SentiMENTAL

I try not to be sentimental. It feels akin to regret or love lost or something impossible to change, no matter how much I will it to be different. The idea of feeling sentimental seems overly emotional or too tenderhearted. Sentimental feels weak.

I have friends who have a difficult time cleaning out the closets. They cannot seem to pitch items that they are certain they will eventually use at a later date. Emptying out their stuff leaves them feeling empty. I understand the desire to want to ascribe emotion to special pieces of the past. I know I could very easily have attachment to items that awaken old memories and stir my heart for places of personal history. I never allow this to be the case.

My little boy is a collector. He wants to keep every scrap of paper he has ever written on, every book, every toy since birth, every minuscule party favor. He makes art out of old gum wrappers and cereal boxes and keeps them on display. His cluttered room is littered with balloons that have long since lost their helium (special because they were from the parties of friends) and pipe cleaner "pets". I think he is borderline hoarder. I have to push him to get rid of anything, and it kills me to force the issue. I feel like I am ripping away pieces of his heart when he politely refuses to give up the Spongebob card game he never plays. (I have resorted to bribing him with money- Lego fund, you know.)

I am married to a man who hates stuff. For all intensive purposes, he would rather own absolutely nothing and live light. He doesn't get collecting and he definitely doesn't understand emotional attachment to inanimate things. We have always lived like gypsies. To date, our longest stay in a house is just over two years. "This one is for the heart" he tells me each time we move and are forced to go through the clutter that accumulates with the passage of time and two kids. This is his mantra as he--without hesitation--puts as much as possible out with the trash. Admittedly, my heart always feels a little heavy and I silently sigh a regretful moan to myself where kid art or books are concerned.

This is also a man who doesn't believe in items on "loan"; when he "lends" something out, he never expects it back. He is gifting it to you and will never keep you accountable for its return, so go ahead and ask to borrow his Litespeed. I happen to think he is happy to give most anything away so it's one less bothersome item to clean or store or worry about. He cares nothing about measuring status with stuff and figures most items to be superfluous anyway.

I used to have a pretty heathy CD collection. I loved my music library because so many of those songs or artists reminded me of driving Pacific Coast Highway on endless summer days. It was a simple time in my life when I was single and carefree and had the world at my fingertips. Rolling in my topless Wrangler with The Cranberries, I knew I was invincible. I learned to let those CDs go several moves ago, with the consolation of itunes.

I have been trained not to be sentimental. I have learned that any thing I own is just that...it's a thing, an item, an object that really doesn't measure my value.  I know my things are really not the sum of me. They may represent my likes and taste, they often symbolize a chapter of my life, but they don't define who I am. I own them, not the other way around. I get that. I have been taught as much. I would be lying, however, if I didn't admit I feel for those close to me who have a hard time parting with their belongings. I really do understand the feeling of loss and having to sacrifice everything.

The Waiting Game

My mom is coming to town this week. I can't wait to see her. She was gracious enough to offer to watch the kids this weekend during the frantic push for our looming half marathon and 5K. I had to import my sitter to know the little people would be adequately covered. I am so ready for this event to be over. I am so tired of the stress it induces. Though I know we mustn't wish the time away, I feel like I have been waiting on a lot of different items and people for a long time...without delivery. I hate wishing away my life, but I hate waiting on what I want more. And I loathe empty promises.

Sometimes I wish I could still climb into my mother's lap and confess all of my unhappiness and misgivings. I often long to be a little girl again and lie next to her while she strokes my hair and lulls me to sleep. While never overly affectionate, my mother used to sit on the couch and do this often when I was little with little problems. Alas, I find there is little sympathy or understanding with my big people problems now. My mother has never been one to coddle. She is just not that kind of parent. Or maybe we just don't have that type of relationship?

Overall, I don't necessarily think her parenting style was negative, though it is quite opposite of how I conduct myself with my own children. Her lack of nurturing has made me a determined and independent woman. By default, I learned how to figure out so much of the world on my own and design my life accordingly.  I learned early on to look within myself to figure out the answers. I am not waiting on anyone to rescue me. I sometimes wonder if I really need anyone at all?

