Tweaking the blog

I finally decided to stop being coy and post an actual picture of me, like most other bloggers do, and ditch the sailboat image that was my profile pic from the start. The sailboat was intended to conjure up feelings of calmness and peace, which at least one of my fellow Disciple classmates said were quite descriptive of my true and actual effect on others. (My family has a different view, which will not be mentioned here.) Also, it was in keeping with the thought that appearances don't really matter, do they? But the sailboat just wasn't cutting it anymore. However, it was a part of my blog for so long that I am posting it here for all posterity to view. Well, I would have if I could have found it. Here, instead, is the pic that loomed over my blog recently, of a 2006 vacation to Hawaii. I say "looming over" because it was way too large, and you had to scroll way down to actually get to a blog post. But I didn't know how to shrink it down without just getting rid of it altogether, and I liked the beautiful blue of the ocean too much. It was painful when I finally made the hard choice to ditch it as well. So here it is:

In my case, changing the profile pic was a desperate, last-ditch effort (pathetic, really) to gain more fans. How's it working? The new profile pic was taken after Mother's Day using a lovely new pocket camera my family got me. It has really cool features like taking a panoramic shot, only taking someone's picture when they smile, and shooting movies with audio. It has touch-screen access to most features. The only trouble is it has an itty bitty (size-wise, not memory-wise) card that will not fit in our computer's card readers. Luckily, a gallant coworker came to the rescue and downloaded the pictures to a CD for me. My only complaint is that it tends to show every detail, every wrinkle, every gray root, etc.

So the profile pic is quite recent, but in a salute to Buddhism's concept of impermanence, it is already outdated. Am I talking about the endless regeneration of cells within and without that occurs automatically, round the clock, that means I have a whole new batch of skin cells since then? No. I'm talking about getting my hair highlighted, in an effort to disguise the gray better. I've never been a blonde before in my life, or even partially so, and when I see myself in the mirror now, I keep thinking, "Who's that?" The color would better be described as tawny, especially since my hair is more accurately called a mane. So here's a very current, updated picture snapped with our old camera just a few days ago:

Portrait of the author, thinking. Think-think-think. Another blog entry to follow, soon.

Who's reading this, anyhow?

OK, so that last entry was depressing. But short. See, you didn't have to be depressed for long! Or maybe it wasn't depressing. I don't know. Something called "Death and dying" must be a downer, right? That's what we assume. That is the meaning we attach to death and dying in this culture. Could we have that wrong, too?

So, just to get back to my human side for a moment, because I like to pretend I'm not human while writing about all these lofty ideas, but I really am ... here are my thoughts about who I would like to have reading this blog. If all my friends and associates are reading it (which they are not), I definitely wouldn't want to know that because it might change what I write about. I might be stopped by the thought, oh, that might offend ... or someone might recognize what I'm writing about, and I don't want them to. Or, just the thought that I don't want my privacy invaded too much. (Too late!)

If nobody reads my blog (except my very faithful followers), I surely don't want to know that! How depressing. You want to make a writer depressed, just let them know that nobody knows or cares what they are writing about. Now that is truly sad. Try blogging about that for a while!

The best thing would be if thousands, or millions, of perfect strangers were reading my blog. And loving it. I know that's not happening, but I can dream, right? I guess brilliant writers are just writing to amuse themselves, and then it's a pleasant surprise when everyone else is equally enthralled. But for me, I always wonder whether the words I record will make a difference in someone else's life. Because if not, why do it? I think I wrote here before that it is enough that it helps me. Well, it's not, not really.

I am home with a sore throat (I would be home anyway, not working today). By the way, Austin has a cold, and Dwaine was not feeling well, but they both insist that they did not give me a sore throat, because they don't have one themselves. I guess I gave it to myself, then.

Being home, I've discovered that we have one, or many, obsessed birds that keep knocking on various windows throughout the house. They are very persistent about it. It sounded like one was intent on breaking into the bathroom earlier. It's actually rather creepy to be alone, then hear somebody knocking at random moments and different places. I am telling myself it is the birds ... or is it "The Birds"? Yeah, Hitchcock knows exactly how I am feeling at this moment. He must have had this experience of lunatic birds knocking their little brains out against windows. What will happen if they actually make it inside the house? No one will even hear my screams! Imagine. They'll kill me, then they will rescue their incarcerated parakeet friend, Scout.

Death and dying

I just visited a blog that described in a deeply compassionate way someone's end of life. What a tragedy it is when a loved one dies. How horrible that we "put animals out of their misery" but not people. How we pretend to go about our daily routine, in the midst of death and dying. How jarring it is, to eat the next meal, when your loved one has just died (or is in final days) and will never, ever, eat again. It is a guilty, haunting feeling to eat at that time. It is part of what separates you from the dying and dead, and you almost feel that you are pushing away your dearly beloved who can never share another meal with you.

I have been there for death a couple of times, now, the loss of loved ones, and I guess I am looking at it from a different place just this moment. Yes, it's terribly sad ... for those who are left behind. Is it necessarily a great tragedy? I am not sure, at all.

Is birth a great tragedy? All babies are born to die, someday.

