Change it Up

Beneath the thick canopy of late summer foliage I could hear my panting breath, feel my shoes smacking the pavement, my limbs heavy and stiff as tree trunks. ‘Never have been a morning person,’ I thought, wishing I could stop dead in my tracks and walk. The park was virtually empty. I seemed the only crazy soul out in the mid-August heat in Washington.

But the pain didn’t stop my mind from thinking, planning, ruminating, running in circles way faster than my legs could go. ‘Could I really just stop writing Mexico?’

‘Just 21 days,’ said my yoga/journalist friend Marilyn over lunch the day before. She’d planted a seed – or maybe it was a bomb. She knew I’d been toiling over my direction. I drew an image in my notebook, me at the trail head with several paths emanating outward and I was stuck there, frozen in indecision. Which story to focus on, which way to go?

‘Change things up,’ she suggested. ‘Whatever you’re doing now, drop it and do something else.’
The Mexico book had been weighing on me. ‘I’ve made promises to my backers. But I can't find my rhythm.’

‘Twenty-one days won’t kill you, the world won’t end. But it’s long enough to see where your energy is.’

At the ranger station, my half-way point, I doubled over to catch some breath. My energy was low. ‘Usually not this tired at two miles,’ my comparing mind hissed. I compared myself to myself most harshly.

Resting my hands on my slimy knees, I watched the sweat cascade to the ground.

'Change it up.' I had listened and broken my routine, hitting the trail in the morning rather than my more usual and comfortable evening hour. That was the trouble.

Suddenly a cardinal darted across my vision and into the brush. I could feel myself smile at the dazzling flash of red amidst all that green. Suddenly the creek, which had been running alongside me since the start, was audible, rushing raucously across the rocks, the thrilling sound of movement, even if relatively sluggish this late in the season.

Suddenly I was in my body, feeling the rise and fall of my back with my breath. I stood up, wiped the sweat out of my eyes, and got a notion. ‘I’m going in,’ I heard myself say. Fifteen years running this same 4-mile Rock Creek course several days a week, and I’d never, ever stopped to cool my feet. Always going someplace, on my way. An object at rest tends to stay at rest. Can't have that.

I started my legs back up, plodding across the bridge and u-turning onto the left bank toward home. ‘Don’t be silly,’ the saner me puffed, ascending the hill, pebbles crunching beneath my feet. ‘Just keep going, get home, things to do.’ That was Leo the lion, my rising sign, powerful but oftentimes a stick in the mud. My Pisces, the fish, by contrast, was more fluid, spontaneous, even playful.

As I coasted down, hopping horse dung, my steps lighter now across the bridle path, I found myself eyeing the creek for an access point: not too sunny or muddy a spot and watch-out for the poison ivy. The Fish was calling the shots now, drawing me toward the water. As I inched down the sandy back I could hear Leo (or was it my Mom) warning me: don’t you get those shoes wet.

I found a foothold on some protruding roots and, bending over, maintaining my balance, untied and slipped off my sweaty shoes and socks, one then the other, and perched them on a dry fallen limb. Stepping in I could feel the cool of the water around my calves, the soft slime of the river bed on my soles. A tiny gasp of ahhh seeped out of me as I stood inside the creek feeling its currents pushing against my skin. It was a whole new perspective, down low, watching the water flow south toward its destination, over and around boulders, logs, anything in its way.

I ran my fingers along the surface of the water, tiny salamanders darting around my toes, and rinsed my legs of the grit. A lone monarch butterfly fluttered by searching for a place to light.

Then an image of a phrase appeared across my screen of my quieted mind: ‘We had to unhitch our trailer from his.’

I climbed up the bank, repeating the phase. ‘…unhitch our trailer from Dad’s…if I could only convince Mom.’

Ever since my mother died two summers ago, images like this from my past had been popping up, especially when I ran. Moving my body set my mind free, though sometimes there are things you don’t want to see.

’21 days, it’s not gonna kill you.’

Back on the bank I found a log to perch upon. I brushed my feet of the icky dirt and leaves, pulled my socks on, one then the other, then my shoes. Tugging at the laces, I make a perfect loop around my thumb and for a brief moment there I was a kid again, what it was like when you felt a sense of quiet satisfaction over the smallest thing. A soft breeze wafted through the trees. The cicadas’ song crescendoed and diminuendoed beneath the canopy.

Hopping off the log, gazing down and my feet, I could feel the solid ground beneath me. It was time to take-off again, the muse was urging me. She’d been tugging on my skirt, tapping me on the shoulder, begging me to pay attention to her for the longest time. Now with this seed in my pocket, I felt the urgency too.

