Independence versus Isolation

A couple weeks ago, after just a brief encounter several months before, a University employee from another department invited me to lunch. The idea had been mentioned in passing, almost as a courtesy, for quite some time, but was finally becoming a reality. As I watched her pay for my food, a custom of the Korean culture, I felt honored by her gesture and eager to learn more about our differences. By the end of this meal, we were friends. It might even be safe to say that she considered me a friend the first time we met. The hesitation I normally observe in developing relationships was not present. She was ready to value, accept and include me in her life, without reciprocation. No hidden agenda, no skepticism. Trust and love was given, not earned. I immediately belonged.

So I cannot say that I was surprised to be invited to a private picnic for the Korean students, faculty and staff from the University at a nearby park this weekend. When asked what to bring, I was told “an appetite.” Upon arrival, I was welcomed by all and offered a seat at the elder table. My eyes and ears couldn’t absorb enough information. There was so much to learn; so much to enjoy and appreciate. As my eyes darted from each menu item, the older gentleman to my left assisted me with descriptions and proper consumption techniques. That is when I learned he also worked at the University as a professor and proceeded to engage me in wonderful philosophical dialogue.

While I had to speak in an attempt to be friendly, I could have happily just watched and listened the entire afternoon. After lunch, the host organization put together some games and activities for the group to enjoy. Everyone, including myself, was invited to participate. Language interpretation was provided. The afternoon ended with a group photograph and hugs goodbye.

Two weeks ago, I would have never thought I would spend an afternoon in the park eating authentic Korean cuisine and being welcomed into a community of people so excitedly. While I usually tend to embrace others and welcome them into my world, I admittedly do so with hesitation. Whatever it is I am trying to protect does not compare to the power of community. Ultimately, I was reminded that my independence does not have to equate to isolation.

Stolen Identity

Moving right along in the direction of our destination, we suddenly paused to admire yet another insect. In this case, however, there were many. The wing span was small, but the wings themselves were lovely; a beautiful bright yellow. Such eye-pleasing butterflies, I thought. Wait. Where did they go?!

After several flutters along in multiple directions, these “butterflies” would settle down into a camouflaged state of being; blending ever so cleverly with the natural habitat. Are these grasshoppers? Surely not. I looked at my friend who had suggested this day hike and stated my intentions, “I must know more!” So, I charged at these insects with the movement of my body to encourage movement from their own confusing identity. I can’t say that I actually charged AT the insects, seeing as I was still uncertain as to where they were directly located. But, short spurts of speed towards the supposed locations did, indeed, result in a flurry of sunshine wings. These splashes of color decorating the sky around me would only last momentarily, however, before I was once again searching for their location.

What are these creatures? Can they really be grasshoppers? Perhaps clever butterflies? These moments of curiosity, coupled with entertaining but ineffective investigative measures, produced nothing more than fond memories. But, they did stimulate my imagination. Just as I was convinced that I had discovered a new species of insect, and sorted out possible names, I came to appreciate the lesson behind the experience. Things aren’t always what they seem.

Bump in the Night

I remember reaching down to my right calf, with my right hand, and locating the small itchy bump. A few scratches with my fingernails should, surely, cease the persistent itch. Yet with each scratch came additional irritation. I suddenly wondered when I would stop dreaming about this situation. It was becoming unpleasant.

It wasn’t long, however, before my mind realized that I was not dreaming this disruptive experience. My right hand was indeed scratching this tiny three-dimensional half circle of itchiness. That is when it happened. With my eyes still closed, trying to trick the concept of awake, I was rudely introduced to several more itchy bumps. As if unexpectedly attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes, I became acutely aware of all the bug bites I must have acquired the day before while hiking in the wilderness.

By this point, both hands were involved and my eyes decided to catch a glimpse of the numbers brightly expressed in red on the machine that alerts me to responsibility most days of the week. Here it was three in the morning, and I found I couldn’t scratch fast enough. Where did this come from? Why now, during this critical time of peace and healing? How am I going to stop it?!

