The Recovering Journalist

Life is hard - even close to Halloween

There's something going on in the universe. Something in the air. The temperature has shifted from balmy and hurricane hot to downright frigid. The Halloween decorations I've hung with care have gone from hanging horizontal to the ground due to 30 mph winds to hanging languidly wrapped around trees.

Change is in the air; it's all around. At times it carries the dry, crisp tang of crinkly, dead leaves. Othertimes it smells like the peculiar changing-season rot that seems to have overtaken a portion of the swamp I run across as part of my training. Part wet leaves, part something that smells strongly of antiseptic. As if Mother Nature is doing her part to break down, disinfect and get rid of what had come before to make way for a cold, barren season in which the heart waits for what lies ahead.

It's been a time of tense anticipation for my family as a number of life decisions hang in the balance. It's been a time of excitement fringed with frustration.

Today I had a frustrating conversation with someone who I care for. Not life-altering, just one of those relationships that could be more. I hung up the phone frustrated and disappointed. Mad at myself for enjoying a relationship so much that I could easily see it becoming something it isnt. Frustrated at myself for getting my hopes up in places I shouldn't, everytime I feel that pang of kindred spirit toward someone.

I laced up my sneakers and headed out for my long weekend run, hoping to bang it out early so I can enjoy Boston run-free for the weekend. I was surprised at the emotions I felt. Tears streamed across my cheeks at one point. I was shocked. I swiped at the moist salt and stared at my fingers in disbelief. Soon the frustration ebbed away and gave way to that familiar feeling of exertion. I pulled my sternocleidomastoid muscle recently, likely from the running, and it's freaked me out. It has the effect of swollen lymph nodes, minus the swollen nodes. Turning my head is difficult. Swallowing is uncomfortable. Running I have to be extremely careful to maintain decent form. And yet, I remain keenly aware these days just how much the human head weighs.

It got dark around mile 8 and I pulled out my phone to let my family know I was alive and only had a mile left and would call when I was done running. Someone nearly hit me with their car as I crossed a busy road. This really aggravated me. I had the right of way. And I know the car saw me. The driver and I made eye contact. He revved the engine. Once safely on the other side, I took my phone out. I was shocked at the multitude of messages, flashing lights, blinking missives and missed calls.

One friend has been disappointed in love. Another lost his young brother, who has a wife and young daughter. The wake is Halloween.

The impact of the latter took the wind literally out of my sails and lungs. I slowed to a walk, staring in disbelief at my phone. I reread the words over and over again. As my pace slowed, for the first time I felt how cold the air had grown. The chill stung my chest.

This friend has lost his only sibling. I thought of my sister, my only sibling. My best friend from the moment I met her.

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. Maybe my absolute favorite. I love the darkness, the night. I love the costumes, the pageantry, the sequins, the other side of self. I love the candy. I love the candlelight. I love the mischief. I love the moonlight.

But I also love how the holiday throws into sharp relief the juxtaposition and very fine line between the living and the dead. Contrary to what one might assume from my previous post, my Catholicism also comes with a great respect for All Saints Day, life, death, the triumph of good and the power of evil. Behind all the jack-o-lanterns and rubber masks is a poignant reminder that life cannot be without death. The two are inextricably linked.

My parents recently lost a friend to an aggressive brain tumor. He used to be a successful farmer before moving here a short time ago. My mother went to breakfast with his wife today. Recounting the day, my mom said, "She just has such a wonderful outlook on life and death; maybe it's having been on a farm and having been so close to it. She embraces it so fully."

As Americans who largely live luxuriously without having to kill our own meat or bury our own dead, death is only as close as we want it to be. We can remain at an arm's length from life too, if we like. Other people deliver our babies and even raise our children. We can stay home and never speak to anyone if we want to. I believe that such a distance began as a luxury but has become a great detriment to our people. I've heard many friends in the Peace Corps. remark how villagers in Third World countries are so much more comfortable with death. It's part of life. Sure there's sadness and grief. But the circle of life is palpable, unavoidable and almost comforting in itself.