There is so very much I love about training. I love pushing myself to new physical limits. I love knowing my body can deliver what I ask of it. I love sweating like no one's business. (I love the cute gear that goes along with the workouts.) Something I really love about working out, however, is that even on the odd day when I really don't feel like doing it, once I start, I know I am going to finish it. Today was no exception. I really didn't want to sit on the trainer in my garage at 4:00 am by myself. I desperately wanted to stay under the warm covers, but I dragged my tired body out to the bike anyway--and I finished what I set out to do.

Why put off what needs to be addressed? Why wait?

I finished the spin before heading off to the group run, and as a result, everything immediately seemed better and brighter. The day felt more manageable, even in the chaos of the week pending. I didn't feel so overwhelmed to get started on my list of To Dos. I love standing in my garage just off the trainer, peeling out of the first set of sweaty clothes and mopping my face with a towel, only to pull on more gear for round two of the workout. In my garage, all the world was quiet and the street outside was still in the dark morning hours. I could have stood there for a long time contemplating the loveliness of the quiet, but my running people were waiting on me.

Sometimes I am not sure if I am going to be okay, but in these still moments, I know I can fly. I don't know what this week will bring, or next week, or next year. I guess I'll just have to wait and see.

Expectations or Exceptions?

"If you decide that something you want is unrealistic and unlikely to happen it will absolutely live up to your expectation."- Sibyl Chavis, The Possibility of Today

I have heard it argued that it is best not to have expectations in order to avoid disappointments. I feel as though this argument is highly dishonest. I want to say it is even the less courageous road to travel. I am willing to wager that each and every one of us have expectations everyday--to one degree or another--even if we are not always conscious of them. Expectations are the vehicles that drive our passions and shape our lives daily.

When I walk into Starbucks and place my order, I have the expectation that my latte will come over the counter hot. Heading out for a twenty mile run, I expect to complete it, barring any rare and unforeseen complications. I expect the weather is going to be sunny most days in The Sunshine State. When I go to bed at night, I have the expectation, God willing, that I am going to wake up the next morning to begin again. I expect these things based on past experience. Expectations are grounded in the past, but they provide us with a future. They are the very fuel for our hopes and desires.

In my mind, expectations are inevitable. They are woven into the fabric of everyday life, based on the lives we design. We have expectations of ourselves and of those around us. We are lying if we say otherwise. I expect my husband is going to help raise two capable and contributing members of society. I expect my kids to work hard in school so they have every opportunity available to them. I expect friends to honor plans and commitments as much as possible out of courtesy. Maintaining expectations provides accountability in relationships, as well as motivation to achieve our goals. It encourages us be better individuals. If I expect to finish a race in a predetermined projected time, I am going to work harder to achieve that than if I head into it haphazardly. I expect there will be volunteers on the race course providing participants with support. This expectation is based on experience. Continuously making exceptions or finding excuses (it was too hot, the elevation was difficult, there wasn't enough support) doesn't do anything for my cause longterm.

I have long been fascinated with a local sawmill in town. A thousand times I have driven past the archaic machine when taking the kids to swim practice, and a thousand times I have wondered if it runs currently. As it turns out, the old mill still cuts Florida Pines into manageable pieces for furniture and otherwise. I know this because I called the owner. I expected him to be hostile and reticent to my request to photograph his property. I was delighted to find he was quite the opposite; he spent two hours with me, offering a walking tour of his sixty acres.

My original expectation was that I might have to fight for my cause and sell my story to this perfect stranger over the phone; I was elated to discover he didn't find my request all that unusual and was happy to accommodate. I took over 850 photographs of his ranch and made a new friend in the process. Had I relied on my initial expectation, fear of rejection very well may have kept me from calling him. If I had no expectation at all, I probably would have tried to put that sawmill out of my head while feeling remorseful passing it everyday on the commute to the pool.