I know it is a great struggle when someone is not ready to die. I have not been around someone who was ready to go, though I read about it in "Tuesdays with Morrie." It's part of what made that book so compelling, was the deep wisdom Morrie tapped into in being ready to go.

Here's a weird random thought I had today. If I were going to die at the age my mom died, I would have completed 2/3 of my life already.

I hope, really wish for that readiness and composure when it's my time, if I get to think about it at all. I think it would be so helpful to the ones I would leave behind, to be ready. I hope I can age gracefully! You know, once I really get to middle age. Yeah, that's way far down the horizon for me.

Because I could not stop for Death -- He kindly stopped for me-- Emily Dickinson, excerpt.

Sermon

We had one last marathon session for Disciple Bible class yesterday. In typical fashion, we were supposed to meet for six hours, but it went 7 1/2. This would be the type of thing the normal Julie would be so irritated and frustrated about -- infringing on MY precious time, my precious schedule, my plans, etc. But by the time I left, I didn't want to leave behind all these wonderful people, and the gifts they had given me and each other. It was a special day.

I was the last one to arrive that morning, and felt that familiar resistance to being there. Being with all these other people, and having to pretend I was glad about it. I don't always feel like such a grumpy hermit, but I do when heavy things are on my mind.

Of course, things quickly improved. My mood lightened as the conversation flowed. The morning session was fairly routine, until it came time to talk about our spiritual gifts.

When we we got to the roundtable discussion of spiritual gifts, we went around the table, first naming our self-assessed gifts, then going around the table to talk about the gifts we perceived in one person at a time. I was the only one to forget my self-assessment. So I sort of guessed at all the scores I had made on at least a dozen spiritual gifts listed.

By far, the most meaningful time was when we talked about the gifts of others, one at a time. This is where time stood still. I remembered that I had been hungry at least an hour earlier (at 11, snack time), but those physical needs vanished for that time. This was simply too important to interrupt. It was one of those brief moments of complete openness and vulnerability, between disparate personalities, that is stunning when it happens.

You can sense that it will not continue -- but just for that instant, you are all together on the mountaintop, and the fog has receded far below. A moment this precious does not happen at random, but because of the combined hard work of all present -- and, of course, the Holy Spirit. For us, it took 9 months to get to this point. Scott Peck has described in his books the thing that is most sacred to him, this true community. Some people search for the Holy Grail -- he has dedicated much of his life to trying to build communities, more quickly and efficiently, to attempt to solve the problems of the world.

There was great celebration of one another, several displays of weeping (not just by me), and we learned that two people at the table of nine had experienced the call to full-time ministry -- either at some point in their lives, or at the present moment. (Not me, by the way.) I knew this group was special. The other indication of what kind of group I was in, happened at the two services I attended this weekend (one to watch Austin play guitar), where the "graduates" were asked to go up and say a word. There wasn't a bashful one of the five of us who were there between the two services -- no prompting was needed. We had lots of leaders in our group.

Another remarkable thing was that my inventory of others' gifts was eerily echoed, in most cases, by others around the table. It wasn't because they had just heard it and were seconding the idea -- it was already written in their books, too. It was quite clear that this one was a prophet, that one a healer, and that one had absolutely pure faith. Several had a great musical gift. These things were as clear as anything gets in this muddled place, anyhow.

I got some kudos about my writing abilities. That was nice, and unexpected. Too bad it's not a paying position. Just goes to show you, money is far from the most important thing, though it is necessary.

Pastor Janet gave a good sermon today, based upon a scripture from John where God spoke to Jesus. She emphasized that some of the people who were there with him heard thunder. Others thought angels had spoken. And some, not many, heard the voice of God. She said it's important for the church to come together, at places like annual conference (where the bureaucracy of the United Methodist Church convenes to make decisions) to discuss our various views about pressing issues, with respect. Who thinks it just thundered? Who heard the angels talking? And who heard the voice of God? And let everyone have input into whether it really is God talking, or not. There is nothing more frightening and humbling than to be a prophet. A reality check is desperately needed.

So, when we were all gathered at the table yesterday, did we feel the powerful rumble of thunder? (We definitely did the night before, when all the storms came through.) Were the angels singing? And did we actually hear the voice of God? Yes, I think. Yes, yes, yes.

Almost makes me want to take another class!

Responding to tragedy

I heard a tragic story today that was unspeakably sad. Unbelievable. About child molestation, incest, and betrayal, a family destroyed long ago. But yet the impact seems to still spread like ripples ever-widening. Great evil, great impacts.

My mind could not wrap itself around the possibility that I could know anyone personally affected by such things. And it dawned on me that my first, gut reaction, of defensive disbelief, is the reaction the Catholic Church has clung to so horribly these many long, long years that its sexual-abuse scandals have been coming to the light of day. I can understand the notion that good people find it simply unbelievable that such atrocities could ever, ever happen. Much less, by people wearing priestly vestments who were supposed to be the pillars of their community. But social or religious status does not convey upright character at all. Quite the opposite, at times.