Life is hard. I've been lucky to not lose anyone terribly close to me yet. Whenever someone I know passes from this world, however, it's impossible not to contemplate that crossover. How a person who was here, eating oatmeal and watching the news only days and hours ago, no longer is here as we knew him. Where does that leave those of us left behind?

As I send out fervent prayers for the comfort of my friend, I also listen to "This Is Halloween" as I pack to head to my own holiday revelry in Boston. It's a scary time, an unnerving time. A time to remember our dead. A time to respect the spirits of those who've gone before us, and to wonder if they're walking the same streets, drifting among us unseen, watching us as much as we continue to yearn and look for them.

This is Halloween. This is Halloween. Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween.

Ha- Ha- Halloween

Driving home a night or two ago a black cat crossed in front of my car rather leisurely. It stopped and sat on the curb staring back at me.

"Son of a bitch!" I said, slapping my steering wheel. By my rough calculations, I've only just neared the end of the bad luck brought on me by my last black cat crossing. Although, if my PowerBall numbers are any indication, that luck wasn't coming back anytime soon.

My high school boyfriend's family had a thing with keeping black cats as pets. I get it - due to unfounded superstition, black cats are homeless everywhere. They shuffle the streets, scraping by as best they can, all thanks to the misfortune of being born under a bad star with the "wrong" coat color.

If I had a black cat for a pet, I'm sure that would justify losing the superstition. Because I don't have a black cat, I reserve the right to remain cautious.

It doesn't help that I passed under a large ladder a million times while readying my parents' house for Halloween, either.

I'm the designated decorator for most holidays at my parents' house. And after my mom's knee replacement, I try to get up in the attic and grab all the decorations before anyone else has a chance to. My mom gets angry arguing that she can do it. As I retort, can and should are two entirely different things. That's all I need: a call from my dad that he found my mom paralyzed, having fallen from the attic through the upstairs hallway onto the ground floor, covered in a haphazard heap of spider webbing, pumpkin lights and jack-o-lantern votive holders.

I enjoy decorating for Halloween. It's one of my favorite holidays. I'll be in Boston for the holiday this year, part of a merry band that my best friend has dubbed "the whores of Wonderland." It's my first year with a sexy costume. No reason to go only halfway about it, am I right?

My dad only realized a few days ago that I wouldn't be around for the merry making this year. "You mean I might have to decorate by myself?" he asked, a slight look of terror on his face.

So I've started a little early. For me. The doorway is draped in black tulle and sheer orange curtains, the scariest mask I own crowns it all and orange and purple lights are threaded throughout spilling out onto the bushes on either side of the doorway. Giant spiders and Frankenstein masks stud the scene, along with ample pumpkins and lit jack-o-lanterns. Pairs of eyes glint from one of the trees. I've made a makeshift graveyard on one side of the house with headstones, ghosts and my favorite, light-up "Marcus the Carcass." He looks like he's emerging from the grave with light-up hands, feet and a giant scary head with white shaggy hair. Giant star lights dangle from a tree near the driveway, lighting up pumpkins and a stray skull. Plastic bones of femurs, hands and skulls are scattered around the property.

It still needs some work but it's getting there. I'll be able to board my plane with confidence. And I'm sure dad will remember to flick on the music and my new, mini-size strobe light. (All we need is for some kid to have an epileptic seizure on my parents' front step.)

In more honest-to-God criticism and ranting news, The Catholic News & Herald's latest issue promos on its front cover details on how to throw a Catholic-oriented All Saint's Day celebration. The graphic for the story is a headstone that reads: "Here lies an atheist ... all dressed up with no place to go." (By the by, I'm sure Jesus totally would put that on the cover of his newspaper.)

I'm working on my letter to the editor right now but am too angry to fashion anything other than expletives at this point. Shit like that is what's wrong with the world. Forget spending millions on some bullshit "welcome back to the church" program for fallen away Catholics (hello, recent bullshit program on behalf of the Diocese of Charlotte). Cut back on bullshit like this and you might have some churchgoers. In fact, cut crap like this and there might be a few more participants in organized religion in general.

