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Energy, energy, all around...
That's the start of a very popular pre-show theatre warm-up. It goes like this:
"Energy, energy, all around...it can bring you up...it can bring you down!"
The cast will warm up and then do this concentration exercise together, usually to enhance connectivity onstage. It builds from a whisper to a scream, but on the last repetition, you don't say "it can bring you down"...you replace that bit with a line from the show. Clever, eh?
This rhyme has been ticking away in my head recently, probably because we open Three Sisters this evening and also because I have a 20 mile run tomorrow that, for some reason, has made me very unnaturally nervous.
Granted, it could be pre-show jitters as well. I've had more than a few thoughts about tripping on my runs this week, having to then play a character with a mysterious limp. Feasibly, it could be that the nervous energy from this show is getting transferred to my running brain.
(For the unenlightened, a "running brain" is a special organ that encases your existing everyday brain during a long run, dousing it in a jelly-like liquid that emits small neuro-waves of unfiltered bliss, resulting in a feeling of capriciousness. Doctors are still mystified by this phenomenon; studies suggests a link between the running brain and month-long vacations.)
At times like this, I have to make a decision about either fighting off the nervousness and applying logic, or trusting my instincts and giving into the nagging feeling that something could go terribly wrong.
In the past, I would have trusted my instincts. And that sounds so completely off-kilter, I know. But, since I've started running long distances, I've learned to stop giving in to my instincts. It sounds weird, but when you're at mile 16, and your legs are getting tight and you're tired and you just want to stop and the left side of your brain is fighting with the goopy running brain serum, screaming at you to just stop running because you're not going to get there any faster, you're running out of water, you didn't have enough to eat for breakfast, and would you please just walk for God's sake...that's the moment when you have to turn off your instincts and just keep going. (I find that music is especially helpful in these moments. Humming usually does the trick. When it escalates to a full-blown rendition of Oklahoma!, you can bet I've checked out completely.) There is something to be said for stopping if you're feeling injured or faint, but that left brain negativity has a tricky way of making you think you're about to die, when really you're just melodramatic like your mom always told you.
Now, when all else fails, I can talk myself out of the nervousness by creating a Worst Things That Could Happen list. For example:
1. I'll go running on Saturday and fall and break both legs.
2. I'll go running on Saturday and get hit by a car.
3. I'll go running on Saturday and be dehydrated and tired, which will make me susceptible to the left brain guerrilla warfare.
Answers:
1. I'll just have to take it a little slower tomorrow and not get caught up in the speed game. If I break my legs, I'll just sit onstage for the whole show and never move, making a quite literal expression of the phrase "We'll never get to Moscow!"
2.Stay on the trail and look both ways before crossing the street. Also, wear handkerchief to keep sweat from blinding me.
3.Drink water today until I've peed my brains out, and then I won't have any brain left to fight me tomorrow.
3b. La la lalalalaaaaa laaaaaaaaaaaa laaa la la...
"Energy, energy, all around...it can bring you up...it can bring you down!"
The cast will warm up and then do this concentration exercise together, usually to enhance connectivity onstage. It builds from a whisper to a scream, but on the last repetition, you don't say "it can bring you down"...you replace that bit with a line from the show. Clever, eh?
This rhyme has been ticking away in my head recently, probably because we open Three Sisters this evening and also because I have a 20 mile run tomorrow that, for some reason, has made me very unnaturally nervous.
Granted, it could be pre-show jitters as well. I've had more than a few thoughts about tripping on my runs this week, having to then play a character with a mysterious limp. Feasibly, it could be that the nervous energy from this show is getting transferred to my running brain.
(For the unenlightened, a "running brain" is a special organ that encases your existing everyday brain during a long run, dousing it in a jelly-like liquid that emits small neuro-waves of unfiltered bliss, resulting in a feeling of capriciousness. Doctors are still mystified by this phenomenon; studies suggests a link between the running brain and month-long vacations.)
At times like this, I have to make a decision about either fighting off the nervousness and applying logic, or trusting my instincts and giving into the nagging feeling that something could go terribly wrong.
In the past, I would have trusted my instincts. And that sounds so completely off-kilter, I know. But, since I've started running long distances, I've learned to stop giving in to my instincts. It sounds weird, but when you're at mile 16, and your legs are getting tight and you're tired and you just want to stop and the left side of your brain is fighting with the goopy running brain serum, screaming at you to just stop running because you're not going to get there any faster, you're running out of water, you didn't have enough to eat for breakfast, and would you please just walk for God's sake...that's the moment when you have to turn off your instincts and just keep going. (I find that music is especially helpful in these moments. Humming usually does the trick. When it escalates to a full-blown rendition of Oklahoma!, you can bet I've checked out completely.) There is something to be said for stopping if you're feeling injured or faint, but that left brain negativity has a tricky way of making you think you're about to die, when really you're just melodramatic like your mom always told you.
Now, when all else fails, I can talk myself out of the nervousness by creating a Worst Things That Could Happen list. For example:
1. I'll go running on Saturday and fall and break both legs.
2. I'll go running on Saturday and get hit by a car.
3. I'll go running on Saturday and be dehydrated and tired, which will make me susceptible to the left brain guerrilla warfare.
Answers:
1. I'll just have to take it a little slower tomorrow and not get caught up in the speed game. If I break my legs, I'll just sit onstage for the whole show and never move, making a quite literal expression of the phrase "We'll never get to Moscow!"
2.Stay on the trail and look both ways before crossing the street. Also, wear handkerchief to keep sweat from blinding me.
3.Drink water today until I've peed my brains out, and then I won't have any brain left to fight me tomorrow.
3b. La la lalalalaaaaa laaaaaaaaaaaa laaa la la...
Thursday, August 30, 2007
I would just like to say...
THANK YOU!
As of today, your donations have helped me complete 78% of my fundraising goal! I am truly and deeply grateful. I just have a few hundred dollars more to raise!
To be honest, I did not think I was going to get this far. I had deep-seated doubts about this whole thing. Starting out, I was sure I would have either quit or gotten injured (knock on wood!) or both by this point. However, I'm totally psyched for the marathon, and cannot believe it when I tell people how far my longest run was on the weekend.
Thank you thank you thank you for supporting me so much.
As of today, your donations have helped me complete 78% of my fundraising goal! I am truly and deeply grateful. I just have a few hundred dollars more to raise!
To be honest, I did not think I was going to get this far. I had deep-seated doubts about this whole thing. Starting out, I was sure I would have either quit or gotten injured (knock on wood!) or both by this point. However, I'm totally psyched for the marathon, and cannot believe it when I tell people how far my longest run was on the weekend.
Thank you thank you thank you for supporting me so much.
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