I sat up, and swung my feet over the side of the bed as if I had a solution to this, what I considered, epidemic. Not wanting to plant my feet on the ground, thinking it might constitute “awake” and fearing the consequences of such a state, I decided to lie back down. My mind was determined to beat this nagging side-effect. Thinking that a repetitive statement might work, I closed my eyes and began the art of convincing myself that my bug bites did not itch. “I do not itch. I do not itch. I am itchless.” Refusing to use my hands, it wasn’t long before I noticed my feet moving up and down my legs in an effort to relieve the annoying sensation. “I do not itch. I do not itch. I am itchless, damn it.”

Just as I started picturing myself confronting armies of mosquitoes, and anything else that bites and puts Benadryl to use, I lost track of the itching. The next thing I remember is waking to the sound of my alarm several hours later. How did I fall back asleep? Did I convince myself I didn’t itch? Or did I actually stop itching? Is it possible that they are one and the same? As long as it’s itch-free, I will happily scratch my head on this one.

Father Time

What is time? Is it decorative? Is it a tool of organization and coordination? An indicator of celebration and accomplishment? Clearly this is the case for clocks and watches, meetings and work schedules, birthdays, anniversaries, and some sporting events. Not to mention the all-encompassing idea of past, present, and future. But if you eliminate responsibility, obligation and acknowledgement, does time exist?

I stopped wearing a watch years ago. I claimed that IT was responsible for my stress; completely ignoring my part of the equation. I was certain that if I removed this ornate numerical gadget from my wrist, I would stop living my life according to time. No more, “It’s too late. It’s too early. Only five more minutes.” This elimination would allow me to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted---outside of my societal obligations---without mental complications.

Lately, I have been reminded of this philosophy of mine. A couple weeks ago, my friend gave me a watch of hers she needed to part with. She mentioned my disbelief in time, but noted the beautiful vehicle it was contained in once a battery triggered its existence. I kindly accepted the gift, but am still hesitant to enjoy its purpose. As if needing a reminder as to why I so adamantly refuse to decorate myself in a concept I like to ignore whenever possible, I was exposed to a clock in another friend’s apartment. This clock, second only to the Whatever Clock showcasing numbers one through twelve collected in a corner, listed the numbers in reverse going clockwise. At second glance, it provoked a smile and served as a reminder that time is, actually, how you choose to see it.

On this very day, my day of birth, I am again reminded of this concept. Age is a celebration of time. Yet, somehow, for some, it is also a determining factor for accomplishment. Are goals based on time true measures of success? Are goals only goals because they are based on time?

I would be lying if I said that I don’t use time, as we accept it, to indicate my work and meeting schedules, and to celebrate and enjoy events and activities. But I definitely try to ignore time as an indicator for hunger, sleep, personal activities and future endeavors. Even as I say that, I am reminded of all the things I would like to do before my time on earth expires. Isn’t that living by time? Is there a difference between living by time and living by your own time? I guess only time will tell.

Sick Day

In true American fashion, I tried to strike preemptively on a cold that has been threatening to attack for the last forty-eight hours by taking a sick day. While, technically, the only hours that account for sick day status are between eight o’clock in the morning and five o’clock at night, most of my day was dedicated to remedying the scratchy sensation that had been developing in my throat.

These days of excused absence from work due to illness are, strangely, resisted in my world. It’s as if I can’t give in to the idea that I am not able to accomplish something; even if that something is as simple as attendance. In these circumstances, this behavior never seems to work in my favor. I often find myself sitting, or slouching, at my desk wishing I was on a morphine drip, or that I simply would have called in sick. So, today, I thought I would try a different strategy.

Orange slices, known for their Vitamin C power, took to the stage early this morning with an encore performance around noon. Green tea, somehow, replaced my water requirements expected for consumption during a twenty-four hour period in an effort to knock out the oxidants with a one-two punch. Gargling with sea salt became a popular routine, and honey was enjoyed as a coat for the pain.