The ideas were priceless too. Forego occult Halloween decorations and decorate your door like the pearly gates, dress like St. Peter, put pictures of your favorite saints in your windows and hand out saint cards instead of candy. Aside from the obvious, petty flaws with that idea (saint cards are pretty expensive and haven't been updated since some kindly nuns in the '50s drew them. who has  huge saint images for their front windows? pearly gates? really?), it doesn't even make any sense. You'd spend the whole night explaining (if possible) what the hell you were really going after and then have your house egged anyway. (This is not to say you shouldn't stand up for unpopular beliefs. Just that this is an unpractical, stupid one that shouldn't be defended.)

And what arrogance! As if Catholicism created the holiday. There's a reason All Saints Day falls when it does - stealing off pagan ritual for years. Plus, what's so wrong with it? It began as a Celtic All Hallows Eve, day of the dead celebration which acknowledged that not all spirits are friendly so maybe you should leave them treats. Catholics should totally be down with that. We believe in the devil. We believe in hell. Oh, but witches and goblins? Now that's some evil shit. You can't believe in that. Only Satan.

Keep it up. Soon we'll see a headstone that reads: "Here lies The Catholic News & Herald, formerly serving extremist Catholics."

I still haven't found what I'm looking for

While in New Orleans, I picked up a few CDs from street bands I really liked. One was kind of an old-time jazz band. Another was two women, Dorise & Tanya, who play guitar and violin. They kick ass. They play everything from classic standards to covers of popular tunes. The CD I picked out has U2's "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" on it. I'm listening to it now. While I'm still partial to the version that features Bono's crooning, there's something simple about the all-music version.

NOLA was interesting. I can't imagine living there, much less being there during or just after Hurricane Katrina. And still, the culture, food and architecture is breathtaking. I understand now why people from there say there's no place like it. They're right.

I have an unhealthy fondness for Bourbon Street and found an excuse to walk there every night. I'll expound upon this in a future, honest-to-God essay, but for now all I'll say is it should be comforting to women of every shape and size. The immaturity of the men on display might make you weep, but the too-tight G-strings and pasties on misshapen boobs would make any woman smile and stand a little straighter.

Favorite quotes from today:

"There's lots of frustration and toxicity, but we cling to the good times."

"Anyone can rub on someone and call it a massage. Everyone knows that."

Speaking of massages and the quote above, I received a two-hour massage this evening finally cashing in on my rapidly mounting Massage Envy monthly membership (you'll lose all your saved-up massages if you cancel your membership - thus, if you're not diligent - you'll find yourself getting massages every hour until you cancel ... like I'll be doing).

Yesterday I was slated for a long run. I got up later than I would've liked. The one-hour time difference from NOLA has surprisingly kicked my ass. I attended the Panthers game (what an abysmal team) and collected money afterward for the LAMB Foundation of NC. Didn't leave the stadium until a bit after 5 and didn't hit the streets in my sneakers until around 6. What I had hoped to be 10 miles was more and more looking like an 8-mile run. I picked up my pace. Around mile 4 my left leg felt really tight. I figured it'd work itself out. I was wrong. By mile 5 I felt a pop in my hamstring. I kept trying to walk-run, but it made my eyes tear. After limping a mile, it was getting quite dark. After two deer and an opossum crossed my path, I figured I better call in reinforcements.

I returned home and iced it all night. It's far better today, but I supplemented with an extra-long massage. I don't usually like to be talked to during massages, unless you're whispering sweet nothings in my ear. I now know this girl's life story. She had a stroke at 28. She's 29 now. Totally functioning but still scary. She still doesn't have health insurance. Her dad just recovered from non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. She's dating a guy who wants to be a sci-fi writer. His birthday is Nov. 9.

