Thoughts From Today's Run

"well it seems that my weakness
is sometimes my only strength
and in my incompleteness
you get your way" - Sixpence None The Richer



Leaves have quietly settled, and the wind has died for the day. The cold sky is as neutral as it is grey. All nature seems to hold and watch for the next move, but I can only offer up questions. I can't know everything, and the path seems only to be revealed underfoot as I faithfully step forward.

Faith is frightening. Trust is slow. Learning that there will be solid ground, even in the fog, has been difficult. How many times will Christ support me in my weakness before I know He is certain? When will I stop imagining shrouded cliffs?

Maybe therein lies the beauty: that I would trace His lines into the wilderness and lean not on my own wisdom and strength. God knows I can't live on my own; my ways have consistently led to folly and pain. And the option to merely survive is not enough. Most are content to settle for survival, and they hand over their hopes for moth-eaten coats to shield them from what could be. Life. Joy. And yes, pain.

What will it take to strip off this insulation? I suppose I could do as the Israelites did: remember the Lord. My memory has always been poor, but concerning matters of the Lord's provision, my memory could not be shorter. If I could keep a memorial in my heart of all that has been done for my protection and blessing, then I might be more thankful. And perhaps aware of my complete dependence. And who better to depend on? For if God is with me, then who will stand against me?

Pitbull in Love

A brief post is long overdue, and to meet my quota for said short posts... I give you "Pitbull in Love". Why is it entitled as such, you might wonder? Aptly named, it references my brother's sexually frustrated dog. As I compose this entry, he humps the entire right side of my body. And he won't leave me alone for 10 minutes. What does this say about my ability to attract a suitable partner from my own species? I won't even go there...

And another thing. How low do the grocery store people have to be to put Halloween chocolates on the same aisle as "feminine needs"? That is just vile.

Keep on Truckin'

Whether it's a moment that slips through the fingers, a paralyzing heartbreak, or having to build back from nothing... it's of no consequence. All force you to look in the mirror and make the decision to keep moving. Forwards, backwards, side step, two-step, and promenade. But what if we'd rather hang out at the punch bowl and settle with watching others get their groove on?

Now I know that falling off a runaway horse isn't the type of thing to make most people scrutinize their lives. However, after sustaining unexpected trauma to the head and left leg, I've realized that this accident has become the window pane through which I survey my life (as it was, as it is, and what it should be).

The morning after, I woke to find current time an unfamiliar place. It was very unnerving... kind of like having the wind knocked out of me. MY plans, MY future, MY hopes: all of these things were seemingly dashed by two carefree horses in a matter of minutes. As it turns out, I'm no longer moving to the Rockies. And now that I can't run for a couple of weeks, I've been forced to sell my Atlanta Half Marathon entry to someone else. I don't have a job or insurance, and currently I live with my crazy family, AGAIN! At the age of 24! What now?!

I move. With divine help, no doubt.

But moving is so painful and slow when coming back from what's been inflicted upon my hopes and body. The couch begins to look like a plush retreat, and the horse can have a day off to play in the pasture. And if I let the couch comfort me and the horse run free too long, these days could matriculate into weeks. Fear and self-preservation, hand in hand, could take hold.

I'd like to believe that I've learned, through this little exercise, not to protect myself with that double-edged sword. Don't get me wrong, I didn't ride Beamer the day after the accident or even a few days after the accident. Proper healing time is essential. Just ask anyone who rushes into something as a sort of "rebound". That almost certainly causes further damage (and in some cases, more severe).

No, I waited almost two weeks to ride again. Two days ago, Mom rode the horse as I sat in the pasture. I was content to watch, and at the same time, I was terrified about having to get back in the saddle. Yesterday Mom rode Beamer again. And, knowing that my leg could carry my full weight again, I was worried about getting on the horse. However, after encouraging me, Mom held the horse still as I hoisted myself to the top of Beamer. It was a scary height. At any moment she might bolt. Or at least I thought. But she didn't, and Mom led her back to the barn with me nervously gripping tight.

Today I got on alone. I rode while Mom watched, and maybe tomorrow I'll ride alone. All in time, I suppose.

And this way is better than the alternatives. Yeah, I could trade Beamer in for a tamer, tired nag. I could settle for pony rides at the fair. Perhaps I could just watch as Mom rode and be semi-satisfied to live vicariously. Or I could put the tack in storage and turn the horse out to pasture for the rest of her days.

