Season's greetings. Happy holidays. And of course: merry Christmas. You undoubtedly have heard these phrases, received them on cards in the mail, or said them to your friends, family, loved ones, etc. But have you ever stopped to think about who's saying them?
I suppose it doesn't really matter who wishes you a happy holiday. Christmas isn't the only holiday being celebrated this time of year. Hannukah just happened recently as well. Not to mention everyone celebrates the New Year's, so wishing someone a happy holiday is almost the same as wishing him or her a good day. Same can be applied to season's greetings. But the most popular one, the one you see on church bulletin boards, read in texts from friends, and most commonly hear wherever you go this time of the year is "Merry Christmas."
As a Christian, I should love this. But when a Catholic-raised turned atheist friend from school sent me a text wishing me a merry Christmas yesterday, it for some reason caught me off guard. I've been friends with this person since my first year of college. This person celebrated Christmas last year and the year before. In fact, this year this person even gave me a Christmas gift. Until I received that text, it never even occurred to me how peculiar it is that my friend, who believes in no god and certainly not Jesus, fully partakes in Christianity's biggest tradition. And then I began to realize how I have several atheist friends who celebrate Christmas.
And to be perfectly honest, it bugs me. A lot.
The more I began to think about it, the more it made my skin crawl. For one reason, it seems absurd. My friends, who are so bent on the belief that God does not exist and that Jesus, if he did exist, is no savior, why on earth would they celebrate Christmas? Don't they think it's highly hypocritical? Does this mean that Christmas truly has become a cultural tradition rather than a religious one? That anybody has the right to partake in the festivities? Or are they just trying to avoid the crazy Christians who are paying big bucks to have billboards up with messages that say "I miss hearing you say 'Merry Christmas' – Jesus"? Are they just trying to keep the peace and be kind, overlooking the fact they complete disagree with everything Christmas stands for?
Do you get what I'm saying?
It's frustrating enough to see Christians forget the meaning behind Christmas, and it sets me over the edge knowing that people who complete disagree with the entire belief system are enjoying the celebrations.
I know. I sound nuts. It's crazy that I am getting myself so worked up over who can and cannot, or really should or should not, participate in Christmas. And I have no room to talk. I still went out and bought gifts. I was still excited to wake up on Christmas morning to open mine. I prayed last night my thanks for Christmas after the service. But have I prayed today? Have I spent any time today thinking about what this day is truly about? No. I thought about what I could spend the money I received on. I thought about the clothes my mom and sisters bought me, and when to wear them. I have said Merry Christmas countless times today and not once did I think about the meaning behind it.
And I'm calling everyone else a hypocrite?
Earlier today when I thought about blogging out my frustrations I really wanted to take it out on my atheist friends who celebrate Christmas. And I'm not going to lie, I still do. I really want to lash out how it nerves me so much that they attack what I believe but then turnaround and get so excited for the holiday my religion created. It's almost as if they're mocking me.
But they're not.
The reason I am not going to lash out on how much I disagree with my friends is because of what I've been ranting and raving about for a long time now: the true meaning of Christmas. I don't know if I have it exactly right. But I think the meaning of Christmas is more than just the birth of Jesus. It's about God sending Himself to earth to make the ultimate sacrifice. The ultimate sacrifice is death. And the sacrifice of one's life is the ultimate act of love.
In a nutshell, I think Christmas, and Christianity in general, is much more than the complex religious system I have been taught and continue to learn about. I think it's much simpler than that. I think it's really just about love.
Maybe I sound like a hopeless romantic. Or a Beatles-loving hippie. But the story of Jesus' life, whether you believe it or not, focuses on the theme of love. From stopping angry men from stoning a prostitute to denying the devil, everything Jesus did was centered on love. And although Jesus has been gone for more than 2000 years, I like to think that some of that love still exists today.
My atheist friends aren't out to mock me. Instead they're simply celebrating what I consider one of the greatest events of all time. Sure, they're not really celebrating for the birth of God, but it's nice to know that they are enjoying themselves. It's nice to know that they find happiness in a religious event they don't even believe in. It's actually rather ironic. And gives me a small amount of hope.