Among the personal history, I also learned some rather lurid details of the massage therapy industry. She hasn't run into as many smelly people as I'd hoped. None that she could recall, in fact. Lots of women and men in need of pedicures. Lots of men who need to shave their backs. And, what I wasn't really expecting (maybe my mind isn't dirty enough?) a much larger number of people getting off on the massage table than I would've expected. She's only had to terminate one massage session in six years for that very reason which, she assured me, is pretty good in terms of statistics. Still, it's surprising to me that every couple months she'll have a guy ask for a "happy ending" in all seriousness. (I'm not even going to discuss what an insult that term is to fairy tales and Happy Meals everywhere.)

Really? What arrogance! What ... utter shamelessness.

She admitted that women also go too far. She tried to class it up and philosophize it out, saying that it's all men and women who are disoriented about touch or aren't touched a lot. She talked a lot about how most all men, as we know, can't distinguish between different kinds of touch and massage is immediately sexual for them. Women are better at the nuances of touch.

Regardless, no one wants some guy going to town on the massage table, am I right?

Was this massage of mine relaxing? Maybe not as much as others I've had. Was it entertaining? Hell yes.

Not even close to Bourbon Street, but for Charlotte It'll do.

 

New Orleans bound

Attended David Sedaris' Charlotte appearance tonight with dear friend Alison Woo. Weeks ago my dad had forwarded me info for free tickets to the event. I was in Boston and not entirely motivated. When Woo messaged me a day or two ago and asked me to go, I was thrilled. We've attended his Charlotte talks before. Sedaris just wouldn't seem the same without her. I was glad to go. It was not only good to catch up but it reminded me how much I love the written word and how intoxicating fabulous turns of phrase can be.

Must sleep, headed to New Orleans tomorrow for a few days. I can't wait! I've never been! Could I use another exclamation point? I guess not. :)

And below, evidence for why I should never be allowed to get tattoos ...

 

Close your eyes now, kid

It's nearly 2 a.m. and I'm abed, sipping apple cider tea (delicious!) and listening to some of my favorite music, which is wafting softly from my computer speakers. God bless technology.

I ran 10 miles tonight - first time in my life I've run a distance like that straight. I didn't even rack up that kind of mileage playing sports. I hemmed and hawed about it all day. I missed the cool of morning and the afternoon was warmer than I imagined it would be. I was latently tired all day and kept contemplating a Sunday nap. By 5 I resigned myself to head out. I probably didn't hit the pavement until 5:30 or so. The weather was perfectly cool. The sun set while I ran so that my last mile or two was bathed in the warm pink glow of dusk.

I'm very ADD at the start of my runs. "Did I tie my right shoe too tightly? Yes, yes, I think I did. How far will I run? What's the mileage here again? And now here? What about here? Do my shoulders hurt? Yes, they do. Keep your arms down; don't tick off your neck. Is this sports bra enough? Maybe not. My boobs hurt. Even if they're rather small to hurt. But they do. Remember what you read - they don't have much natural support and running causes them to permanently sag. Isn't that the way. Why didn't I move this song in the order of my iPod? I'd like to listen to it later in my run. Is that guy on the path a pervert? He seems like one. I should only listen to my music in one ear so I can hear if the perv turns on me. Yeah, that's what I'll do..."

On and on it goes for at least two miles. Sometimes three. And that's just the running-centric talk. Often it strays to my life path. What I need to do. Trying to construct a mental list of tasks I need to get done and yet my brain is firing too fast and blood flow to it isn't exactly a priority at the time so it's hard to retain any plans I make.

By mile four or five I start to feel my oats. My brain starts to settle in and my thoughts waft slower. By mile seven on, I've hit an endorphin high and I laugh. I move my arms to the music as if I'm dancing while running. I do in-air drumming. I sing aloud. After the endorphins settle a bit, it's the only time my head is quiet. My body is focused on the motion of propelling me forward and it's made the executive decision that deep thoughts aren't necessary to make any of this action happen. I occasionally still attempt to do math at this time. It's a laughable mistake. My legs keep pumping. My arms keep swinging. I occasionally glance down to catch a glimpse of my legs. They're short but powerful. They've become more how I used to remember them. I'm thankful for their ability to get me from place to place.

