I don't believe in luck. Show me empirical evidence for luck, a rational argument for its existence, and I'll think about it. I have a friend who calls luck "God-coincidences", and as much as I admire her faith (as well as her skillful command of language), my lack of faith makes it impossible for me to perceive a "God-coincidence", much less experience one.
There's one slight problem with this belief (or perhaps it's a disbelief. Or just a lack of belief. But disbelief and lack of belief are both beliefs in themselves. Hello, Tim Keller!) The day I took the SAT, I wore a particular sweatshirt which I had bought at Disney World the previous spring. I chose to wear it that day because it was satisfyingly roomy, exceptionally warm, and had a lovely huge hood inside which I could hide, lest I be distracted by other test-takers. I ended up with a perfect score on the exam. I don't say this to boast; I say this to make a point. I'm no smarter than the next person. I work hard, which is a rational explanation for my success that Saturday morning in March. But there was always a nagging voice that insisted the sweatshirt had something to do with it...and there was always a part of me that believed that voice.
Go ahead and call me a hypocrite, if it makes you feel better about this. I prefer to think of myself as a human being grappling with a conflict. Case in point: I had an exam this morning which I knew would be difficult. I expected it. So by 7:30 am, I was mentally prepared, knowing that I would leave the exam feeling like the wind had been knocked out of me. But before I left my room, I made sure to grab my Disney sweatshirt...because the way I saw it, a little luck couldn't hurt.
October 29, 2010
October 26, 2010
Welcome to Week 8.
At 10 am on a Tuesday, I'm usually just waking up; it's my sleeping-in day. Today, however, was anomalous in that I was up and running by 7 am. And for the first time this term, I find myself in the campus center before common lunch hour. There are students who had early classes trudging in for late breakfasts (I'm trying not to judge or envy that waif devouring her cheese-drenched croissant), fools clutching Nerf guns peering suspiciously around corners (regression, much?), and a frat guy a few tables away whose open binder and furrowed brow create an illusion of studiousness as he studiously roams Facebook (welcome to Week 8.)
October 23, 2010
I did it.
I did it. Whoa.
I could start to write about this in one of two ways: I could say that I'm proud of myself, or I could describe the pride. It just so happens that I started with the latter, and this gave me pause as I considered the negative connotation of "pride" as opposed to the positive one of "being proud of myself". It is socially acceptable for a girl to be proud of herself for running her first race, or for walking calmly past the dessert without eyeing the pie, or for doing well on an exam. Pride, however, stinks of arrogance, of unwarranted haughtiness. How can two words that are so closely related be so fundamentally different?
It is with some circumspect reservation, then, that I confess to having some pride in myself today. I ran a 5K (3.1 miles) in 30 minutes and 28 seconds. Apart from the time being a personal best (I usually finish in anywhere from 32 to 36 minutes), today was special because it represents, quite simply, an accomplishment. I didn't have to set an hour aside daily for the past six weeks so I could train. There were plenty of excuses I could have made for myself, including but not limited to needing sleep, needing time to work, and needing time in general. For the record, it's not as if I was looking for a hobby because I have free time.
So I could have run it cold. I could have stopped to walk. I could have been a no-show. I did none of those things. I made a commitment to myself that I would stick to my training schedule, no matter what, and spend the entire race running. No matter what.
That isn't to say that it was easy. It was 10 am on an October morning in upstate New York, which meant that five minutes in, I was flexing the fingers of the hand not holding my iPod in an effort to ward away the stiffness that threatened it. And there were two hills. I hadn't prepared for hills, and when I saw them, I groaned inwardly. There were times when I felt that I was moving more vertically than horizontally. Like I was on a pogo stick. Not pleasant. But I set short-term goals: the next lamppost, the next mailbox, the next bush over there...and then I was gazing downward and smiling as I let gravity help me for the next minute or so. Apart from these obstacles, it was just me and old Britney Spears tunes in my ear. I won't lie; I was only a staunch Britney devotee until her life went downhill, but the beats from her newer material are stellar in terms of establishing breathing rhythms.