But no. I want to ride a horse with spirit: a horse that keeps me sharp. I want a trail companion that challenges me to stay focused on the joint effort at hand. Is this the safest way? Is it certain disaster? On both counts, no. But it could be beautiful. After all, there is nothing better than galloping across the creek bed in Fall.

And yes, my life plans have changed. That doesn't mean I am without future or hope. The Lord must've had something else in mind. And so I move forward slowly... sore body and unsure feet.

Note to Self

I write this not to update anyone but in attempt to "test" myself. You see, I won't remember writing this message within 15 seconds of writing it. At best, I'll have a vague feeling that I was on the computer at some point during the night. That's how my entire day has been, and it all started yesterday at about 5:30pm.

Mom and I (according to the notes I took down) went to go see my horse where she's being trained. I was riding behind Scott (the trainer), and it's weird... because I just can't remember his face. He was riding my horse in an attempt to show me what she'd learned over the past month. The one thing I forgot while she was away was that she doesn't do well with having other horses behind her. And the hoof mark on my left peroneal proves this point: a painful visual. She was kicking out at the mare I was on and landed a hoof (thankfully unshod) on my leg. Supposedly, I feigned composure enough to convince Mom and Scott that I was in condition enough to continue.

That was not what did me in... After walking around the pasture once, Scott got Beamer (my horse) up to a lope. Naturally the mare I was riding followed suit. That's when things went wrong, I guess. I wouldn't know. Mom says that the reins I was using were short barrel racing reins. Not having experience with reins of this variety, I leaned forward to compensate for the lack of length in the reins. The horse figured I wanted her to take off, and she did she what she'd been trained to do.

Out of fear, I lost control of the situation. The horse was at break-neck speed (no pun intended). Then we came to a road. At this point, the mare slid to a halt and I, being a victim of inertia, continued on towards the earth like a sack of wheat. Mom came running and Scott rode over, worried. I made it to my feet unaided after laying motionless and dazed for about a minute. It wasn't until we were walking to Scott's house and the runaway horse had made it to the barn that I started asking questions.

"Where are we? I don't recognize this place," I said (according to Mom).

She says that I didn't know my age, where I lived, or what had happened during the last couple of weeks. All I could remember was that I worked at Camp Ocoee this past summer (and now I seem to recall them owing me over $900 for Chacos).

Mom drove me to her hospital, and I'm guessing that I was conscious the entire time. A cat scan was run, but I have no recollection. All I have is this hospital wrist band with my name and date of birth on it. The craziest part of my day was waking up and checking myself out in the bathroom mirror. I have scrape marks from the fall on my face and arms. My left posterior inferior iliac spine must have taken the brunt of my fall; it aches something terrible! And of course, I have the hoof mark on one of these legs that's supposed to carry me 13.1 miles on Thanksgiving morning at 7am.

Time has meant nothing all day... if it has been a day. It seems like there are 60 minutes in a second, but then I look at the clock to find the time careening past me. I think I made a campfire today to comfort myself, and my brother had to put it out after it got out of control. I faintly remember driving to see the horse. Dad says that he was in a car crash years ago, and during the whole experience, he never once lost consciousness. However, he couldn't remember the accident until he revisited the location in which it occurred. Unfortunately, I did not have the ability to visit the "crime scene" today for one reason or another.

And I've called everyone I know, and I have no idea what I told them. Perhaps my subconscious is urging me to ask these people for answers. It seems curious. Why am I calling all my friends? They weren't there when it happened. Perhaps I need to know others are concerned. Who knows? I'm afraid I may have said stupid things or asked probing questions when talking to John. And I think I told Ashlea that I was scared about moving to Colorado in a few days without having time to heal and prepare myself to teach crafts to paying adults. Perhaps I talked to Paul???

One thing is for sure... I am confused and frustrated to the point of tears. How can I get myself to recall when my mind is no longer under my authority? Will I want to remember how it happened? Will I have nightmares tonight and not realize that the nightmares are, in fact, the truth? And what have I told people today? Was I close to death? I don't remember a light at the end of the tunnel. In fact, I don't remember a tunnel at all. Does that mean that I'm not going to Heaven? Or worse yet.... there is no such place? Or does God have something more for me? And what is it?! Maybe if I knew, I could combine the realization of the fragility of life and the drive to make the most of my brief time here.