The reflection of the moon glides along with me on the pond's surface as I round the last mile home. I stretch out by the mailbox, stars overhead. My muscles are tight, warm. The air has grown cold.

Later, I stretch out in the bathtub, using the warm water to coax my legs back to life. Now in flannel pants, there's nothing better in the world. It's taken until 2, but my eyes grow tired. We'll see how well I walk in the morning. ;)

Sleep well.

"Mockingbird sing
In the middle of the night
All his songs are stolen so he hides
Stole them out from whippoorwills
Screaming car alarms
He sings 'em for you special
He knows you're afraid of the dark
Come on, sorrow
Take your own advice
Hide under the bed
Turn out the light
Stars this night in the sky are ringing out
You can almost hear them sayin',
'Close your eyes now, kid.'
'Close your eyes now, kid.'" - Neko Case 

Coffee, columns and strange weirdos

It seems as if the past few weeks have been an unending stretch of gathering information like berries in a basket. One here, one there, a few spill out here, a few are full of fungus over there. Today was an important day in sorting the information out, putting it on paper, hitting deadlines. Sometimes it's painful. Like today. It's slowly coming together, though I have miles to go before I sleep. (Kate, I owe you a call. Sorry I missed yours tonight. Way too behind. Promise to call tomorrow or Saturday.)

Amid the hubbub of work that's due, so was my online application to Good Morning America's Advice Guru call for candidates. My favorite Starbucks barista, Janie you're the bomb!, grabbed me in early October after hearing GMA announce the contest and said, "You HAVE to apply, Regan." I went to the website right away. I copied down all the application questions. They sat on my desktop and fermented. True to form, an hour before it was due at midnight I started banging out my replies. It might've just been the end-of-time endorphins but I think my responses were pretty damn good. I'm quite pleased. Uploaded my photo, filled out my info, sent that shit in with 10 minutes to spare.

Now, does GMA pay attention to one of the last of thousands to apply before the floodgates closed? I don't know. Is it better to be first or last? Are we talking about the Kingdom of God or a job application? Either way, it's probably best to squeak in at all. I'll take it. And now I can get my latte without shame as the baristas have been hounding me about if I had submitted my application yet.

My sweet dog Korben is lying beside me. His allergies have been awful and after not being able to breathe a stiff course of steroids has left him overly aggravated and hungry all the time. He's like a tiny Maltese version of Napoleon right now. I never met Napoleon exactly, but I have a pretty clear image in mind. If he were a Maltese in a bandanna, he'd be my dog. I'm touched that he's sacked out next to me, softly snoring. While Leeloo shows her love for me by still trailing me like a puppy and sidling next to me every chance she gets, Korben is far more fickle. But it's in moments like these that I know he prefers me. Or at least my bed and ceiling fan. I don't blame the little guy.

And in hypocritical news, when my due stories are in and sent I will be purchasing a sexy Halloween costume this very day. I know, I know. When did I ever think I'd type those words, right? Especially without them being coupled with the words "Rainbow Brite." Peer pressure. It's a horrible thing. It's another item to add to the turning 30 bucket list: Resolve to wear sexy costumes while you're still relatively sexy enough to pull it off. Now to narrow it down to the essence of sexy Wonderland Red Queen of Hearts - who hasn't been sexy in any iteration in literature or silver screen. Somehow these costume companies have thought otherwise, however, and have rendered her in thigh high, bow-draped stockings, heart-festooned corsets and glitter platform Mary Janes. They know my weaknesses it seems.

Regarding pressure, love and the whole business of living, I've been listening to the song below today and find it rather poignant. Well put, Loudon. Well put.