Maybe Christmas is what I called it yesterday; an ugly beast focused on greed, impatience, and materialism. But despite all the negative I see this time of year, I greatly forget how wonderful it is. Christmas is able to bring even the non-believers together. I think that really says something. That people who don't even care about God are enjoying this day. The least I can do is love them for it.
During my pastor's sermon last night he said something about Christians getting upset over the idea of Christ no longer being in Christmas. He said it'll never happen. It's impossible for Christ to be left out of Christmas. And I agree. As long as there's love this time of year, Christ will never be kicked out of Christmas. Because Jesus is God (Luke 2:11), and God is love (1 John 4:8).
So to my friends, both believers and non-believers, I'd like to add just one more thing:
Merry Christmas ☺
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Silent Night
Sophomore year of high school was the last time I was truly in the Christmas spirit. Once I worked retail my junior year of high school and realized the ugly greed, impatience, and materialism that truly exists behind this holiday, my joy for Christmas disappeared. Although working retail my senior year of high school was a lot less stressful than the first, I still found myself in a slump. I had discovered the true meaning of Christmas for most people and it sickened me.
Going off to college and leaving the retail world didn't help. With the semester ending in the middle of the holiday season, my mind usually became consumed with focusing on surviving finals, finishing projects, and writing last minute papers. By the time I get home, there's usually only a small amount of time before Christmas day and I turn into all the people I judge and turn my nose up to. I stress over with finding "perfect gifts" for family and friends, stress about money and what I can and cannot afford for everyone. Christmas day has turned into a day of "thank God this is over" instead of the joyous "Hooray it's Christmas!!" the child in me knew so long ago.
Of course, no one can expect to be in that childlike happiness of Christmas the rest of their lives. The day you find out Santa isn't real is already a tough blow on the joy of Christmas. But I grew up and learned to view Christmas as not a day for toys and gifts, but as a day of celebrating a great moment in my faith. Christmas switched from leaving cookies for Santa to prayers of thanks for the birth of Christ. Unfortunately, I think for a lot of people (at least from what I observed at Steve & Barry's), many were still wrapped up in the joy of gifts. The world became my Grinch. Reality stole my Christmas spirit.
I was hoping this year would be different. Once I returned to school after Thanksgiving I felt happy and in the Christmas spirit. I would walk to and from campus listening to Christmas songs on my Ipod. I brought my mini tree up and put it in my room as decoration. Since I've been jobless since May, and spent most of my money on my trip abroad, I knew that gift giving would be trickier this year. I figured instead of spending a lot of money on gifts, I would spend money on crafts and make everyone something homemade. Knowing I'd probably be able to skip the shopping madness, I really thought this year I would be in the Christmas spirit.
But somehow, despite all my optimism, I am not in the Christmas spirit. I only have myself to blame. As easy as it is to say that it's the rest of the world that has become the Grinch, reality is I've become my own Grinch. I let the holidays get to me. I let the "real world" stand in the way of what I know Christmas is truly about. I get stressed and angry and every year I secretly think to myself "one of these years I'm really going to skip Christmas, and I'm going to love it."
I don't really want to skip Christmas but I hate how it makes me feel. I wish I could enjoy decorating the tree, making cookies, and sending off Christmas cards as I once did. Although it's a little too late now to try to salvage the holiday spirit, there is one glimmer of hope. It's the one thing that really puts me in the Christmas spirit. Not the holiday spirit, but the true Christmas spirit. It's all I have left.
What is it? It's today. Christmas Eve.
I look forward to Christmas Eve now more than Christmas day. In particular I look forward to the night, when I attend the Christmas Eve service at my church. It is the one moment in all of this holiday madness where I feel people actually stop and take the time to remember what this is all about.
