Up Up Up
Today marks the launch of a debut collection of stories: Up Up Up, by Julie Booker. It also marks the first time I’ve “blurbed” for a book. You can go to bookstores (in Canada), pick up this brightly titled book, and turn it over to the back cover where you will find these words:
“Up Up Up is perfectly titled: a debut collection that positively bubbles with life, humour, and surprise. In these swift and sparkling stories — confections of unexpected density –Booker’s voice never fails to illuminate the bright side of the dark side. Booker’s radiant charm is in her seeming artlesness: dialogue that leaps from page to ear, flawed characters who try and try again, and — listen, you can almost hear it — the joyful hum of boundless curiosity.”
And then you’ll see my name. Woot! (Why is woot a word? I don’t know, but I like it).
I had not heard of Julie Booker–this is her first book–before reading these stories, and it was a delight to put my stamp of approval on them. So go get the book and get reading! Twenty short stories make for excellent just-before-bed fare.
Post-Race Musings
The race brought up some unexpected and deep emotions. It was inspiring. It was healing. It gave me a new perspective on myself. It brought up thoughts like: if I can imagine doing it, I can set myself on a path to be able to do it. This is going to sound like typical motivational gobbledeygook, but it made me ask: what are the barriers I’ve erected in my own mind that are preventing me from doing the things that I want to do–that are preventing me from even imagining and glimpsing the things that I want to do? It’s too easy to say, oh, that would be hard, that would be impossible, I don’t have the time.Yes, it’s been hard to train myself into a different and more athletically capable body. But it hasn’t been that hard. It certainly hasn’t been impossible. The time is now.
My larger thoughts are still amorphous and vague. But my most concrete thought is this: I already have the skills to do great/good/helpful things. I don’t need to retrain and gain a new skill set. I’m a writer. It’s what I do. Being a writer is similar in a lot of ways to being a runner. It’s an individual journey. But even the individual, within the larger collective of a race, or a running group, or a yoga class, has the opportunity to affect the larger community–either negatively, neutrally, or positively. Think of the good energy you can receive when you practice with a committed group of yogis. It is so much bigger and more inspiring than practicing on your own–but your own practice is important too, and you need to build it and strengthen it in order to give back to the others around you.
So. I’m thinking of my writing in those terms. I’m thinking: where can my writing be of use? Where can I find homes for it? Where is it needed? How do I want to change the world? Small changes, big changes, radical changes, subtle changes? And how can I use what I’ve already got to push for those changes?
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Also, I think one of the stumbling blocks to change is knowing that one will be changed–but not knowing how. That can be scary. For example, I did not know, when I started the triathlon project, that I would want to run long distances, too. The idea of running a half-marathon, let alone a full marathon, never occurred to me. I also couldn’t have predicted or guessed that the training would turn me into someone for whom 5:15am is a happy hour of the day. I like rising early. I love my naps. I can’t undo figuring that out, even though it means sacrificing a lot of late nights in order to enjoy the early mornings.
And change is slow. That’s the other factor I continue to keep in mind. Patience. Slowly, slowly, the accretion of work and discipline, and the unexpected, will change you. Being curious, exploring along the way, testing things out, being willing to drop things that aren’t helpful or are blocking the way, accepting opportunities that arise, being spontaneous: these all make the slow and steady journey interesting. The goals, the end-points, those markers are going to change along the way, too. How fascinating is that?
A Week in Suppers: 5
Monday supper. Carrot soup with potatoes, vegetarian version (I had run out of frozen chicken stock). It lacked the oomph without the stock flavours to balance it out. Passable. Cooked in the crockpot. Pureed just before setting it on the table. Swim lessons after school. The kids are enjoying it more than they’d expected. Fooey’s class was in the deep end, in the same lane where I swim in the mornings. I ducked out after supper to meet my siblings for a beer. Half a beer, and a ginger ale, in my case; spin class early tomorrow morning.