Perhaps what scares me the most is the idea that no one else can walk this road with me. I am alone.

Tea Bowls

As I sit here inhaling my chocolate "pudding pop" (man, that just sounds ridiculous to say) at high noon, my thoughts turn to something my ceramics professor taught me in college.

---Flash back to the Moon Building at Berry College---

Skye is aged 22 years and still hopelessly grasping for the idea of perfection in art. While Bowie plays, she sits for hours in her cellar studio where there's no trace of natural lighting. Using her fingernails, she ardently tweezes renegade brush hairs out of her painting. And then she, being frustrated with that endless task, sets the painting down to pick up a stack of drawings. Then Skye proceeds to sketch, erase, sketch, erase, sketch, and approach the outer limits of seething anger.

It's time for hand building ceramics class, so she places all her pieces down and slams the studio door behind her. Walking up the stairs and into the natural-lit ceramics room, she can't let go of a disappointment all too common amongst artists. Crumpling down onto her stool, she waits for the day's lesson.

"To the Japanese, the tea bowl is most beautiful and valued. They want to see the fingerprints of the artist. Take a look at these," Professor Lykins says as he finds the right pages in a book from his own library.

The tea bowls are squat, wonky and ancient-looking. Not one looks like the other in color, shape, or mass. How could they all be the same beautiful? Or even beautiful at all?

---Today---

That moment is still yesterday. It shattered my perception of what art had to be: flawless. Up to that point, I was fed a steady diet of pictures of artwork by the likes of Rubens, Vermeer, and Caravaggio. What a mistake! Pictures are the equivalent of viewing art under water, across the room, and through a screen. The color is all wrong, actual size is lost, and the hand of the artist becomes glossed over like the page of a coffee table book.

And to that I say, go to the piece itself. Stand in the presence of the work, where the artist stood while he was creating it. I remember the first time I did that at the High Museum; I was looking at a Rothko painting. When I came close enough to see the abundant stray brush hairs, I began to cry. And the same when I saw Pollock at the MOMA in New York City. I could see his fingerprints, footprints, and even cigarette ashes. I could see that the artist had been there.

Not only did this have implications on my art, but on the way I saw people. There's a lot of hoopla surrounding fashion and beauty magazines... about the pictures of airbrushed models destroying the self-image of women. Yes, even that can be treated the same as viewing art in a book: one "raw" and the other distorted reality. I say this not to make "raw" sound shabby in comparison but to deem it more valuable. With a raw person, you can see the fingerprints and the stray brush hairs. Not mistakes, but signs that the Artist was there. Each artwork is as unique as valued.

To go even farther, the same could be said for quirks (aka- the zest of a person). For instance, my dad always wears his Vietnam Veterans hat. Everywhere. Sometimes when we go out to dinner as a family this annoys me, but there is honestly nothing wrong with it. It's just him being him. And the same could be said for one of my friends who eats chocolate pudding with shredded cheese on top. I would NEVER do that in a million years yet she does.

Driftwood

The following is a first hand account of September 22nd in this, the 2007th year of our Lord:


I was born.

Just kidding... but seriously. I woke up at the times of 7:00am, 7:15am, 7:30am, and 7:45am. Bloody snooze button. Sometimes I wish really hard that it had never been invented, but it would be easier to unbuild one of the subdivisions down my street. It's such a bogus idea when you think about it: get segmented, and thus poor quality, sleep for as long as you can until having to get up for the morning shower. That's why I usually just set my alarm for the latest possible time I can get away with and still be on time for my scheduled appointment. And that never works either.

By 8:30am, I was entering Dellinger Park in Cartersville to meet my dad for the yearly fishing tournament that the park hosts. The woods surrounding the pond were full of just as many trucks as trees. And the pond was a sight to behold. The banks were entirely covered with every local color group my fair town has to offer. Coolers, lawn chairs, trucker hats, overalls, rural grammar, and a million lines crossing.

I knew just where to find my dad: right next to the walking bridge. That's usually where all the big cats are caught. However, Dad hadn't caught anything all morning. This didn't surprise me, because we've both lost our touch over the years. It's been ages since we went on our last fishing trip, and that is something that needs to change. After casting from the crowded bank a few times, I realized that potentially more people would be hooked than fish. Nothing was biting.