I realize I set high expectations for myself, but I just cannot buy into the "no expectations" philosophy. That is far too ambivalent for my taste, leaving too much to chance. I prefer to be more proactive. What else will power the engine of our dreams? How else could I possibly plan for the future? How can we strive for better if we blindly head into the experiences and relationships that shape our lives? With no preconceived ideas and expectations, we don't have a measuring stick by which to gage the circumstances. Of course, this invites opportunity for disappointment if the bar is set too high, but there is always some risk involved where emotions are invested. I will happily invest and anticipate, hoping for the very best positive experience and living to the fullest, before I reserve expectations in an effort to remain "safe". I want more--the most, in fact.

Consistently making exceptions to expectations shortchanges our potential and facilitates mediocrity in those around us. If I invest my time, heart, and soul into a project, from a race to a photo shoot, I am going to expect a great end result. Further, claiming to be without any expectations seems like an excuse to shirk responsibilities to me. It protects us from heartache and gives us an out to evade regret and avoid rejection, but is that pursuing the most meaningful life we can live? Clinging to the idea of no expectations is a defensive mechanism to be sure, but it also just sounds sort of defensive. It appears somewhat cowardice to me. If one doesn't have expectations, does she have a pulse at all?

Divisions

di·vi·sor

 

[dih-vahy-zer] 

noun Mathematics .

1.

a number by which another number, the dividend, is divided.

We experience divisions in every part of our lives, every single day. We divide the laundry, separating the whites from the darks before washing them. We divide our schedule into blocks of time, as dictated by our responsibilities. We divide our waking hours from our sleeping ones. We divide the numbers when we balance our checkbooks. 

Divisions in relationships are something different entirely. The degree to which we create or experience these divisions is uniquely our own. Interesting to me, I think, is the varying degree at which divisions are comfortable or tolerable to us. Two people coming together to live and work and exist so closely are surely going to have two different opinions of what constitutes comfortable or acceptable divisions of a household. I think this is due largely in part to a sense of security in a relationship....and with oneself.  

Do we share a bank account or keep our finances separate? Do we work together on the house projects that need tending to, or is it better to divide and conquer? Do we all pile in one vehicle in the name of togetherness to run the kids around town to various activities, commitments, and parties, or go our separate ways in different cars for the sake of convenience?

The part that I have an issue with when it comes to divisions--in any relationship--is the overall scorecard. I loathe the scorecard. Take for example the division of childcare. I have a friend who I am reluctant to ever ask for help in watching my children, though she consistently initiates the exchange to help save on babysitting expenses. Our kids are equally matched in ages and interests for the most part, but I dread this tradeoff for the odd errand run or date night out. 

It's not because my kids don't enjoy their time at this particular family's house. For the most part, our children are extremely compatible. It's the idea that as soon as my kids receive an invite, I receive an email (often while mine are in her care) demanding immediate reciprocation. Based on the tirade in my inbox, I feel guilty for taking this woman up on her offer of watching my kiddos. There is usually an itemized list of items she is complaining about that require her attention, without enough time to accomplish them apart from her children. (This part is always comical to me considering hers are in traditional school seven hours a day, while mine are never far from my side with our homeschooling lifestyle.) I think she keeps a running tally of time accumulated, calculating the minutes we "owe" each other on the childcare timecard.

This scorecard, of course, carries over into division of labor in a home, running of errands, picking up the check at a restaurant, and on and on. Unfortunately, I just don't do well with someone keeping track of my expenditures and allowances. For me, a scorecard creates divisions in my heart. 

I want to feel united in any relationship. I like cohesiveness. I don't like major divisions, for the most part. I want to feel part of a team on a cooperative front, especially with regard to the kids. I don't understand how said divisions can possibly facilitate closeness when everything is labeled and assigned as, "mine", "yours", "mine", "mine", "not yours". However, I can't be stifled, either. There needs to be balance. 

I count myself lucky to be married to a man who is very generous where material goods are concerned. It's not "his money" or "my money", but has always been "ours". He openly shares clothing, computers, and toiletries (I had to draw the line at the toothbrush but I compromised on deodorant...aerosol was the obvious choice here). Clearly, he is not comfortable with divisions in a relationship, to the tune of wanting to share everything (even cramped space on the love seat). This, however, is a less comfortable for me. I require some sort of balance between segregation and suffocation. 