Song of the day: Loudon Wainwright III's "Strange Weirdos"

"Isn't it strange that two strangers
Suddenly don't feel so strange?
It's something familiar though this time it's different
What they're in for feels like sea change

Isn't it weird that two weirdos
Can wind up not feeling that weird?
It's all so momentous yet perfectly normal
Scary but not to be feared

And it starts with a sentence that might last a lifetime
Or it all might just go down in flames
If I let you know me then why would you want me?
But each day I don't is a shame

And each day I don't is a great shame

Isn't it great that two people
Together can tear down one wall?
The handwriting is on it, it's not hieroglyphic
That barrier just has to fall

But isn't it sad that most people
Stay so lonely it's almost a crime?
We might be strange weirdos but it can't be normal
To be frightened so much of our time

 And it starts with a sentence that might last a lifetime
Or it all might just go down in flames
If I let you know me then why would you want me?
But each day I don't is a shame

And each day I don't is a great shame.

 

The situation

I'm a situationally shy person. Does that make sense? To me it does.

I went on a date with someone the other night - a guy I met at a party of some mutual friends. In pre-date discussions (we're girls! what?) my mutual friend said, "The two of you are SO different. Like complete opposites. He's SO SHY. And you're so NOT shy."

It made me laugh. Turns out he's not shy. And sometimes I am.

I thought of this today while doing some last-minute interviews. While working for the Weekly I sometimes wondered why I was even doing the job. I mean, I love writing. I love to hate editing. But I always inwardly loathed talking to people. I mean, I loved the talking part, it was the getting started part that drove me insane. I think I faked it decently. But there was always an inner process of pep talks that had to go on.

Maybe it also was linked to some kind of situational depression because lately I find I'll talk to anyone and everyone. I laugh louder. (Yes, it's possible.) While running my mouth to strangers lately I think, "What is happening here? Who is this person?"

Such mouth-running usually only occurred with the people I knew and loved best - hence, the quick judgment that I'm not shy. Which, as painstakingly described, is rather accurate.

I don't know what's happening. I suspect it's connected to the drastic, unexplained change in my hair texture from fine, shiny and (as my mother used to lovingly describe) "drippy" to coarse, full, kinky and borderline 'fro-ish. (I unleashed my hair last night after running at the gym and I looked like Tina Turner circa full-on '80s perm hair.) Everything is starting to hang out and let loose.

In speaking about letting loose, I've been captivated by the rescue of the Chilean miners over the course of the past two days. I wept when the first guy popped out. I laughed when the second, gregarious guy emerged. Every miner, every tear-stained reunion with family members was touching. It bolsters my faith - in God, in prayer, in humanity, in nations working together. It's pretty remarkable what can be accomplished when everyone works together - when we can put aside our difference for five seconds to create a kick-ass engineering marvel (painted in patriotic Chilean colors and flags, no less) to rescue a couple dozen guys from the bowels of the earth. It should be collectively appalling that we don't do this kind of thing more often.

And in news of things we don't do often, I started rifling through my parents' collection of old photos the other afternoon while returning some I had borrowed. I started looking at all of them and just couldn't stop. In one, my cousin and I were just reprimanded for each sticking a finger in the icing of my mom's birthday cake. I'm crying, shattered at being reproached. I'm a year old or so. A few photos later and I stared at a picture of me and my mom and realized with horror that it was her 30th birthday party. Through the photographs we were at nearly the same point in time in life - and yet so different. My career is in transition. I have no husband, no mini-me children.

I'm not quibbling with the timing or where I am. I've just never had the difference hit me so squarely before.

A dear friend who turns 30 this month e-mailed me this week saying this time has made him re-evaluate where he is. He's planning to climb Mt. Rainier. He also plans to fly around the world.

I've started making my third-of-a-life crisis list. Finish this half marathon in November. (Please post in the comment field your favorite "get up and go" songs as my favorite playlists are becoming stale.) Walk El Camino de Santiago. Travel to Ireland. Return to Italy - maybe stay. Fall in love again - with someone who loves me back and isn't afraid to do something about it. Do as much outside as possible. Finally use my creme brulee sugar burner. Remember the proper name of my creme brulee sugar burner (small blowtorch? close? something fancier?) Let go of my anger. Eat more veggies - even the weird ones. Keep flossing. Go camping. Enjoy a bonfire. Give away all the shoes I don't wear - maybe even the platform knee-high sky-blue glitter ones. Remain open to possibility, receptive to love.