One feisty, elderly woman managed to beat the odds... My dad was so impressed by this lady's feat that he took me over to meet her and her catch. After some jovial banter, a large cooler was opened to reveal the biggest catfish I'd ever seen come out of Dellinger's pond. That thing had a mouth on it large enough to swallow a bowling ball. I must say, it made me want to be a better fisherwoman.

Dad got a call from work and had to leave to deliver some auto parts, so I headed to the Vita Trail (which encircles the park) for my weekly long run. This week, it was 6. Last week it was 5 and next week it'll be 7. You do the math. The run started like it always does; I try to figure out how to make it go by in the most mentally pleasurable manner. And this is no small thing, for anything over 5 miles is a test of will power and mental focus.

What I didn't expect to find was the entire Kennesaw State distance team on the trail doing quarter repeats in fine form. I must say, I felt a slight twinge of competitiveness. This, however, subsided when I saw what kind of shape they were in compared to myself. My running (as of now) is to house cat as their running is to tiger in the jungle prowling for wild boar. But I know my day will return... It's tough starting over without a support group.

It was pretty comical when I plodded near one of the KSU coaches on my third loop. I finally decided to say something to him, for whatever reason. Perhaps it was just to let him know I understood that life.

"You guys Kennesaw?"- the words came like cottage cheese through a sieve.

"Yeah," said the stranger coach from KSU.

"Excellent," said I.

"Don't go passing them," he said. And I still debate the manner of this statement. Did he mean it as a compliment or did he really just want me to stay out of their way?

And so I took the verbally unobtrusive route: "Don't worry. I've been retired for 2 years."

Six miles done with, I drove to my gym to meet Mom for a yoga class. And I'm not too proud to admit it; I love it. Never in my life would I have believed anyone who told me yoga was worthwhile, and here I am... doing it almost daily and enjoying the benefits of an increased range of motion.

Yoga class ended, and then I went home to prepare for the third leg of the unspoken triathlon that was unfolding in front of my very eyes. John showed up and we had a quick lunch before heading to Sand Rock for some climbing. But we were not to be distracted... right. We made it a half mile down the road before pulling into a yard sale. Ha! Talk about the cheesiest wares you'll ever see: vests in some sort of tapestry material, countless High School the Musical posters, very old VHS tapes, and prefabricated paintings (complete with mirrored frames).

John left with a VCR he bought for $6 and a couple of movies: The Professional and Cyborg. And I made off with a child's book and a special, if not "uncategorizeable", trinket for Emily Chamberlain. And so we boarded the '92 electric blue Honda Prelude again in an effort to reach potential "future friends" at Sand Rock.

Yeah... we ended up stopping at Purple Mountain Hardware to buy my dad's b-day gift: a pair of slapping new Carhartts! And then I introduced John to Schroeder's (probably to his disdain, if it's any reflection upon the fact that he ate only 20% of his sandwich). What a good sport. Finally we were on the road for real. By 4pm we made it to Sand Rock, and there was the usual weekend throng of climbers. Trey Dix and his cronies (aka - the people with whom we were to climb) were no place to be found. John and I scoured the labyrinth of boulders and walls until we realized it was hopeless.

Frustration was simmering over, when I made the tough decision to just enjoy being there... even if that meant no climbing. So, we grappled our way up to a beautiful view of the valley below. The clouds were in rare form: huge thunderheads, cirrus, and everything in between. Storms were roving in our sight like grazing cattle, and that made the trip worthwhile. Watching the rain fall is even better than watching a campfire, and I never get tired of seeing a visual representation of God's grace. Our eyes had free rein over miles of Alabama.

After sitting for a long spell, through a few sunny sprinklings... we descended our perch. The time came to head home to Georgia. This was the plan. Did we stick to it?

No. We passed by a sign for yet another yard sale. I could have sworn it said "Driftwood for sell". After an intense game of "rock, paper, scissors" that decided our course of action in this matter, we turned around to pursue the aforementioned yard sale. We expected to find driftwood (in Alabama???), but after 30 minutes of driving out of our way... we found Driftwood Campground. I had earlier jokingly told John that the only way this venture could get more interesting would be if the place turned out to be an RV community. And that is exactly what it turned out to be.