My husband recently asked me why I always sleep on my left side facing the edge of the bed with my back to him. 

"Does it hurt you to sleep on your right side?" he asked me. 

My response was, quite simply, I need that space. I need to feel like I have some breathing room. Just as I prefer to have an end seat in church, I need an edge...an escape route. I like an isle seat at the movie theatre. In the gym, my preference is to run on a treadmill that only shares one side with a neighbor in an effort to avoid being sandwiched between two people as the crowds file in. For as social as I am and as much as I enjoy other people, I like my space, too. I covet that cushion, while my hubby is more of a smotherer.

This begs the question: can a space invader and a space demander learn to cohabitate happily ever after? 

We address this every single day. My affectionateness is never enough for his liking. His desire for closeness is overwhelming for me. I sometimes feel as though his determination for togetherness actually creates a wedge between us. I truly believe there is a fine line between "team" and "tyranny". When one person pushes too hard for zero divisions, our individuality gets lost. There is no line to even blur. We are forced to conform to what our significant other needs for the sake of being agreeable. The danger in this is we begin to forget who we really are when we are too busy ensuring the comfort of the other person.

Conversely, too much distance and too many divisions can segregate a household entirely. The team player mentality suffers in an environment that supports too much elbow room and individuality. If two people are always squaring off against each other with opposing ideas on personal space and budgeting of time, it hardly nurtures communal ground. To one partner, it may begin to feel like emotions and affections are off limits, forcing the heart into lockdown.

Are we as couples/friends/siblings/spouses the dividends in the equation with outside forces the divisors? Are these divisors competing for our time and attention, thereby dividing our connectedness to each other? As much as math has never been my strong suit, surely balancing the equation must be the key to success here? 

Everyone Has a Story

I went to a graveyard yesterday to photograph my macro assignment for this week. It's a creepy, haphazard graveyard that sits situated out of the way, off of an unkept dirt road in a dilapidated neighborhood. It was established in 1908, but based on the appearance of some of the headstones, it looks centuries older than that. I can't stop thinking about that graveyard and its inhabitants. 

By definition, I was in a graveyard and not a cemetery. (I only recently learned the subtle difference between the two while on a ghost tour in Savannah.) A graveyard has roots from days long ago, and refers to a burial site that is associated with or adjoins a church. Traditionally, people were always buried near churches. However, as population continued to increase and more land was necessary to accommodate burials, cemeteries came into existence. Cemetery comes from the Greek, "koimeterion", meaning "dormitory" or "resting place". Cemeteries were most often found on the fringes of town and presently, don't necessarily have specific religious affiliations.

I know graveyards are somber places. From the time I was a small child visiting my grandmother in New York, we would always go to the cemetery to visit my grandfather's grave. He died when I was eight.  

Because my grandmother stopped driving once he was gone, she relied on others to take her to his gravesite. When we came to town, this was the first item of business on the agenda. I am not sure if she gave up driving in his absence because she became increasingly afraid of death, or if it was because she feared navigating the city traffic without him, but she never sat in the driver's seat again. She stopped sleeping in their master bedroom, as well; after grandpa died, she only slept in my father's childhood room. I didn't understand this when I was young, but the heaviness of death never seemed far from her or from that house. 

I hadn't walked through a graveyard in years. There is a dirt road that divides it into two parts, with smaller roads to navigate closer to different sections. They are rutted out and sandy, unkept in some places entirely, as if the groundskeeper hasn't enough time to tend to the whole property. The side West of the dividing road looks as though it was established first, with older sites and more weathered headstones; the East side is better maintained and laid out in more of an organized grid, as if there had been more thought put into its design. Clearly one is in the South, however, when considering the multitude of Confederate Flags adorning many of the graves. Most were tattered to shreds and blew mournfully in the wind. 