The physical size of my church is big, but the size in terms of attendance is quite small. You wouldn't think that if you attended my church, or my guess any church, on Christmas Eve. I used to judge the people that I never saw at my church except on Christmas and Easter. I felt they were fake Christians, only attending the two services they felt were worthy of their time. Boy was I wrong. Now I'm thankful that so many still do care to show up for the Christmas Eve service. Maybe they go reluctantly. Maybe they go only to show off their fancy Christmas dress or clothes. Maybe they do it for so many other reasons other than for God. But does it matter? They're there. They kneel and pray, they sing the hymns. For at least one hour of this holiday they're there for God. It's comforting to know that even though Christmas has turned into some ugly beast that has nothing to do with the birth of Jesus, there are still a lot of people out there who care enough to go to church. It brings me a little bit of hope.
Aside from the people, it's the service that makes me so happy. It is the singing of the hymns. It is the kneeling and the praying. It's listening to the pastor's sermon as he again tries to convince more people to keep coming to church, even though next service it will have some attendance as it's always had. For the one time in all of this holiday madness, it's about God. And I love it.
My favorite part of the service is at the very end. I'm not sure if other protestant churches do this. I'm not sure if it's a Lutheran only thing, or something that we adapted from the Catholic Church. But most Lutheran churches do the lighting of the candles at the very end. Every person has a candle, and as the hymn Silent Night is sung those candles get lit. By the time the song is in the last verse, most of the lights in the church are off and there's nothing but the light of candles and the sounds of Silent Night. It is the most peaceful part of the service. It literally gives me chills. When it comes to Christmas, it is the one single moment I look forward to. I look at my little flame, I sing along to Silent Night. And for that one moment I remember what Christmas is all about.
Silent night, Holy night. Son of God, love's pure light. If you celebrate Christmas I encourage you to remember what Christmas is all about. It's about the birth of Jesus, the Son of God. Who was sent to die for our sins; to make the ultimate sacrifice, because He loved us so. When it's all said and done, it's about love.
Going off to college and leaving the retail world didn't help. With the semester ending in the middle of the holiday season, my mind usually became consumed with focusing on surviving finals, finishing projects, and writing last minute papers. By the time I get home, there's usually only a small amount of time before Christmas day and I turn into all the people I judge and turn my nose up to. I stress over with finding "perfect gifts" for family and friends, stress about money and what I can and cannot afford for everyone. Christmas day has turned into a day of "thank God this is over" instead of the joyous "Hooray it's Christmas!!" the child in me knew so long ago.
Of course, no one can expect to be in that childlike happiness of Christmas the rest of their lives. The day you find out Santa isn't real is already a tough blow on the joy of Christmas. But I grew up and learned to view Christmas as not a day for toys and gifts, but as a day of celebrating a great moment in my faith. Christmas switched from leaving cookies for Santa to prayers of thanks for the birth of Christ. Unfortunately, I think for a lot of people (at least from what I observed at Steve & Barry's), many were still wrapped up in the joy of gifts. The world became my Grinch. Reality stole my Christmas spirit.
I was hoping this year would be different. Once I returned to school after Thanksgiving I felt happy and in the Christmas spirit. I would walk to and from campus listening to Christmas songs on my Ipod. I brought my mini tree up and put it in my room as decoration. Since I've been jobless since May, and spent most of my money on my trip abroad, I knew that gift giving would be trickier this year. I figured instead of spending a lot of money on gifts, I would spend money on crafts and make everyone something homemade. Knowing I'd probably be able to skip the shopping madness, I really thought this year I would be in the Christmas spirit.
But somehow, despite all my optimism, I am not in the Christmas spirit. I only have myself to blame. As easy as it is to say that it's the rest of the world that has become the Grinch, reality is I've become my own Grinch. I let the holidays get to me. I let the "real world" stand in the way of what I know Christmas is truly about. I get stressed and angry and every year I secretly think to myself "one of these years I'm really going to skip Christmas, and I'm going to love it."
I don't really want to skip Christmas but I hate how it makes me feel. I wish I could enjoy decorating the tree, making cookies, and sending off Christmas cards as I once did. Although it's a little too late now to try to salvage the holiday spirit, there is one glimmer of hope. It's the one thing that really puts me in the Christmas spirit. Not the holiday spirit, but the true Christmas spirit. It's all I have left.
What is it? It's today. Christmas Eve.