We pulled up to find a dozen tables full of all the dilapidated curiosities one could ever want and never need. By the end of 30 minutes, I had purchased 2 very ancient frying pans and 2 audio cassettes for the '92 electric blue Honda Prelude. As for John, he bought 5 RC Cola collector cans. You can probably guess that we are pretty cool to have bought such items. In actuality, I really didn't need anything, but the retailers proved entertaining company. I couldn't not buy something from those people.

These folks live in and maintain the RV campground year round. And their stories and conversations were peppered with enough choice phrases to make Santa Claus blush redder than his suit. However, they were honest people with honest intentions. In fact, John (aka - Michael Smith) and I (aka - Sarah Smith) were invited to a wedding on October 20th at the campground. Too bad I'll be in Colorado, because I would make the drive to Alabama for that!

They offered us their cold beer, let me try the best ribs ever cooked, and tried to make a deal with me. They wanted to trade an old, golden minivan for the Prelude. And they even went as far as to offer John and me a night in a mini camper if we'd help load the unsold merchandise. To this I had no response but red cheeks: John and I are not a couple like they assumed, nor was I "going to test out the shocks on the camper" with John.

It was probably after 8pm when we finally broke the spell of their unique company. However, I have been unable to shake one of the conversations started. The craziest man of them all, who was "slightly tipsy", asked if either of us were church-goers. I managed to squeak out a weak "yes". To this he laughed heartily and replied, "Neither of you are. You wouldn't be hanging out with us if you were. You're lying." To this everyone laughed, but on the inside I couldn't help but remember that a drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts.

Many are in his place: excluded. And for what? He (along with the others) laughed with us, made us feel welcome, gave us free beer, offered us food, invited us back, and was very honest. Aren't those things to be valued in any Christian? It pains me to know that they felt that way about the church, but they spoke (albeit jokingly) about the all too common truth: Christians tend to judge those we deem living on "the fringes". That has got to change.

Thoughts of a Future Trash-Taker-Outer

I'm on my way to run some errands, but I'll take a stab at it. Maybe love is all about acting foolish. When I think about great love, it's evidenced by its flying in the face of the world's expectations. For instance, it makes very little sense from the sheer survivalist mentality that's been bred into us to be patient with those who test our last nerve. It would be easier to lose composure and put the offending party in his "rightful place" for having unsettled our pristine expectations.

Likewise, it's not our second nature to be kind to those who have nothing to offer us in return. We always seem to want something back. It seems that's why so many couples find dissension through the whole "who gives more" complex. To love is not enough.

And love envies no one? How many times have I wanted to be in a friend's shoes instead of congratulating her for having found the right pair? Some of the best folks I've ever known are the ones who bask in my joy when I'm blessed. Only recently have I discovered that fine art. I really enjoy watching people do what they were seemingly created to do. Nothing is better than seeing my mom get promoted at the hospital or watching a former team mate come back from an injury.

Those parts about love not being boastful, conceited, rude, selfish, or quick to anger... So nonhuman. And foolish. There's an unspoken aggreement of the masses that the way to love is not by baring all and taking in the unavoidable pain with the much sought after beauty. That would be too risky. Instead we conjure up controlled, safe routes to win the approval we crave.

We do this in boasting to gain respect (and feel a twisted sort of love, I suspect). We are conceited because we can't be vulnerable enough to allow others to see the real innards. Rude tendencies, self-driven motives, and anger are no strangers of mine. There's a thread holding them together: they are fear-based and aimed at establishing respect and love through force. We figure that if we just get ahead in the eyes of others, we'll end up on top... and finally, we'll get the special treatment and love we so richly deserve.

However, we deserve none. And it is futile to chase that kind of attention from the world around us. It's very fleeting and shallow (at best). But true, honest to goodness love, seems to be something above us, but within us only because of God's goodness. That is the love that peels away layers and unmasks, but still loves even when the ugly truth is exposed.

Why Am I Still Having Trouble Sleeping?

Preface: I hate that when I wear shorts, my right leg causes the right side of my shorts to bunch up. And I hate that I am still having trouble sleeping. It is 2:42 in the morning, and I can't dream like everyone else is doing right now.