Reserve the right to remain situationally shy.

Let your light shine

I read a Facebook status today that paraphrased the old analogy of pumpkins and salvation - that God scoops out our yucky insides, carves a grin on our faces and pops his own light inside us to shine to the rest of the world.

It's kind of a nice metaphor in a creepy way. Most jack-o-lantern grins are ghastly. Much like our mortal coils, it doesn't take long for even the hardiest of gourds to run afoul and decay. Then there's the whole hollow aspect that I guess the writer of said analogy didn't want to spend too much time on.

Regardless of your religious bent, fall makes me feel a lot like a jack-o-lantern. The crisp air comes along and cleans out the rotted guts from the rest of the year. I know there's not much year left to live, but what's left I'll live with a flickering light and a toothy grin.

Does this metaphor make me more gutless in the fall? More heartless?

I don't think so. It's something to be filled with candlelight and to smell earthy and warm.

I was talking with a friend the other night. He said something like, "There's not much left to this year. And it's been a shitty year anyway. Once Thanksgiving hits, it's all downhill. People check out. It's over."

I tried to express how even on New Year's Eve I find myself desperately grasping at the last grains of sand in the hourglass - determined to make something of a year that's spent even as a bright, shiny new one approaches. Ever straddling the past while welcoming the present and a still-dim future with confetti and New Year kisses to friends and family.

Fall is the beginning of that process of letting go of this year. It's been a year of change for me - more gradual than I'd like, but change just the same. Soon my rotted, carved-out pumpkin corpse will lie foul on the ground, my smile gaping and distorted, waiting for the thaw of spring to sprout anew (provided God left a few secret seeds inside). :)

I'm glad that my embrace of running has aligned with the changing season. It's such a pleasant pace to see the world. I ran seven miles on Sunday night and in my last mile or two I found myself in such an adrenaline-induced state of euphoria that I began laughing out loud. A freak storm blew up around me. A picture-perfect storm. Leaves fell more rapidly than the rain. The water of the placid pond was prodded into tiny white peaks by the whipping wind. Gray clouds quickly sped past overhead, muting colors and somehow throwing them into sharper relief.

The leaves were yellow. The grass still green. The pavement gray. My skin was flushed. The raindrops were cold, fading away on my warm skin - my face lit with a toothy grin.

Fall and fabulous fire pits

The air is cool and crisp outside. I lie in my bed, my hair smelling of Pantene, fall nights and the crackling ashes of an outdoor fire pit.

It is nights like these I'm most thankful for the friends I've found.

Fall is here. It's official. He's arrived and brought an oversized sweatshirt with him - and the best pumpkin beer I've ever tasted (but which probably gave me the crippling headache from which I now suffer).

I'm back in the Carolinas. The transition was tough at first. I was surprised to find that after only two weeks in Boston it felt like I lived there, living a kind of strange, transient existence with no daily obligations. Idyllic but with no sense of space or time.

When I returned the languid heat smacked me in the face the moment I deplaned. I harbored a haglike mood for days. For the first time, I truly hated the heat. I plotted my departure.

But then, just in time, a cold front moved into the Carolinas heralding the beginning of this most blessed season.

I escaped the clammy grip of death thrice in two weeks' time. Gratitude is mine.

I ran a 5K for the first time under 30 minutes. A day ago, I ran six miles instead of my dictated 4.5 training schedule. It seems autumn breathed its crisp, pumpkin-laced breath into my legs and lungs. I can breathe easier (despite crippling allergies lately).

The sky truly is a deeper blue these days. The stars seem closer. There's reason to hold onto loved ones longer. Kisses are sweeter. The season has turned its leaves just in time. And life is good.

I'll fall asleep breathing in the scent of my own hair - it holds earth, wind, fire and friendship.