Kyrianne: growing

We are all more alive now. We are all more than we were. Somehow we are all reproduced, but not as duplicates, and not as the sum of our parts. She is Mom and Dad, but also Vicki and Brooke. She is Drew, of course, but all that is in Sarah and their brother is in her also. And I feel most profoundly that she is Shea, and yet Erin and I are new in her also. We have new toes, untouched by pavement or trails, teeth without cavities, hands that haven't been scraped or covered in mud, knees that haven't been skinned.

And yet, there is something 'other' about her also. Although she profoundly is the collection of all of us, she is also mysteriously profoundly herself. She will cry and it will make us smile. She will drift off to sleep in the afternoons while we are awake. She'll hunger, desire, be comforted, discover-- and they will be hers alone. And our doting witness will be the confirmation of the greatest of all miracles: she is unique!

We are more, we are multiplied, not just in quantity but in the space between us, which mystically links us all afresh: family again.

Going home

Even though I usually come out to be alone in the mornings, it is nighttime now, and I feel the same unexplainable stirring I do at 5am. What is it about being alone with the dark world that makes you examine your life?

I'm afraid there's just too much I haven't considered.

I found Caballo Blanco; he's on facebook, can you believe it?! He is the burnt-out, beat-up ex-kick-boxing champ in Born to Run that I mentioned in an old post. He leads tours now in Mexico and training camps for runners. I wrote and asked him a question and to my amazement, he wrote back. It is utterly unnecessary to explain how compelled I feel to start saving my nickels and joy-running every chance I get.

Two days ago I set out ten minutes before five in the morning and ran thirteen miles in my Vibrams [barefoot running shoes] just to see if I could. For two days since then I have hobbled and winced. But sometimes there is just so much I need to do before I get where I'm going. I need the miles of dirt and sidewalk winding ahead. I need the sudden pain or the rain storm that might chase me, or that little corner of my running slipper that's worn through to the toe. And if running 13 miles brings you face-to-face with all your fears and demons, running 13 miles barefoot allows you to meet those same demons in your feet. Today I tried to run again, but its so hot now that I walked home 3 miles in, shaking.

I read my friend's blog tonight and she mentioned home-coming. It is a particularly interesting discussion as she is coming to the close of a year-long stay in Kenya, and though she will be boarding a plane soon to reunite with old faces, this is not the 'home' to which she refers. Instead, she describes the long-awaited assurance of her place in the community where she currently resides in Africa; it is a different sort of home-coming: A coming-into-herself that will inevitably lead out again.

As I read her lovely words, I found myself sitting with a longing-bird flapping its scraggly wings in my gut. There is so much I love in the world (and more particularly so much I love about being alive) that somehow what I really want for myself has become muddled. I have always been quite happy, and yes- easy to please. But what does it mean if happiness is so effortless? that I am thrilled by the waking-sleeping-eating-discovering-weeping-meeting drama that is the mundane? Is my content a testament to the place I've found in my community or just my insatiable taste for sturdy, functional rhythm? I just can't help but wonder if maybe my lack of criticism has devalued the life I have built for myself- or rather the one I have stumbled upon and accepted as suitable. I am so overstimulated by routine-- whatever routine it may be-- that suddenly I am heart-broken by the idea of leaving the grocery store because so much of what I believe is good and right is tangled in getting up everyday and clocking in.

It may be that the most true thing I did was admitting to my supervisor that it was time for me to move on. And yet in the end, I don't really believe it matters whether or not I stay at my job or leave, so don't mishear me on that point. I am happy. I don't begrudge a good thing just because it comes easily: I love my family beyond words, I have sweet, supportive friends and a beautiful city to explore and enjoy. I just hope I've been brave enough- that though I haven't really traveled the world, I've learned how to face the foreigner who lives in my chest and hold up the torch until home appears.

Right now, it feels safe and true to admit that there are still miles and miles to go.

Staying put

"I think I need to quit."