Perhaps there was truth to something my psychology teacher told me in high school. She said never to read in bed; it causes difficulty with falling asleep when wanting to sleep. And it also prevents focus when trying to read studiously. True or untrue, that's not all. My room looks like the A bomb was dropped a month ago, and I, being the only native, must sift through all the debris to recover my most treasured items. For instance, I still can't find my only strapless bra, the receipt for my broken digital camera, and my address book. All of these things are very crucial, and I will more than likely never see them again. Or I might locate them if I could tidy up my room and thin out all the junk. That's the thing; I can't get rid of any of it. As soon as I move out of the house, I'll need all of it just to survive in a place of my own. But for now, I must make a narrow, zigzagging footpath to my bed.

On top of that mess, I may be moving to Colorado in less than a month. Living there and working in the art field again would be a dream. However, I doubt myself constantly. Can I be everything they want: organized, professional, on time, thoroughly knowledgeable of almost all crafts known to man, and great with all people all the time? I've done this kind of work many times before, but not on this level. And frankly, I'm a bit terrified. But everyone knows that growth wasn't promised to be painless. There must, inevitably, be some stretching involved. I just keep wondering where God's got me heading. Where does all this training, experience, and desire lead?

On another note, I have been reading a scary book entitled "The Marriage Map". I lost sleep after reading through to just the third chapter. Now, I know what you're thinking.... why in the world are you reading that, Skye? Contrary to what it appears to all you scoffers, I honestly want to go back to school to study marital counseling. And now, I'm just doing my own research while I have plenty of time to read. Granted the book is horrid, but it does have some valid points. And I think with each book and each couple I ask questions I get a little more insight (however skewed it may be). Of course, going through with marriage myself would be the best way to understand it. But... I think I am becoming a lot more reflective... and with a tab of hesitation on the side. People just seem to let emotions get the best of the situation, rendering themselves blindsided. And then there's the ever looming "wake-up call" a few years down the road: your partner is not the person you thought he was.

It's a wonder people stay together forever. That would be ideal, and I admire those who "work at" their unions with the determination of marathoners in training, but I still fear the worst, all the same. My current view puts me approaching marriage in the way a cautious athlete might get into an ice bath: she gets in inch by painful inch until she's total immersed. And by that point, why get out? She's finally comfortable; the initial stinging that accompanied the process has faded into a state of acceptance. And I don't mean that in a derogatory sense, like numbness. Everyone knows ice helps keep down the inflammation. How that relates, I don't know.... I'm going to take aim at my mattress, finally.

Thievery

Yesterday, Mom took me to see her chiropractor about getting some really cool orthotics for my jacked feet. As we were pulling into the parking lot, I noticed that there were a couple of heaps of tree parts. The storm that took out my precious computer must have also torn a couple of really huge branches out of the ancient oak.

With the felled branches on our minds, we went in for my mom's appointment and for an evaluation of my feet. The chiropractor told me that my feet were unlike anything she'd seen before. By the way, it's never good news when a professional says something like that, and she calls her assistant in to have a look. No wonder I've got such huge peroneals; my arches have pretty much given up all strength. What a great time to be without any insurance.

So anyways... we were at the receptionist's window ready to leave when I finally asked about the wood piles outside. She told us we could have it if we wanted, and we made plans to come back.

After boxing class got out, I drove back to the chiropractor's place to start putting the wood in the back of the ELIMINATOR (my truck). Mom was supposed to come help with the heavier pieces, but she ended up coming late. So late, in fact, that I had nearly gathered all the firewood there was to be had. Let me just say that I was doing this at 8:30pm; it was dark outside. The only light with which I could see what I was doing was a single light bulb on a post at the end of the parking lot. A very weak light bulb, at that.

Someone must not have liked the fact that I was lifting 1,000 lbs of wood on a dark night, because then the light bulb went out. It was probably a motion-sensor type deal, but it still seemed like someone was watching me sweating away in the night as I threw log after log into the truck bed. When Mom finally arrived, I must have been a sight: girl stealing wood in the dead of night. She turned on her brights and pulled out my ax from the passenger side. That was when all joking was pushed aside.

I started whalin' on some pieces that weren't cut all the way through. Wood chunks were flying everywhere. I must say, I felt pretty cool. I felt like a lumberjackie.

That's when I looked over as a guy was taking his trash out. We made eye contact for a brief second or two, but I think he got the picture. He got back in that office in a hot second as I continued to weld my ax like the Amazons do. I felt like all we really needed were some ski masks to complete the feel of two crazed women taking out their aggression on dead wood during the dark hours.