This was definitely a redneck graveyard. There was nothing uniform or standard about it. I've been to Arlington Cemetery, and this was a far cry from the perfectly manicured green lawn and designated allotment of space per standardized grave. There were statues of cherubs and angels of all shapes and sizes, many of them cracked and discolored with the passage of time. These sites were varied in size and splendor, decorated with shrines of sweet tea and unopened domestic beer cans. Some of the graves were encompassed by plastic lattice and a multitude of fake gaudy flowers. Others were like the Disneyland of ceramic garden animals, or littered with collections of tchotchkes and other trinkets. How grief-stricken the family must be who come to visit the graveside of one particular woman who had died in 2002 at only 23 years young, leaving her an offering of professional wrestling figurines. What was her story? 

I don't know anyone buried in this graveyard, but it deeply depressed me. I am not even sure why it pained me as much as it did. It affected me in profound ways I hadn't prepared for. The grief was like a whirlpool of darkness, sucking me in with inexplicable force. What had started as an interesting draw to me, became a morbid gravitational pull of sorts. I couldn't fight the current. My senses were heightened. Once standing there, I could barely bring myself to move, but for the time constraints I was up against. Foreboding and frightful to me, that graveyard made me feel alive in a perverse and ironic sort of way. I felt bright and cheery in a radiant plum dress and strappy wedges, but the backdrop was that of dead trees, a gray sky threatening rain, bone chilling wind, and lichen-covered headstones. The Spanish moss even weeped from the oaks. There is no denying the mood was dark. 

I guess to be that close to so much death saddened me to think about how fragile life really is. It was nearly impossible to contemplate the heartbreaking reality (God forbid) of losing a child. To reflect upon the gravestones of those who lived such brief lives, and wonder why their time on earth was so short left me feeling vacant. More awful still was to read the small, simple grave markers made from plastic that bore the words "Infant [last name]" , because the baby was never named or even valued enough to purchase a true granite headstone. Unfathomable to me to have a baby come into the world only to leave it the same day.

My heart ached to read the sorrowful messages of spouses lost. There were handmade headstones from driftwood and crudely poured concrete, probably because these people couldn't afford a proper burial and formal grave marker. Some of those carved words were so painfully pitiful, it made me question why we would care to pursue love at all, knowing eventually it will be lost, if not ultimately to death. 

Then came the rain. It was soft and slight, blowing in gentle sheets. I didn't even care that I was getting wet and my shoes were muddy, but I did have the sense to shelter my camera. This wasn't about the photo assignment anymore. I wanted to read more stories. I wanted to know why people were buried in this random, eclectic place in the middle of ghetto neighborhood. It occurred to me that everyone has a story...even dead and cold in the ground, these people have stories. And what about the stories that didn't live on? For the graves that are overgrown and neglected and seemingly forgotten, is the person who occupies that plot of real estate also forgotten? 

 

I'm quiet when I'm content or pensive. In that space, I was stone silent with both. I like to feel emotions. I know that's as scary as a graveyard to a lot of people, but I actually don't feel alive if I'm not in touch with what I'm feeling.

 Interesting to me that a graveyard made me come alive with emotion. It made me want to live and breathe and run and feel and experience EVERYTHING. It made me long to sweep my kids into my arms and tell the people I love the most that I love them the most. Standing in the presence of life now passed made me want to continue to write the story of my life. 

I would relive that experience again in a heartbeat. Most apropos, perhaps, was the rainbow that stretched across the entire sky as it was time to leave. 

The Power of Words

Men and women communicate differently, this much is true. Typically speaking, women are of many words and men have comparatively fewer they care to use. We often find ourselves in relationships with the opposite sex in which we might as well be speaking two completely different languages. A situation with the breakdown of words can be a perilous one, often with fatal results.

Communication, or lack thereof, defines any relationship. Words are powerful. They have the capability to reinforce or destroy. How we choose our words and relate to other people, what we share with those around us, determines to what degree we are connected. My brief pleasantries exchanged with the man working behind the postoffice counter is, indeed, different from the varied and meaningful conversations I have with my best girlfriends.