I heard my words hanging in the slanting sun, indiscreet and huge. But I wasn't startled; it felt like breathing. It was right, and necessary and proud. He stared back at me, the new sun glinting off his name tag, reflecting 'SUPERVISOR' into my steady gaze. "Uh---" was all he got out before the torrent began. Something about his momentary display of kindness, his odd-ball personality,the way I'd never considered him a sounding board in the past, and perhaps the horrendous ordeal of uncovering nasty gossip (again) made me plow forward. I told him that I had once loved working here, had become disillusioned, and somehow liked it well enough still. I explained my attempt to view work as intrinsically worthwhile, as solid and steady, and as an opportunity to teach myself the art of becoming a cog. I told him that I wasn't in it for self-actualization, to be unique or pursue vocation, but to sculpt my own inner-fortitude, to be reliable, hard-working and pay my rent. And I told him that I'd been weighing and considering all these things for two years, and I didn't need to consider it anymore. I was done.

In January, I asked to write an order. January passed, order-writers swapped; my name stayed off the list. Then in March I was asked to be a part of a special team, and I accepted with pleasure. And yet, the ordeal that followed is too exhausting to type out here: the miscommunication, the pressure of shifting management, my own frantic ineptitude, the dead ends, the promises that still hang in the air unanswered and now just plain unmentioned. In May, for whatever reason, I was taken off morning shifts. Adjusting to the tasks of mid-shifts was apparently more strenuous than I imagined, because in the last week of May I was pulled aside by my favorite supervisor and asked 'if you even want to be here anymore since you refuse to help customers,' a sentiment I am still puzzled by. (When he transferred out of our store a month later, I hardly knew how to feel.) And then, in the end of June as we came upon our annual summer hour slump, I found myself moving from 36 hours a week to 20,(a cut so drastic I can't even fathom paying my rent this month- thankfully I don't have to. Instead I have to move) and then this past week to 14. Yes, 14 hours of work this week.

So when a coworker offered her Saturday morning shift, I had no reason to say 'no.' 'Yes!' I said, 'Wonderful!' But that's precisely when the shit hit the fan. In the (nearly) two years of my employment, I have worked so many Saturday mornings, I can't even begin to count, and yet for some reason when we asked our supervisor for the switch, he pulled me aside and said:

"Kristin, I just want to be honest with you. I need to tell you that there's been a lot of bad feeling about you working a Saturday amongst crew members and, you know, a lot of the [supervisors] have been saying it too, so we'll probably just put you on flowers or something, and you've really got to, you know, go full-throttle-- I mean, everyone's been saying that you always say, 'I'm not really worried about getting done this morning because somebody always comes to help me,' and that just doesn't reflect well on you, and-- you know, its not always true. we're really tight Saturday mornings and I just want to be sure you're not going to have that attitude-- I mean, I like you, Kristin and when I hear things like that, I take it with a grain of salt, but I'm like, okay, if she said that, its bad news and you're really going to have to work hard to lose that perception of you, because like, everyone is really having a bad feeling about it, and I just want you to know, its going around."

I don't have the first clue what to do about this. This is called gossip; I know that much, because I remember it from high school. But in high school all you have to do is look him or her (or your bathroom mirror, depending on how its going) in the eye and say, "nuh-uh!" and its done. When you're 16, this sort of thing flies, but I'm 24, and you know, a professional. So I just looked at him. "Well, I'm not sure how to respond to that," I told him. "I have never said that. I certainly don't feel it. I'm just wracking my brains trying to think how I could have said something close to that." And really, who would be annoyed enough with me to report something like that, even if I did say it, which I didn't. Why would I?! I am worried about getting my job finished in the mornings, excessively so. What's more, I really like everyone I work with during these shifts. We laugh together, we swap stories. Doesn't it seem that everyone who wakes up before five in the morning must share some kind of special kinship? Which one of these good-natured morning sweethearts went and ratted me out when I had my back turned, took some comment (though I still can't imagine what) and twisted it to mean I was flippant, unconcerned, and sure someone else would pull my weight?

And then, (back in the office) he did something horrible, and reached out and touched my arm. It was light touch, but intentioned, and said, "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, honey." And that's when I burst into tears. I am just so exhausted of working against some perception. This sort of thing has just never happened to me before. I've always been a star student, a team player with a positive attitude that isn't an effort for me to muster. I turned and left the office, fled past Patrick in the wine section whose face froze as the sight of my tears, and into the bathroom where I sunk to the floor for the hundreth time and sobbed. Just cried, and cried, because I am so tired, because I don't feel like myself anymore and mostly because somebody doesn't like me, which is a horrible, horrible fault of mine (so damn sensitive).