Tuesday supper. Cottage pie with lentils and ground beef. I had to use up leftover mashed potatoes from Sunday’s supper, ergo, another cottage pie, this time bulked up with lentils. And of course carrots. We still have an overload despite yesterday’s carrot soup. Apple-Apple has soccer practice, outside, fairly early, so we are eating early on Tuesdays. Kevin is still playing hockey, too, but at least that’s post-kids’-bedtime. If they get to bed on time.
Wednesday supper. A frozen container of leftover chili, reheated in the crockpot all day, along with some frozen corn (the last from last summer; I am positive this time), and some frozen spinach. Baked rice on the side. I ate a bit with the family, post-music-lessons, then raced off to hit a yoga class. Feeling very achy. Decided at yoga to take it easy for the next two days, to prepare for the half-marathon. The kids also had drum and guitar lessons while I was out, and Kevin took Albus to his piano lesson, before skedaddling to soccer practice. I came home from yoga and scarfed down these leftovers. Tasty.
Thursday supper. Green pasta. Carb loading in advance of Saturday’s run. Also, everyone likes this meal and it’s super-easy. AppleApple had more another soccer practice, and Kevin went to kundalini yoga alone. I went to bed with a book.
Friday supper. Kusherie. An Egyptian feast. Lentils and rice steamed together. Cumin-spiced tomato sauce. Served on a bed of macaroni. Topped with fried onions. Can we all say “Hurray!” and “Yum!” But Fooey thought it looked disgusting. There was a long drawn-out scene (the word “disgusting” is forbidden at the table). Sigh. It had been a PD day, and I’d been home alone with the kids all day. All I wanted was to enjoy a feast, clean up, get the kids to bed, and go to sleep in preparation for tomorrow’s early rise.
Saturday supper. This is not a photo of Saturday’s supper (we had leftovers; after the race, I did nothing but nap, write, and float around feeling amazing and not in the least in the cooking mood). This is a photo of the snacks brought by my poetry book club, who met here on Saturday evening. There was an absolute feast of snackeries. There was even cake.
Sunday supper. This is not a photo of Sunday’s supper (we had a BBQ, Albus-directed: hot dogs, hamburgers, and potato salad, with an inexplicable giant bowl of mashed potatoes, too). This is a photo of Friday’s indoor picnic with the kids. It was really fun. Hummus on tortilla wraps, veggies, boiled eggs, apples, and homemade green bean dill pickles.
Crossing the Finish Line, this morning
Before. I was smiling, but feeling pretty anxious to get going.
After. Best feeling ever (well, right up there). It was a beautiful day for a run on country roads. Sunshine, breeze, birds chirping. I almost burst into tears at the beauty of it about three kilometres on. And I’m pretty sure I grinned the whole way. There were moments when it got hard, such as around 18k when I realized that I could probably finish in under two hours if I could keep up my pace. The last two hills took guts and slowed me down, and the final sprint to the finish could have been a bit more sprint-like, but it was pure joy to cross the finish line, to see my family waving and shouting, and hear my name on the loudspeaker, and see the time. My new personal best (okay, my only possible personal best), first half-marathon: 1:55. Yah. I’d do that again.
(If you’re interested in the nitty-gritty details, visit my triathlon-training blog).
Quick Updates
He agreed to turn three. Briefly. On Monday evening, he was talked into being a big boy by his big brother, who regaled him with the many advantages thereof. In the morning, he held to the new age, telling me, in a whisper, that he was three. But when I asked him for a photo holding up three fingers he balked, frowned, and regressed. Not three, he decided. Still two.
Are the expectations too heavy, the demands of being three? I kind of get it, actually. It is scary to get older, to be asked to do more, to be given new responsibilities, to age.
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As many of you know, I will be running my first half-marathon (that’s 21.5k) on Saturday. If you are interested in sponsoring me, here’s the info. Wish me luck. I’m starting to feel just a little bit nervous. Trying to keep this thought in my mind, as my focus: whatever time I get, as long as I finish the race, it will be my personal best.