This exchange of words not only sets humans apart from other species, it dictates our level of connectedness. Across the animal kingdom, different populations live and work communally and have their own way of expressing themselves. They get along just fine on their level of relations. However, the expectation most people have in relationships is one of a deeper, more meaningful way of exchanging and connecting. The hand signals and body language of apes allow them to accomplish impressive feats in their communities, but humans desire a more raw, real, articulate inner working of thoughts, emotions, and expression.

Some people just don't know how to go about achieving this communication, which always astounds me, a wordy girl. However, I am learning to be more understanding and empathetic for those who cannot find words. Words simply elude them somehow. This becomes increasingly apparent to me the more I meet people and develop relationships. The vast divide that separates men and women with regard to communication is ever fascinating. The communication chasm between us is capable of creating the same distance in hearts if we are not mindful of it.

My mother used to always preach the old adage, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." I might take this one step further to suggest, "If you are thinking something nice about someone, you should always say it." I am an avid believer, and try to teach my own children daily, that if you have a helpful or encouraging thought about someone, even if that person is a stranger just in passing, what harm can come from sharing it? This world needs all the positive influence it can get. People need to hear encouraging words, regardless of gender, though we might receive these words differently.

I ran 17 miles with four friends yesterday in preparation for a pending marathon. Our eclectic 5:00 am running group includes a warm, lively, goody-goody woman; super competitive, Type A neurologist guy; a sarcastic metrosexual, self-employed pretty boy; and a smack-talking, self-deprecating, guy's guy attorney. All three of the men are good people to the core and would give anyone the shirt off their backs. All three are reluctant to ever show the softer side of what really comprises their character.

The woman running with us voiced that she wanted to take on more of my philosophy of sharing nice thoughts, so she cordially and genuinely stated what "nice skin" Pretty Boy has. While he gushed and made some joke to deflect the compliment (he was bracing for the backlash), Neurologist and Attorney jumped all over him. The commentary was nothing short of brutal; they were relentless with ugly words and cutting insults, branding him a "fag" and "gay", all because one woman shared kind words from her heart. A simple act that was meant to be uplifting and encouraging quickly became ugly and slanderous. These guys were like wild animals attacking, despite the fact they are close-knit friends and good people.

In order to put an end to the abuse, I jumped on the kindness bandwagon and suggested Pretty Boy has nice hair, in addition to his "nice skin". They got the message. Thing One and Thing Two looked at each other and simply said, "I guess we don't have either?" The insults, of course, continued, however, as the run progressed. "Nice skin" was raised at least eight more times in as many miles. Those haters took any opportunity to work it back into conversation.

"Nice weather we are having for our long run."
"Yes, but is it as nice as Homo's skin?"

Why do men "communicate" with each other in this way? Why are they so uncomfortable with kind commentary? Why do compliments make them squirm? Why can we not just have pleasant conversation and elevate people freely without worrying about backlash from the peanut gallery? Why are so many men afraid of words, specifically those directly from the heart?

I recently spoke to a man who shared that his son was sought after to be the mascot for the high school football team. This seemed like a pretty impressive honor to me, considering his kid is only a wiry, inexperienced freshman. Clearly someone recognized his kid's agility, coordination, and talent to approach him and invite him to try out for the position. This means the boy will practice with the cheer team as part of his training for football games.

Apparently dad had made some wise remarks to his boy being part of the "cheer squad", razzed him for working out with the girls. I challenged him on his taunting commentary, at which point he produced a text to his boy that read, "kick ass" in response to his boy letting him know he was staying after school to pursue the mascot position.

"'Kick ass'? That's all you had to say to him?" I said in disbelief to his "proof" of affirmation. "Where is the encouragement in that?"

While I wanted to run to the rescue of that kid, squeeze him and tell him how proud of him I am (I don't know him at all and I am sure his mother already did this), Guy Code is becoming more apparent to me. Little by little, I am figuring out how to decipher it. Clearly, "kick ass" was meant (and I am sure received) as, "Boy, I am so very proud of you. Go get it. I know you can." Maybe this guy didn't have those words in his repertoire. It probably wasn't modeled to him because that's not how "real men" talk. It's still blatantly apparent how proud of his boy he really is, it's just communicated in jest, I suppose.