Descending out of the woods, feet slipping on the loose rock, I was eager to arrive, to sit on the front stoop, sweat dripping onto my legal pad, and let the truth come pouring out.

                                                                       ~~~

After the night in the family room on Friars, for the first time in my life standing up to Dad, it was a strange and unjust domino effect that led the cops back to me, and I was the guilty one. I was the one paying for the sins of the father. And it was just the beginning.

But I'd been surprised at how small my father seemed when I squared shoulders to face him, my fists clenched, ready to fight. ‘Fight me, not her,’ I yelled, standing taller than my shrimpy five feet. ‘I was the one who broke the door, I’m the guilty one,’ I set the record straight. And I watched him lean away from me.

It was just like that bully dog Cesar who constantly chased me down Wilmette, once up a tree, then jumped for my dangling legs and bit into my calf.

‘Son of a bitch.’ Blood was dripping down my leg and my sweaty hold was slipping, and eventually I had no choice but to drop to the ground and face him.

‘Cesar go home,’ I screamed and the voice came from a place deep inside me. It was ferocious. The little mutt backed down, simpering as he crossed Wilmette with his tail between his legs.

Our father had terrorized us for long enough. My mom lie whimpering on the floor of the family room. And for the first time, and for just a fleeting moment, I saw him for who he was: a weak man who could not, would never change. And in that moment I knew I was done with him.

We had to unhook our trailer from his and be free to go down our own road. He was only weighing the family down, holding us back from our lives, whatever they were going to be. I could see that so clearly. Why didn’t my mom?

On Confidence ~ The Warrior vs. The Worrier

The other night at a party, over dolmades and champagne (realizing Goal 1 of my Vision!), a friend asked me:  How do you just go for things, Anne? You really put yourself out there. You must be so confident.  I have this great idea; but I have so many doubts.  

The truth is:  I have loads of doubts. On a daily basis I question myself:  Who am I to be writing a book?  Shouldn’t I be looking for a *real* job? Maybe I SHOULD have stayed in Mexico.

I have learned over time to notice that little voice, the Worrier, not the Warrior that I really am. I thank the Worrier for its concern. It’s trying its best to keep me in the safe status quo where ‘I belong.’  Then I go back to my vision and proceed forward.  Vamos adalante, as the Mexicans say, forward we go.

Your vision will serve you. If you have progressed through the visioning steps with mindfulness and sincerity, from conception of ideas, to formulating and sharing, to committing to action, your Vision becomes a force bigger than Doubt and Worry. You can glance at it from time to time if you like.  But you will find, without scrutinizing it and checking off boxes, you are REALIZING it.

Like me in Rock Creek Park last weekend.  I was running on the dirt path,  alongside the babbling stream, beneath the canopy of trees, in the oppressive humidity. And suddenly it hit me: I’m doing just what I dreamed of for my new DC life.  I’m back in on the Rock Creek trail, hopping piles of manure, dumping sweat, acclimatizing to life in the swamp, and feeling... happy. In the afternoon, I was meeting my sangha to discuss a new book we were reading on The Power of Meditation. And I was reviewing contracts for a new green roof.

In those moments, give yourself a pat on the back. Whether you have a coach or not, you learn to become your own biggest supporter. Celebrating accomplishments is part of the game.

And back to my friend’s question about Confidence.

Each blog story I write, complete, and post breeds more commitment and diffuses the doubt.  Sure, I still have moments, hours, days of questioning.  But I forge ahead despite it.  The Warrior says to the little Worrier:  Thanks for sharing; now kindly eff*@#%-off.   

Perhaps Confidence, or better yet, Courage is a muscle you build, a byproduct of again and again pushing through the fears and noticing:  my Vision is coming true!  

I Definitely Won't Miss the IHOP

“Even a simple word becomes superfluous when our lives are changing, and even more so when we are changing too.” Jose Saramago.

I agree, at some level words can’t speak to the feelings of both loss and excitement I’m experiencing in the midst of this change. But as a ‘change agent’ I can’t let this opportunity go without a little commentary.

I’m leaving for the Peace Corps in a few weeks – T minus 28 days and counting. (Is there an emoticon for Heart Palpitations?)

I’m definitely counting, not just the days, but the litany of chores I have to get myself outa dodge. Flipcharts of to-do lists hang on my dining room walls – three pages of them, with just a few chintzy items scratched off. I must ready my house for the tenants; organize my finances so Uncle Sam doesn’t come after me in Mexico; shut down SeeChange and get closure with my clients…

I’ve done this before – I could write a book about it and maybe I will: Gettin’ Outa Dodge: An Escapist’s Guide.