There were also better spots during the half-hour. There were times when I stopped checking my iPod to see how long I had been going. I actually zoned out a few times. I forgot that the plastic dog tag twist-tied to my shoelaces was slapping my foot in time with Britney. I stopped checking out the fifty-somethings running five-minute milers. I slipped into a single-minded, dissociative focus. Prior to today, I've only experienced this while writing songs or studying. In this state, I felt simple delight at the briskness of the morning, the tingly adrenaline rush, the strength of my muscles (biology...actin...myosin...yum.) It was suddenly calm upstairs.
As I approached the 3-mile marker, I resolved that I would sprint to the finish line. A strong finish. Almost done. It would be a shame if you didn't go all-out; you'd definitely regret it later. I felt like a machine, with all of my moving parts sliding back and forth smoothly and without complaint. I smiled slightly as I blew across the finish line, wanting to fling my arms skyward but entirely too self-conscious to do such a thing. Instead, I settled for a leisurely, satisfying victory lap around the parking lot at Hudson Valley Community College. And then, I found myself smiling (with pride in myself) at strangers and scenery alike as I munched on an apple cinammon Nutra-Grain bar and made my way home.
I could start to write about this in one of two ways: I could say that I'm proud of myself, or I could describe the pride. It just so happens that I started with the latter, and this gave me pause as I considered the negative connotation of "pride" as opposed to the positive one of "being proud of myself". It is socially acceptable for a girl to be proud of herself for running her first race, or for walking calmly past the dessert without eyeing the pie, or for doing well on an exam. Pride, however, stinks of arrogance, of unwarranted haughtiness. How can two words that are so closely related be so fundamentally different?
It is with some circumspect reservation, then, that I confess to having some pride in myself today. I ran a 5K (3.1 miles) in 30 minutes and 28 seconds. Apart from the time being a personal best (I usually finish in anywhere from 32 to 36 minutes), today was special because it represents, quite simply, an accomplishment. I didn't have to set an hour aside daily for the past six weeks so I could train. There were plenty of excuses I could have made for myself, including but not limited to needing sleep, needing time to work, and needing time in general. For the record, it's not as if I was looking for a hobby because I have free time.
So I could have run it cold. I could have stopped to walk. I could have been a no-show. I did none of those things. I made a commitment to myself that I would stick to my training schedule, no matter what, and spend the entire race running. No matter what.
That isn't to say that it was easy. It was 10 am on an October morning in upstate New York, which meant that five minutes in, I was flexing the fingers of the hand not holding my iPod in an effort to ward away the stiffness that threatened it. And there were two hills. I hadn't prepared for hills, and when I saw them, I groaned inwardly. There were times when I felt that I was moving more vertically than horizontally. Like I was on a pogo stick. Not pleasant. But I set short-term goals: the next lamppost, the next mailbox, the next bush over there...and then I was gazing downward and smiling as I let gravity help me for the next minute or so. Apart from these obstacles, it was just me and old Britney Spears tunes in my ear. I won't lie; I was only a staunch Britney devotee until her life went downhill, but the beats from her newer material are stellar in terms of establishing breathing rhythms.
There were also better spots during the half-hour. There were times when I stopped checking my iPod to see how long I had been going. I actually zoned out a few times. I forgot that the plastic dog tag twist-tied to my shoelaces was slapping my foot in time with Britney. I stopped checking out the fifty-somethings running five-minute milers. I slipped into a single-minded, dissociative focus. Prior to today, I've only experienced this while writing songs or studying. In this state, I felt simple delight at the briskness of the morning, the tingly adrenaline rush, the strength of my muscles (biology...actin...myosin...yum.) It was suddenly calm upstairs.
As I approached the 3-mile marker, I resolved that I would sprint to the finish line. A strong finish. Almost done. It would be a shame if you didn't go all-out; you'd definitely regret it later. I felt like a machine, with all of my moving parts sliding back and forth smoothly and without complaint. I smiled slightly as I blew across the finish line, wanting to fling my arms skyward but entirely too self-conscious to do such a thing. Instead, I settled for a leisurely, satisfying victory lap around the parking lot at Hudson Valley Community College. And then, I found myself smiling (with pride in myself) at strangers and scenery alike as I munched on an apple cinammon Nutra-Grain bar and made my way home.