All in all, we came out of that parking lot with enough firewood to last us a whole month. Now all I have to do is get the chainsaw running to take care of the long pieces and sharpen my ax for some splitting. Man, it feels good to be a mountain woman in training.

One Scoop of Humility, Please

So I'm finally getting into shape. And to celebrate this, I've decided to start running with my shirt off. I thought it was a good way to show confidence. Thought is the operative word here...

YESTERDAY:
I had just finished getting my quads in a tizzy at cycling class. And the yoga class wasn't until 7pm. There was plenty of time to squeeze in my 4 miles for the day, so I took off the shirt and started running towards the turnaround point. The run started well enough, and I didn't get any honks/hollers. This made my day, because I absolutely abhor it when men think that a nice long blaring honk will get them in my running shorts. In my 10 years as a runner, it has never worked.

I ran down through an old neighborhood, and tried to hide from a couple of old men who were talking in a driveway. I didn't want to be a "stumbling block". Hiding proved fruitless due to the fact that there weren't any shrubs or trees. In the end, I just decided to run faster to get by as quick as possible. You might wonder, why run shirtless if you don't want to be noticed? It's too dang hot in Georgia this time of the year. That's why! And I like the freedom that comes from feeling the air as I cut thought it. Also, I'm working hard and in good form... why not act like a competitive runner who takes her shirt off?

Five minutes into the run, I heard the faint sounds of a carousel. It sounded like it was coming from a few streets over. Gradually it grew clearer until it came out from behind a house. It was the ice cream man! His modified, old-school mail jeep had the typical "Cotton-Eyed Joe" playing in an atypical warped pitch. Try to imagine what music sounds like after dropping acid. I can't tell you, because I've never done it. But I guess that's what his music sounded like.

He passed me, but I didn't make eye contact. And I ran a few more minutes. Then I heard that trippy circus music coming again. The ice cream man came from a side street and surprised me. Again, I didn't make eye contact. In my heart, however, I thought, "This guy must be checking me out in his ghetto ice cream jeep."

Mile 2: The ice cream man made yet another pass at me. This time I thought that the guy must be using the ice cream man persona as a guise to pick up chicks. So I turned, in frustration, to face my stalker. IT WAS A WOMAN! Oh man, I felt the shame then. I had thought that a man was stalking me because he found me appealing to the eye. And come to find out, the ice cream man was just a regular woman trying to make an honest living. That instant blew all of my pride into the ditch. I thought that I had gotten my old charm back. And that is not a small thing after being single without any real prospects for almost a year.

Now I laugh, but then I did not. And the shirt went back on.

Great Indoors

I can't believe that I'm going to join a ladies' fitness gym. I'm almost 24 years old and probably 15 years younger than the next youngest client. I know this whole message might sound offensive, but I can't really help feeling a little strange. Another sign that I am quickly slipping into the realm of the "hermit-librarian" woman.

After years of running, nay, racing competitively I'm going to squeeze into lycra yoga pants and spend my time staring into a wall-length mirror while other women do the same. Forgive me, but I've never been a fan of gyms. It always seemed fake to lift weights, run on a treadmill, bike on a stationary cycle, and spend time in a step class. Why not go out for a trail run or ride a horse? Perhaps a nice swim? Anything but a yoga class!!

But I stand to betray my very own soul. Instead of the great outdoors, I'm going to spend time in a building with "Night at the Roxbury" music pumping. Anything to get in shape. Hi, I'm Skye Causey and I'm a sell-out. I so badly want to get back to being in the shape I was in college, that I am going to supplement my running schedule with yoga, "spin class", and weight-lifting. Perhaps I will be ready for the Atlanta Half...

I justify all this by a string of thoughts. For instance, runners aren't the most flexible bunch. We only move in one direction, and it's always one foot in front of the other. So, I figure yoga will help increase my range of motion. Very beneficial to runners, no? And weights are supposed to increase muscle mass...which makes me a more effecient machine. The spin class will add to my cardiovascular training. All that equals something good, I hope.