But I don’t think I’m escaping this time; not like before with Brazil which had a desperate, adrenaline-infused quality about it, not to mention a man at the hot center of it. Pfew.

My life in Washington right now is good: I’m pretty happy, financially stable, creative and productive, spiritually engaged, and even in some relative state of peace. This is the BEST time to leave.

Mom’s in town to help with the transition – if I can pull her off the sofa and away from Rachael Maddow to start sorting and sifting through my accumulated junk.

We’re going room by room. I’m not even much of an accumulator; yet it’s important to have someone with no stake in the game telling you to LET IT GO.

Letting go of the old and making space for the new – that’s one of the keys to change. You gotta make ah-space.

But the stuff is easy – it’s the people and the connections and routines that are harder. Yoga class with Alice on Fridays and with Chantelle on Sunday mornings, her sweet readings and lavender aromatherapy rejuvenating me for the week to come. And Marvin the Cheeseman at CW who calls me 'Anita' and has my Canoa Kids taped to the wall behind the counter. And Rock Creek Park.

I definitely won’t miss the IHOP.

Epicenter

It’s 5 am – maybe no one felt it but me – in my own Epicenter of my own quaking world.

My house is crumbling at its very foundation. Or my boiler is exploding. My boiler is exploding – those HVAC guys yesterday were right, said it needed to be replaced – 35 years old and way past its due. Could it explode, in summer? Shit, I’ll never make that bus to the Peace Corps now. I'll be dealing with the aftermath, the ever-expanding transition to-do list. No, the tree removal is starting – but this early? The poor old elms are coming down – and the massive trucks are rumbling down Park and getting into position.

Amazing what can swirl through the mind in the 10 seconds it takes for the tremors to stop.

They stopped. Surely someone else felt that. No one in bed next to me to confirm or deny, for better or for worse. I text Jake: Earthquake? I text Karin: Did you feel that? No response, too early. A dream image pops into my head: her parents, my legs, a syringe stabbing into the flesh behind my knee. Painful. Thankfully it fades as I try to make it out.

I crawl across my bed to the window: all’s quiet down below. The sky behind the trees is slate blue. The cars are all lined up neat as Matchboxes.

The trees are coming down today.

I Google ‘earthquake Washington dc July 16 5 am’ – I get back hits on Haiti. It’s been exactly 6 months and 2 days since their disaster - still suffering. I track ball around – meetings at the Press Club today on the Haiti quake. That was a 7.0.

What about mine?

The trees are coming down today. No one’s moved their cars.

I’m angry at this city for letting this happen. I feel the heat rising on my skin and throw-off the sheet. They could have treated the trees last year, two years ago; but instead they put all their energy into chopping. And three more old ones are being hacked to the ground today.

Yesterday, finally, after a year of waiting, then two months of panicked bitching, they injected the remaining trees, including the one in front of my house, a 45-year old – to try to save them. But I have a bad feeling – an entire limb of mine is dead and the leaves are brown and crumpled and falling from the sky, dropping the disease everywhere. Why did they let this happen?

Why did I?

Finally, 2 months ago, I panicked and called a block meeting. But it may be too late.

Chopping is easier than care and feeding. Or maybe it's like some treeman to me: just the cycle of life.

But I'm not ready to let go yet. I say...

> Somebody should be minding the store – our canopy of trees – their beauty, age, grace, carbon-dioxide, cool green shade.

> Instead of riding around on sleek Seguays with Thinkpads and fancy GPS software that maps our dwindling urban forest.

> Do something.

> People drive our majestic block, a cross-town thoroughfare – a gateway to Rock Creek Park on the NW corner of Mount Pleasant. People walk dogs and push strollers beneath our canopy – cyclists and runners zoom by.

> Now it’s becoming barren – the rowhouses on the hill exposed, blazing in the sun, naked.

> It’s been two years since the first elm came down on our block – and Dutch Elm disease has been a known killer for ages – a non-profit grew up in our city, Casey Trees, to address just this problem.

> Do something. Last year they came to treat and instead they chopped. Why, we don't understand.

> So as citizens, we have to watch and push, push, nag, call, meet, call, check, nag, worry, get pissed OFF.

> And finally they arrive and inject - some of the wrong trees - and leave the stumps to rot and spread their disease.

> With all this bumbling I begin to see: the somebody that should be minding the store is ME.

Now I wait for the trucks to come to begin their euthanasia – removing the disease limb by limb – on lower Park Road – the epicenter of my world.

Ah, the radio report. It was a quake, not the boiler or the trucks, or the worries in my head – but a 5.3.

There's a man in a tree with a chain saw. Now I hear the mulching machines sucking in the limbs and spitting them out as dust.