I look forward to Christmas Eve now more than Christmas day. In particular I look forward to the night, when I attend the Christmas Eve service at my church. It is the one moment in all of this holiday madness where I feel people actually stop and take the time to remember what this is all about.
The physical size of my church is big, but the size in terms of attendance is quite small. You wouldn't think that if you attended my church, or my guess any church, on Christmas Eve. I used to judge the people that I never saw at my church except on Christmas and Easter. I felt they were fake Christians, only attending the two services they felt were worthy of their time. Boy was I wrong. Now I'm thankful that so many still do care to show up for the Christmas Eve service. Maybe they go reluctantly. Maybe they go only to show off their fancy Christmas dress or clothes. Maybe they do it for so many other reasons other than for God. But does it matter? They're there. They kneel and pray, they sing the hymns. For at least one hour of this holiday they're there for God. It's comforting to know that even though Christmas has turned into some ugly beast that has nothing to do with the birth of Jesus, there are still a lot of people out there who care enough to go to church. It brings me a little bit of hope.
Aside from the people, it's the service that makes me so happy. It is the singing of the hymns. It is the kneeling and the praying. It's listening to the pastor's sermon as he again tries to convince more people to keep coming to church, even though next service it will have some attendance as it's always had. For the one time in all of this holiday madness, it's about God. And I love it.
My favorite part of the service is at the very end. I'm not sure if other protestant churches do this. I'm not sure if it's a Lutheran only thing, or something that we adapted from the Catholic Church. But most Lutheran churches do the lighting of the candles at the very end. Every person has a candle, and as the hymn Silent Night is sung those candles get lit. By the time the song is in the last verse, most of the lights in the church are off and there's nothing but the light of candles and the sounds of Silent Night. It is the most peaceful part of the service. It literally gives me chills. When it comes to Christmas, it is the one single moment I look forward to. I look at my little flame, I sing along to Silent Night. And for that one moment I remember what Christmas is all about.
Silent night, Holy night. Son of God, love's pure light. If you celebrate Christmas I encourage you to remember what Christmas is all about. It's about the birth of Jesus, the Son of God. Who was sent to die for our sins; to make the ultimate sacrifice, because He loved us so. When it's all said and done, it's about love.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
A Little Crazy
There are days where I think to myself, "what would I honestly do if I didn't have running?" Today was fortunately one of those days.
It was perfect conditions for a run in the middle of December. The roads were clear, therefore no worries about slipping and breaking a leg or ankle on the ice. The temperature was just above freezing. With no wind, this made it feel a lot warmer. Only five minutes into the run and I was ready to take off my headband.
I ran solo. And by solo I mean just myself and my stopwatch. No, I didn't even bring my Ipod along. The battery was near dead and I didn't feel like having to take off my right glove every time I wanted to change songs or adjust the volume (it's an ipod touch). The only sounds that accompanied me were the squishes from my shoes and my own breathing.
It was fantastic.
I told a twitter friend that my favorite runs are the simple runs in my hometown, especially in my own neighborhood. Today I remembered how true that really is. I'm not quite sure why that is. I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I started running here. That this is where I discovered my love for the sport. Along these streets is where I laughed with friends, pushed the limits of my body, and learned to deal with any problem that came my way. This is where I became a runner.
If you know me you would think this all has to do with memories and nostalgia and so forth. And it does, but when I go for runs in my neighborhood I don't think about old cross-country workouts and memories don't flood my mind. In fact, on the contrary, I rarely think about the past when I run. I enjoy running on these streets today as much as I did when I was surrounded by teammates. My pace has gotten slower, but I am feeling better. In fact I think I have a much better relationship with running than I did when I was my fastest. I no longer cry at the end of workouts when I feel I didn't do my best and I no longer read Runner's World as if it were the bible. Running isn't something that brings any amount of stress to me anymore. Instead it's what brings me a great sense of joy.
I have been searching for the perfect balance with running since my final 3200 race at the District's meet back in May 2008. My hope for this next semester is that I will accomplish that.
This next semester I am hoping to accomplish what several of my running friends have beaten me to: the 26.2 miles of pain, anguish, and accomplishment, also known as the marathon.