The Great Turn About

Now that my eyes are set to the Atlanta Half Marathon, I think it appropriate to start acting like a runner again. For instance... I went running yesterday. Paul, my college coach for those who don't know, would have averted his eyes to avoid seeing a former collegiate runner of his struggling so. In true recreational jogger fashion, I had my mp3 player strapped to my left arm. It was pretty much the only weapon, I figured, in my personal war of attrition. Within 5 minutes, nay 3 minutes, of bounding off of my front porch, I was already approaching my lactic threshold. Never have I felt like a watermelon with sandpaper-cover soles until that fateful hour. Climbing the hills felt more like pushing against a rusty tractor.

Thinking I would make it easier on myself, I plodded into a graded area where a new subdivision is slated to go in this Fall. As I made my way through the labyrinth of curb-lined dirt roads, I was pretty much drowning in my own perspiration (to put it kindly). Thirty minutes finally came to an end, and I secretly hoped that it would get easier soon, or cooler outside.

Was that enough? No, I then took my brother's pit bull for a walk down to the farm at the end of the road. Walking Muggles was like a new kind of resistance training. He managed to keep my arm in the taut and upright position the whole time. Well, when he wasn't peeing on a mailbox.

As we drew near the turnaround point, the sunset was marinating all things in a rosy glow. And the clouds were like giant, harmless bonfires in the sky. A huge flock of starlings were hosting a convention in a single, lucky pine tree. They gabbed like a bunch of church ladies at a prayer meeting while Muggs panted and I stood in wonder. Then they took to the air, and it was the sound of a thousand books being blown open by the wind. They were the scales of a giant flying fish. And got to see it. But then what is seeing it alone? It is almost like it never happened.

Then on our trek home, I saw three geldings grazing on Bennett Kimbral Road. I signalled to them, but they were lazy in their coming. In fact, only one of them approached the wire. It was a thick bay. His neck crested like a stallion; his hindquarters looked good enough to make steaks out of. Not that I eat horses, but I do like mine with muscular booty. Those are the kind of horses that make for a smooth ride. Call them the Cadillacs of the equine persuasion.

When we finally made it home, Muggs had no urine left for marking territory. And so it was time to head to my fire ring. After getting a fire started, I set up for the night and tried to sleep through the distant sounds of semi-trucks on I-75. Man, it must have taken me ages to crash.

Back to the Caveman Way

About a week ago, we finally got rain down here in the Southeast. A blessed curse, if you ask me. It was a relatively cool afternoon, but that short-lived sweetness gave way to ravenous winds. The sky turned several shades darker signalling the arrival of the first real storm of the entire flippin' summer. Huge globules of rain commenced to tenderizing everything not protected by shingles. Our animals (minus the cat) were all safe inside the house. Smash, the cat, needs no one. And it came to no surprise that she never came onto the porch to get out of the storm. The dogs (Bean and Muggs), are another story. They were bounding around, acting like squirrels on cocaine.

Then the sky became surreal in its light hue. It was if the atomic bomb had just mushroomed out to produce enough light to last the next 10 million years. I peered through the window, transfixed by the pale, if not violent, quality of the world outside the living room window. Suddenly it occurred to me that a tornado could be in the works. But before I could move away from the window, not ten feet from the porch, a bolt of lightning licked the earth with a merciless crash. Blinded, I staggered backwards and trampled Bean underfoot. He let out a defensive squeak of a yelp. We must have looked like clowns.

Mom told Hunter to shut down the computer. Meanwhile, we turned various appliances off and headed for the basement. Before we reached the basement, and Hunter on the computer, the unthinkable happened. Hunter had been in the process of shutting the computer off, when lightning travelled through the wires and shocked him senseless. According to his narration, and I don't doubt his story, all the volts passing through his body made him temporarily blind. Even after Hunter was upstairs and walking around, he complained that the left side of his body was in extreme pain. And to boot, all his music that he'd been producing (for years, nonetheless) had been lost forever. The computer was dually fried.

And two of our three televisions were put out of this world. Finally the storm continued on its war path as evidenced by the boomings in the distance. As the evening drew on, I could not help but think we had been divinely educated. The object I had spent most of my time fawning over was now deceased: the computer. Also, two-thirds of our televisions (which transmitted not only a waste of time, but "filth") were caput.

So here I find myself, in the newly renovated Cartersville library with seven minutes before my time on this computer is up. One hour a day on the internet is much better. Painful, but better. Martin Radigan, I hope you can sleep tonight, knowing that I used the majority of this hour to compose a piece only you will ever read.