I can also appreciate, as a parent, that often times if we show too much interest or enthusiasm in something our kids are pursuing, they may just abandon the project altogether if we think it's too cool. We have to play our cards carefully. Maybe that's exactly why kids need two parents? They receive two very different kinds of reinforcement from mom and dad; moms give it to them mushy and sugar-laden, while dads state the obvious with fewer words. (Does this make men more efficient?)

I woke up early to ride the bike this morning. With sleep still in my eyes, I went through the ritual of sitting on the cold bathroom tile in the dark to get dressed in clothes laid out the night before. I mostly use the light of my phone to be sure I am putting my shorts on the proper way in the dark, but it also helps me wake up to breeze through email and scroll down Facebook.

As I was trying to catch up on any life that transpired there while I slumbered, I caught two photos in the feed of my brother-in-law with a cute girl he is dating. Based on the pictures, it looks like he is pretty smitten with her. I silently applauded him in my head for posting those photos and being so bold with his feelings, not just with her, but also in the eyes of the world. Essentially, he was publicly stating," Check out this girl. I am really into her." It warmed my heart. Then I read the commentary below the photos from a few of his closest guy friends...

"Super gay, John!!! Really??? Really???"
"Awwww!!!! How nice!!! Romantic fag!"
"Soooo cute! Fruity loop."

Why is a man "gay" in the eyes of his friends if he wants to shout from the rooftops he is in love? Women eat that kind of stuff up because we are genetically engineered for it, I guess, but do men have to be so hateful about it? Women want words, and we want kind words. Maybe if more men started consciously shifting the tide and began sharing more compassionate, encouraging words, the Guy Code could slowly be rewritten, or at least revised. Men could still use their abridged language, but perhaps the contents could be kinder.

We are so afraid of "feminizing" our boys in this society, the pendulum has almost swung too far, in my opinion. A boy shouldn't be ostracized or made to feel any less masculine because he is going to workout with cheer girls in short skirts. A man shouldn't feel insecure to receive a compliment in the presence of his friends and colleagues. A guy shouldn't be ridiculed for posting affectionate photos with a girl who has captured his heart.

Maybe as women, we need to encourage the men in our lives to pursue those raw feelings, unique or unconventional opportunities, and gentle words, rather than be afraid of them. Maybe at the heart of the matter, we need to encourage them to be "real" men in the truest sense of the word.

One Man's Ash

Yesterday I rode the bike through a burned out forest in North County. The trees were torched in a controlled burn a few weeks back in an effort to rid the forest floor of underbrush and excess needles to help prevent wild fires. The campfire smell in the air still clung to the trees, and the silence was ethereal for exhausted ears near day's end.

Navigating the sugar sand on carbon fiber is always an interesting experience. My quads were on fire, pedaling through the molasses nightmares are made of....desperately trying to move forward in the large chain ring with small progress. I stood on the pedals and leaned over the front of the frame, hoping to gain some kind of momentum and engage more hamstrings. I ended up over the bars in a harrowing halt when the front wheel found the deep end of the sand. For as nasty as shifting sand is to maneuver, it is most forgiving headlong.

The moonscape ground and smokey air gave pause to my workout. I was drawn into the enchanted charred trees, and leaned the bike against a particularly resilient one. Clip clopping in cleats through twigs and dead fronds, I was in awe of the new life springing up all around me. Out of the wreckage, new pines and palm trees, delicate and beautiful, were growing toward the sun. Tiny fresh needles, downy feathery cones, and brilliant baby buds were making their way out of the dead earth, as if they had no memory of the inferno that was days before- no misgivings whatsoever. I reveled in the dichotomy of color in bleakness, hope in desolation, and rebirth in destruction.

I thought about the wreckage and damage in my own world; some of it controlled, some of it wild fire, but like the forgiving needles and forgetful flowers determined to push through the ash, I'm going to hold onto hope. A forest can rehabilitate itself...why can't we? There is opportunity for beauty and new beginnings even out of dust.

I never want to stop growing. It's therapy for me to be out in those woods.