What made me decide that I was going to a run a marathon is something that's beyond me. What I tell people is that I had made a promise back in the beginning of my first year of college to my to-be boyfriend that by the time I graduated I will have a run a marathon. Truth is I'm not sure if I ever really made that promise or if I made that up. My boyfriend doesn't remember, so I have no one but myself to hold accountable. What probably happened is that at the time I decided that on a whim without giving it much thought. Much like my final decision to actually run it.
I think the real reason is that I have seen so many of my friends run marathons, and, here's the key word, they enjoyed it, and so I want to take part in that enjoyment myself. I had a friend run the International Marathon, a race that starts in America and goes into Canada past Niagara Falls in the fall of 2009. I was incredibly impressed that on his own he was able to train and run it. He said he would do it and he did. Another friend ran Grandma's Marathon in Minnesota with her dad. Another friend, who didn't think she'd be able to run the marathon due to injury, ran the Dayton Marathon and qualified for Boston. She and another friend will be running the Boston this spring.
The list goes on. My dad ran the Flying Pig, my boyfriend ran the Tecumseh Marathon when he was 16, and my professor and another friend also took on the trail marathon despite snow and freezing temps just recently. It seems almost everyone in my little running circle has pushed through the grueling 26.2 miles. Except me.
And so here I am. Bored with 5ks, no chance of racing in the 3200 (as far as I know at least) and looking for something to challenge me and keep my love of running alive. The marathon sounds perfect.
I have no PRs for the marathon so there's no stress about setting one. I would like to break 4 hours but I'm not sweating it if I don't. My ultimate goal is to just run this thing without dying and run it at a comfortable but challenging pace. What I would really like to do is to cross the finish line with a smile on my face and think, "That was fun. Can't wait to do it again." That's right, I expect hours of running to be fun. Because running is fun. And I mean that.
I think this is where the whole, "You're crazy" thing comes into play. And I never disagree. Runners are crazy. It is crazy to wake up at 5am to go for a 20 miler. It is crazy to lace up your shoes and go out in the middle of a freezing rain. We're crazy masochists. But we need it. I need it. In a way that I can't even explain. I'm a runner. I need running. I need it to survive, even if it means being a little crazy.
It was perfect conditions for a run in the middle of December. The roads were clear, therefore no worries about slipping and breaking a leg or ankle on the ice. The temperature was just above freezing. With no wind, this made it feel a lot warmer. Only five minutes into the run and I was ready to take off my headband.
I ran solo. And by solo I mean just myself and my stopwatch. No, I didn't even bring my Ipod along. The battery was near dead and I didn't feel like having to take off my right glove every time I wanted to change songs or adjust the volume (it's an ipod touch). The only sounds that accompanied me were the squishes from my shoes and my own breathing.
It was fantastic.
I told a twitter friend that my favorite runs are the simple runs in my hometown, especially in my own neighborhood. Today I remembered how true that really is. I'm not quite sure why that is. I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I started running here. That this is where I discovered my love for the sport. Along these streets is where I laughed with friends, pushed the limits of my body, and learned to deal with any problem that came my way. This is where I became a runner.
If you know me you would think this all has to do with memories and nostalgia and so forth. And it does, but when I go for runs in my neighborhood I don't think about old cross-country workouts and memories don't flood my mind. In fact, on the contrary, I rarely think about the past when I run. I enjoy running on these streets today as much as I did when I was surrounded by teammates. My pace has gotten slower, but I am feeling better. In fact I think I have a much better relationship with running than I did when I was my fastest. I no longer cry at the end of workouts when I feel I didn't do my best and I no longer read Runner's World as if it were the bible. Running isn't something that brings any amount of stress to me anymore. Instead it's what brings me a great sense of joy.
I have been searching for the perfect balance with running since my final 3200 race at the District's meet back in May 2008. My hope for this next semester is that I will accomplish that.
This next semester I am hoping to accomplish what several of my running friends have beaten me to: the 26.2 miles of pain, anguish, and accomplishment, also known as the marathon.