And two minutes later, I picked myself up, wiped my eyes and resignedly asked my supervisor for a chat. He said yes, and that we should go out and catch a little sun. I smiled, and told him I want to quit. That I'm done, that I want to leave high school behind once and for all.

And after an hour of wonderfully humanizing conversation (in which he actually offered me--off the record of course--career advice!!) I told him, give me some time, I'll think about it.

Since then I have talked to some friends- including Pat, who was (probably appropriately) furious with me for even considering quitting without talking to him about it and simultaneously devastated on my behalf- who have offered a little perspective. And just as liberating as it was to stand up and say with assurance, "I'm ready to move on," I feel a vice close over my chest as I admit, I just can't quit my job. There's not enough money. So tomorrow will be another day as usual, one to nine.

I'm so overwhelmed I'm not sure where to turn, but it helps to think of my dad, who worked in a job he disliked for ten years to help me through college. (What a wimp I am.) It also helps that my sweet sister and brother-in-law have forced me to pray every day, multiple times a day for the rest of my life as I manage to sneak my precious niece into every conversation I have: Kyrianne, Kyrianne:

Lord have mercy,
Lord have mercy on it all.

Kyrianne Jane Tuttle Willson

It's been the most surreal day. Everything I do is draped in this feeling of being an aunt and this little person really being in the world. I can't get over the idea that she is somehow totally Shea and Drew and at the same time, now finally something totally separate from them. How did they do that? I am okay with the genes and the organs and the ten fingers and toes- but how did they give her that little light: the will, the soul?

Born to be Barefoot

After reading Born to Run during the majority of my flight from Tucson in April, I did the smallest amount of research possible and then ordered barefoot running shoes online. They’re called vibram five-fingers and they look a bit like alien shoes-- I’ve thought about this quite a lot-- mostly because we’re not used to the fact that we actually have five toes. Seeing them all splayed out there encased in black nylon (or bright red, mossy green, even sunshine yellow) looks strange and sort of flips my stomach like I’m trying to politely avert my gaze from some abnormality. After all, since the advent of cushy heels and gel pods, what exactly are toes for? The annoyance of clipping nails, the weirdness of what gets jammed between them, the frustration and agony of smashing them against doorframes and table legs.

In fact, its been a long time since I’ve had something good to say about my feet in general. When I was a kid, I waited for shoeless summers with a similar intensity as Christmas morning. The first sign came when even grown ups abandoned puffy winter coats, then okay, yes, we can wear short sleeved shirts and finally! the shorts get unpacked from dusty boxes, and last, but certainly not least came the shoes: off with the shoes, bare feet all around! One summer I became so used to treading around without shoes that I walked six blocks to a babysitting job without even noticing there was nothing on my feet.
And yet, somewhere along the way, everything changed. There are many things that may have let to the hating of my feet, but if I had to pin in down to one experience, my guess would be the horror of skating in 3rd grade gym class.

Six weeks out of the year they heaved in great wheeled cubbies full of shoes to fit the wide spectrum of sizes necessary to house the wide spectrum of grade school feet. Think about it for a second: do you remember the third grader whose hands and feet were the size of Barbie shoes? The one who towered above you with dolphin heraches thundering down the stairs? The blessed middle-sized child no one remembers at all. And then they made a spectical of the whole thing by calling you up by size. Size 5 and under, you can retrieve your skates. Okay, now size 6 and 7. Anyone else? Oh yeah, size 7 and up. And three of us would stand in the sea of petite hands struggling to pull on and lace skates over small and normal feet. All seemed to halt as they turned to look up. There’s a size above 7? Really? How? And there we were, apologetically running to the last cubby by the wall, pulling out our clownish two-tone red and green skates (the only colors in that size) and ducking our faces (now the same color as our skates) down to begin the slow attempt at fastening these massive (do they have to be on wheels?!) bodies of canvas and laces to our snow-sled size feet.

Then on a camping trip with my dad I fell over a rogue tent stake and gashed the big toe on my left foot. The toe has healed, but the nail never did.

Then when I started running, they started to smell; am I to blame?!

Then in college when I started running more than sitting by the pool, I got a horrible ring around my ankle: the dreaded sock tan. I stopped wearing sandals. I hated the sight of my feet. And thus we have the present condition. I am flat footed. My feet are white as dolphins and twice the size. My toenail is cracked and discolored. Why, why, why and how could I ever learn to love my feet?