October 22, 2010
Today is...vague.
There are ideas, fragments of possible melodies and snatches of lyrics circling my head, but so far, I haven't been able to pin down anything. Today is a cloudy, messy, disorganized description of yesterday. (Cue: mental image of a centrifuge, spinning the dense, important bits down so I can sift through the wreckage. Nerdy moments happen.)
On another note, how can whining/complaining feel so satisfying and so utterly useless at the same time? Cognitive dissonance: 1. Me: 0.
That's all, I suppose. A muddled head doesn't make for a lot of clear, focused writing. Actually, it often results in rambling, which I prefer to avoid whenever I can. Rambling, after all, is almost as detestable as whining.
On another note, how can whining/complaining feel so satisfying and so utterly useless at the same time? Cognitive dissonance: 1. Me: 0.
That's all, I suppose. A muddled head doesn't make for a lot of clear, focused writing. Actually, it often results in rambling, which I prefer to avoid whenever I can. Rambling, after all, is almost as detestable as whining.
October 18, 2010
The kind of noise that has jagged edges to it
I wish I could absorb all of her pain, box it away, and cram it into a distant corner of myself. That's just how family works, I suppose. It is neither rational nor logical, and so it bewilders me. I cannot rationalize this desire to internalize her suffering, to make it mine so she might feel some relief in its absence. This is pure emotion, and I would like to describe it as a mere flood of hormones or neurotransmitters, but that picture does not feel complete. There's something more to this emotion; it abuses the senses, strains the nerves so they begin to fray and threaten to unravel very soon...not yet, but soon. For now, I am teetering, albeit quite precariously, on this thread-thin tightrope. Don't I have enough to deal with, without needing to understand this irrational, unconditional, intangible...love?
Apparently not. Once again, I've ended up with noise in my head, but not the smooth, homogeneous, ambient, snow-on-the-television-screen noise that has a very potent ability to lull me to sleep. This is not the kind of noise that nudges worries and anxieties to the outskirts of one's consciousness as it soothes and comforts in its emptiness. No, this noise ricochets violently inside my skull, a series of lightning bolts darting about in an angry frenzy. This noise definitely has jagged edges to it. And it's impossible to avoid getting snagged on these edges. Indeed, at this very moment, I'm hanging from one by the back of my collar. I try to move as little as possible, lest I crash to the ground far below, but I do manage to glance around myself as best I can. There is no foothold in sight; with each ragged breath, I flail, trying to grasp at something substantial, but there is only air.
I have never been good at getting rid of this jagged species of noise. Usually, I find a way to tire myself out until the fatigue is too strong for me to think about anything else. And the rest which follows is often enough, then, to help me to forget until the next trigger. But tonight is a calm night outside...which makes for a tumultuous night inside.
Apparently not. Once again, I've ended up with noise in my head, but not the smooth, homogeneous, ambient, snow-on-the-television-screen noise that has a very potent ability to lull me to sleep. This is not the kind of noise that nudges worries and anxieties to the outskirts of one's consciousness as it soothes and comforts in its emptiness. No, this noise ricochets violently inside my skull, a series of lightning bolts darting about in an angry frenzy. This noise definitely has jagged edges to it. And it's impossible to avoid getting snagged on these edges. Indeed, at this very moment, I'm hanging from one by the back of my collar. I try to move as little as possible, lest I crash to the ground far below, but I do manage to glance around myself as best I can. There is no foothold in sight; with each ragged breath, I flail, trying to grasp at something substantial, but there is only air.
I have never been good at getting rid of this jagged species of noise. Usually, I find a way to tire myself out until the fatigue is too strong for me to think about anything else. And the rest which follows is often enough, then, to help me to forget until the next trigger. But tonight is a calm night outside...which makes for a tumultuous night inside.
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