Is the new pope really an awful man, as he often seems, or hopelessly out of touch with modern sentiments of right and wrong? He seems to always be stumbling after making some indefensible comment, and he surrounds himself with people who don't help. When he finally seems to say something that could be interpreted as condemning priestly molestations, it is so watered-down.

Are all sins forgiveable, or meant to be forgiven? The Bible speaks of a sin against the Holy Spirit as something that cannot be forgiven. I don't know what that is, really, but it seems to me that the most unforgiveable sin is to harm an innocent child. To do it repeatedly -- how can such a stain ever be removed? It seems it is permanently recorded.

So how can someone who could not protect their own child from such harm -- how could that person ever overcome that? I don't know. But I know it seems just as much a crime to see other lives destroyed, with no hope of redemption. It seems to give such a total victory to the perpetrator.

So today is a sad day. A day of trying to absorb someone else's difficult blow. And a day where I am coming to terms, or questioning, my own failings as a parent. (Well, that's every day now, isn't it?)

The blogging life's for me

So, I was thinking maybe I should create a separate blog for running, health and fitness posts than this one. However, it's hard enough to keep this one current and fresh. Plus it feels a bit like splitting myself into two.

I was just scrolling through the "next" button to visit random blogs, and I thought, wouldn't it be fun to write a bit of a Scottish or Irish blog, now? You can nearly hear the accent on some of them. There are many cool blogs out there!

Someone asked me today why I was an English and Economics major before becoming a CPA. I laughed and said, because I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up! The funny thing is, in a way, I still don't. But I am enjoying the ride. Very much.

Wouldn't it be nice if I could use that English degree and publish something that made money? However, I don't feel a bestseller springing out of my head (which it would have to do, at this point). I know writing is a profession like any other, but I cannot imagine sitting down every day and writing a work of fiction that would be good. Maybe that's my problem. I haven't been able to visualize this result, so it will not happen.

My life is very full and this urge to write (fiction) would really have to be pulling hard on me to get my attention, the way that I have the strong -- overwhelming -- urge to run and work out. Now, is that urge the result of years of daily practice? If so, I need to incorporate daily writing practice.

All my life, I've written this kind of stuff, whatever you'd call my blog entries. I used to put it all in diaries. In fact, I was thinking the other evening -- where are all those diaries? I really should throw them out. They don't have any lasting value, aren't works of art, and have too much personal stuff that my family shouldn't have to deal with, ever.

I think my journaling has become more mature and outward-focused as I have grown up. The concept of potentially having a universal audience for this blog, helps me stay focused. Hard to believe, I know!

I certainly don't think we all have the capability of writing gorgeous fiction, or bestselling fiction (which is not the same thing). I don't know if I ever could. Maybe I don't even have a strong desire, and that kills it right there.

Running to live or living to run?

I have a question, after reading a recent blog with comments on Runner's World. Are runners a bunch of crazy fools, or what?

A question came up on a blog about the GI (as in gastrointestinal) consequences of running. It's quite common. Ya gotta run, then ya gotta go. And go, sometimes. The up-and-down motion, my GI doctor told me once, stimulates the colon quite a bit. To the point that one runner training for a marathon posted that she (he?) was taking an immodium the night before long runs, every time, and that couldn't be good for the health.

Then there was the runner who had the violent need to go in the middle of a long run. There was no place available, so he/she held it and ran all the way back home, and was still not back to normal a week later.

I have this kind of consequence if I push myself, like I did yesterday on my sixth 5K race. (Yay!) Posted my best time yet, 30:29. (Yay again!) I had fun, too. But that time is outside my comfort zone of about 11-minute miles, so I did feel the effects the rest of the day. This morning, I still felt overstretched in my bowels, like the effects from a minor stomach bug, but it quickly resolved itself.

I wanted to post a comment after hearing some runners' stories: "Hey, anyone here ever heard of cross-training?? Cutting back? Maybe not everyone is cut out to run a marathon?" But that would be, first, rude; and secondly, besides weight-lifting, I don't engage in cross-training either, unless you count things like gardening, washing the car, housework, walking, evening romps, and so on. Now mopping, that definitely is hard work and counts, but I don't do it regularly.

I must call myself a casual runner compared to most. I run about 3 times a week, under 10 miles/week (about 9.5 these days). I think the motivation of very serious runners begs this question: Is this all about health and fitness, or something else entirely? It's clearly not beneficial to ruin your knees, or have the runs on a regular basis, or to vomit after running. Is it really a good thing to have such a long and exhausting training run that you're wiped out for the rest of the day? This reminds me of people who want to get to the peak of Mount Everest. Maybe they have a bit of a death wish. They just want to get close enough to stare old Grim in the eyes and say they lived to tell the tale.

My left knee makes constant little crunchy noises these days when I move it, and I can't squat down on it without intense pain. The compression wrap that I wear while running helps, but has not solved my problems. I think I probably injured it training too hard last year -- I did two 5Ks on back-to-back weekends, which was a mistake. I can't undo that, unfortunately. It's hard to remember that everything needs to be done slow and steady when you're over 40. So I'm one to be preaching to other runners to take it easy! Hey -- I haven't needed surgery yet. So there.