While these seem to have proved helpful, I must attribute a large portion of my healing to the power of day-time television. The content of these shows not only lulled me in and out of sleep, but provided additional reasons to practice the “I feel good; I feel great; I feel wonderful” mantra. The lessons I learned from Tyra and the inspiration I gained from Vatterott College and Oprah may have been enough to get me back on my feet. While I don’t want to hang the Mission Accomplished banner just yet, I’m hopeful that tomorrow will reveal a victory in the War on Weariness.

Little Pot of Horrors

Any day now, I am almost certain, I expect to hear the toilet in my apartment bathroom say, “Feed me!” The carpeted seat lid will rise up on its own accord and begin mimicking speech movement. It will beg for toilet paper and toxic matter. Although growth is unlikely, musical debuts prove threatening. It is only a matter of time before this elimination machine takes on a life of its own.

For the last couple months, the noises from the precious porcelain evacuator have increased in frequency and volume. It’s actually reached a point of distraction. At night, while lying in bed, I find that my mind latches on to the constant gurgles and odd swallows it shouts throughout the day. Sometimes it serves as a lullaby of sorts, encouraging a sound slumber. Other times, however, this bathroom fixture is such an obnoxious noise maker that I have to isolate it from its friends. A timeout with the door closed will surely teach him a lesson!

I have jiggled the handle. I have taken the lid off to explore the tank; poking and lifting things in fear of provoking a flood. This doesn’t get me very far in the solution box since function, thankfully, is not a problem. And every time I fiddle around in fear of breaking something that will, no doubt, create a disaster, I am reminded of the catchy little phrase, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Does this apply to everything? Does it apply in this situation? Is it possible my toilet is destined for fame, and I’m standing…or sitting…in its way? I guess, just like a breaking point, broke can sometimes be determined by choice.

Me, Myself and Ike

After I wished a stranger a happy 59th birthday and gave her a hug, I couldn’t help but laugh. There we were, approximately 3,000 of the 5,600 registrants, standing in hurricane aftermath waiting to complete either a half or full marathon. All of our moisture-wicking clothes were drenched head to toe, and ponchos were blowing in every direction. Shelter was being sought next to buses, underneath tents, and behind porta-potty doors. What were we thinking?!

Earlier that morning as I was eating a banana and watching tree limbs whip around in the darkness like swords behind sheets of rain, I was thinking that this event surely had to be canceled. The Internet said otherwise. Rain or Shine was communicated loud and clear. So, I did what anyone would do; I geared up my ark with all the essentials (Mizuno, Smart Wool, Under Armour and North Face) and headed out the door still questioning my intentions.

As I stepped out of the car into a river of water, I was glad to see that the race hadn’t started yet. The traffic heading into the event was backed up for, what seemed like, miles. The headlights in the morning darkness easily resembled the scene in Field of Dreams. Initially I was shocked at the number of people dedicated to this event, but soon after was relieved that there were so many others willing to go the distance no matter the circumstances. The line between sanity and insanity was, indeed, very fine.

The energy level in the human corral only continued to grow as the minutes passed. So when the announcer started the clock, people were ready to express their excitement. In honor of this excitement and my stubbornness, I tried running. The adrenaline seemed to keep the knee pain at bay for at least a quarter of a mile. Once it surfaced, however, I laughed at my stupidity and started walking with pride. And that is when I met Gina and Shelly.

Together we shared stories, dodged rain bullets, laughed at the blown-down mile markers, and thanked our volunteers. We pondered what we’d do if our porta-potty blew over, as we passed one that was horizontal, and we vocalized life lessons. A quarter of a mile before the race ended at 10.something miles due to flooding, we passed a sign that said, “Beer Near.” In true Show-Me state fashion, a man approached us with cups of this liquid delight. Beer on a race route?! Together we cheered our successes, as athletes and as people.

As we crossed the finish line, we grabbed each others’ hands and raised them over our heads. It was, without a doubt, the perfect experience. Six months ago, I thought I would have completed a marathon on this day. Turns out, instead, I covered more ground in this journey we call life.