But then I read about barefoot running, and it took me about two paragraphs to be persuaded. Feet are surprising complex (housing as much as 25% of the bones in your body)not to mention architectually brilliant with toes and arches that all function in special ways giving us the ability to walk, run, balance, grip and jump. And yet we, particularly as ahtletes, have spent the last 30 years encasing them in increasingly complex imitations of an already complex, functional form. As Chris McDougall points out, no architect in her right mind would build supports beneath an archway if trying to maintain the integrity of the design. Even a child could deduce building with blocks (though probably without being able to articulate why) that the strengh of the arch comes when force is applied from above. So this is what I take from Chris’ conclusion: I have spent the last fifteen years (with increasing intensity as I have begun running more seriously) actually weakening my already almost non-existant arches. Ack!

Now that I have my vibrams, however, something of my childhood is coming back. I remember the freedom and sweetness of relying on my toes, of loving what my feet can do, how spry I feel, how able to balance and hop and go at a moment’s notice. Last weekend we went camping, and tide-pooling I found my greatest pleasure came not from the star-fish we uncovered the size of a house cat, but instead from the way my toes held and engaged the ground beneath me. Climbing, hopping, balancing, loving them all the (substantial) way from heal to grippy toe.

Collision

I know, I know... It's June. And its been almost- no, over- a month since I've last taken a minute to process my thoughts in this space. But as the weather outside is still so very frightful, I feel somehow justified in my wait. Yes, I have a lot on my mind, but a lot of it seems to be about large moments, and waiting. Waiting, but everything still manages to plunge forward at such an incredible pace that I can hardly catch my breath.

So we're waiting for sunny days, waiting for the baby (34 weeks along now I think?!), waiting for the endless list of wedding chores to be accomplished (and yeah, at times actively persuing this reality), waiting for vacation, waiting for packages to come in the mail (!!), and I've been waiting for something else too: waiting for it all to come together, to mesh in my mind: what's been happening, my witness to it all. Waiting for something that's unfolding so fast I can no longer hope for cohesion, but brace myself instead for collision. And hope that its manageable, resportable and just plain fine.

Shea said when she first told everyone she was pregnant, she was overwhelmed at her response to their questions. They couldn't stop asking about the sex and what they would name the baby; they wanted the props, the fill-in-the-blank baby. But all Shea thought was "Holy shit, this is a w-HAT now growing in my stomach?" I mean, its a baby in there. A real, live human (wo)man. A short little alien creature that she's somehow responsible for creating and maintaining and how can you even begin to puzzle this out let alone start thinking oh- the sex, oh- the name: yes, it'll be a boy and we'll call it Henry. Nobody thinks to bring up the real issue, you know, not that fact that its a boy or a girl but that its HUMAN.

This is almost exactly how I feel about getting married. Its not just that we're getting married in less than two months or that it'll be in IL and that I'm wearing white and he's wearing beige and we're eating a cake made by his grandmother. It's not that we'll be putting on rings, but what it is that they signify, which is unanimously unclear. Does it have to do with taking out the garbage, with moving across the country, with working at the grocery store day after day? Does it mean I have to go to church, have to agree, have to have an opinion?

Another reason I am slow to blog is the increasing attachment Pat has to his computer which greatly hinders my own access. And so, I bought Patrick an early wedding gift. And though it is actually mine and I sit typing these words upon it, it was Pat's sanity and happiness I had in mind when I bought this sweet little netbook and waited for it to arrive in the mail. It is the size of a large paperback novel, and just about as heavy. So hurrah! Independent blogging!

Lonely Roads, Mix CDs

a year or so ago, Pat made me a mix CD (inspired, in part I am sure, by my sister and brother in law who compile clever, incredibly romantic lists of songs to convey their feelings to each other). However, Pat's expressed his relationship not with me, but with God throughout his life. Typical. Anyway, as my own relationship both with faith and the faithful community has turned over afresh I have thought more than once about doing the same. Tonight I'm inspired by Joni Mitchel and her song All I Want, which I'm officially naming as the first song on the list.

It starts:

I am on a lonely road and I am traveling, traveling, traveling
Looking for something, what can it be

Oh I hate you some, I hate you some, I love you some