museums, thesis, biscuits and pie

These are the days of my life. Or the themes of my days.

Rediscovering my roots at the Swedish-American Museum:

Revisiting an old friend at the Art Institute:

Gazing east to the city from the rooftop deck of the Hellenic Museum:

Spending all the words not in this post on my thesis, at a tiny, happy desk:

Escaping said desk for homemade biscuits, butter and jam at a new shop in the neighborhood:

And, when the full draft of my thesis was finally ready to be turned in, rewarding myself with this:

What does your spring look like this year?

a rose is a rose is a rose

half moon rising

When asked once if she is conscious of the reader when she writes, Joan Didion replied: “Obviously I listen to a reader, but the only reader I hear is me. I am always writing to myself.”

When I blog, I am almost always writing to myself. Today, I am writing to a friend to beat all friends, someone I can’t have a face-to-face conversation with anymore, but who I hope I’ll never stop having imaginary ones with. In my mind, it takes place at Taylor Books, over cups of hot coffee or maybe even chai, and is frequently interrupted by bouts of laughter and long moments of comfortable silence.

I haven’t had the urge, or made the time, to write for a while, but today I have something I want to tell you. It’s something I never thought I would say. Are you ready? Don’t laugh.

I started practicing yoga.

Yes, yoga, that thing where you twist yourself into a pretzel and try to find inner peace on a sweaty rubber mat. I know it doesn’t seem that crazy to you, but can you imagine me? Doing yoga? Not just doing it, but claiming to practice it?

It’s tempting for me to rationalize it by telling you how it all began, how my friend Lauren hooked me up with a three-hour cleaning shift once a week, in exchange for which I get free unlimited classes. How I wanted to take a break from running after the marathon, and how I needed to find an indoor setting to exercise in during the winter months. How what makes me keep going back is how it loosens up my muscles, or makes me sweat a lot, or straightens out my spine. But I wouldn’t be telling the truth.

The truth is that I’m starting to buy into it. I’m still not any good at meditating, and I only remember a handful of the Sanskrit names for the poses, but it’s the first time that any kind of sport or exercise has really made me feel connected to my mind and my body, at the same time.

I’ve always been pretty fit, and I mostly allow my body to just do its thing, putting my energy into the mental task of believing I can push myself further. When I run or head to the gym, I jam my headphones in my ears to drown out the sounds of my heart racing, my breath quickening, my feet slapping the pavement again and again. When I play a sport like soccer or tennis, I’m always thinking about what’s coming next, how I can anticipate the near future.

I think, for true athletes, sport is life. In the swing of a club, in the arc of a pass, in the strike of a ball on the ground with the inner laces of a cleat, is a total expression of the desire to survive. Every motion is a declaration of love, for the game but also for life.

I took a class with one of my favorite teachers today, and she asked us to set an intention to find a moment of concentration during the class so deep that it became an act of love. To do it, she told us, we would have to bring ourselves to our edge. By pushing ourselves just past what we think of as our limit, we discover strength, concentration, and love deeper than we know we possess.

I found it in sleeping pigeon, a pose I used to hate. It was awkward, it hurt my hips; nothing about it felt right. Today, I slid into it almost effortlessly, brought my chest into a deep fold I didn’t know I could manage, and in that moment, I loved it all: the pose, my mind, my body.

I’m telling you this because it dawns on me that it’s what you had, and it’s what you wanted to share with everybody. The concentration that takes you so deep into living it’s impossible to separate what you experience from what you love: this was your gift, this is my pursuit.

I don’t know if yoga will take me all the way there, but I’m going to ride it out and see. The next pose I’m going to work on is half moon. The key to this one isn’t in the folding, but in the opening. So I’m going to try to open myself up, to possibility and to failure. I’ll let you know how it goes. And in the meantime, I’ll be humming this song that it makes me think of, and that reminds me of you:

dedication

This is a dedication to dedication, the only thing you really need to run 26.2 consecutive miles.

It’s a dedication to the 1.5 million fans holding witty posters, wielding garden hoses and offering up cheers to the crowd on an unseasonably hot Sunday morning.

It’s a dedication to my friends who were content to see me, even if I didn’t see them, amidst the throngs of spectators near the Chinatown gate.

It’s a dedication to my biggest fan, who trekked downtown with me at 6 in the morning, took that picture, and followed my progress on his bike.

It’s a dedication to the congratulatory emails from friends and family afterward, the kind words of strangers who saw me trudging home with a medal around my neck, the warmth and vibrancy of this city, with its breathtaking skyline and flavorful neighborhoods.

And it’s a dedication to Matthew. The thought of your unparalleled strength and courage kept me going from start to finish, and the radiance of your smile felt a little more pointed in my way that day.

fall forward

Friday is the first day of fall. The days are a bit shorter, the air a little chillier, the people on train platforms are a little more covered up, and the light lends itself to sepia-toned photographs a little more than usual.

Behind us are the days of corn on the cob and lemonade,

and ahead of us are the days of weekend football games,

apples simmering on the stove and baking in the oven,

making hearty soups and stews, sipping hot mugs of tea, and layering thick sweaters over long-sleeve shirts.

I’m ready. Are you?