What made me decide that I was going to a run a marathon is something that's beyond me. What I tell people is that I had made a promise back in the beginning of my first year of college to my to-be boyfriend that by the time I graduated I will have a run a marathon. Truth is I'm not sure if I ever really made that promise or if I made that up. My boyfriend doesn't remember, so I have no one but myself to hold accountable. What probably happened is that at the time I decided that on a whim without giving it much thought. Much like my final decision to actually run it.
I think the real reason is that I have seen so many of my friends run marathons, and, here's the key word, they enjoyed it, and so I want to take part in that enjoyment myself. I had a friend run the International Marathon, a race that starts in America and goes into Canada past Niagara Falls in the fall of 2009. I was incredibly impressed that on his own he was able to train and run it. He said he would do it and he did. Another friend ran Grandma's Marathon in Minnesota with her dad. Another friend, who didn't think she'd be able to run the marathon due to injury, ran the Dayton Marathon and qualified for Boston. She and another friend will be running the Boston this spring.
The list goes on. My dad ran the Flying Pig, my boyfriend ran the Tecumseh Marathon when he was 16, and my professor and another friend also took on the trail marathon despite snow and freezing temps just recently. It seems almost everyone in my little running circle has pushed through the grueling 26.2 miles. Except me.
And so here I am. Bored with 5ks, no chance of racing in the 3200 (as far as I know at least) and looking for something to challenge me and keep my love of running alive. The marathon sounds perfect.
I have no PRs for the marathon so there's no stress about setting one. I would like to break 4 hours but I'm not sweating it if I don't. My ultimate goal is to just run this thing without dying and run it at a comfortable but challenging pace. What I would really like to do is to cross the finish line with a smile on my face and think, "That was fun. Can't wait to do it again." That's right, I expect hours of running to be fun. Because running is fun. And I mean that.
I think this is where the whole, "You're crazy" thing comes into play. And I never disagree. Runners are crazy. It is crazy to wake up at 5am to go for a 20 miler. It is crazy to lace up your shoes and go out in the middle of a freezing rain. We're crazy masochists. But we need it. I need it. In a way that I can't even explain. I'm a runner. I need running. I need it to survive, even if it means being a little crazy.
180
Everything is different.
I had this realization of how much my life has changed the other day when my mom asked me to pick up pizza. We ordered LaRosa's and as I drove into the parking lot of the restaurant, I realized the last time I had been there I was still in high school and it was a carbo-loading pasta night with my cross-country team. Bittersweet memories. But what really woke me up was the person I met inside the restaurant.
Her name is Pam, and she is the daughter of my first cross-country coach, the one who coached me for the first two years of high school. The last time I saw her I swear she was only 11 years old and still running faster than everyone else.
Well, now she's old enough to have a job and she works at this particular LaRosa's. As I was rummaging through my purse for my wallet I heard a voice saying, "Rebecca. Rebecca." Even though it was not my name I had a feeling it was directed at me. Sure enough I looked up and there she was.
I was sweet. I didn't have much to say, but what was there to say? I hadn't seen the girl in years. She recognized me but didn't even remember my name. Our conversation was short and awkward. I left hoping she didn't think I was rude.
As I got into my car though I realized the petty life I was living in high school and how much it meant to me. You see, when Pam's mom quit coaching, she didn't just quit. She took the team down with her. Her reasoning for quitting was that we were a bunch of lazy asses who didn't put forth any work effort. She did however call two runners and told them they were the exception. I was not one of them and this greatly offended me, especially since she had given me an award at the end of the season for being the hardest worker. I would run into her later and she would admit that she thought about calling me, but she never actually gave me a reason as to why she didn't. At that point I was too apathetic to care.
But running into Pam had nothing to do with her mom. It reminded me more of my second coach, the one I'll call, well, I'll just stick to Coach. When he heard about how our first coach quit, he used her daughter to fuel our anger. Her daughter was in high school our senior year and we competed against her. Coach never had any trouble reminding us that she was there, her mom was there, and our duty was to take her down.
I knew what he was doing. He was just trying to get us motivated, get us all hyped up and feel competitive. But it was petty. He used her daughter as a representation of how we felt for our old coach. I specifically remember he gathering us four seniors in a circle to tell us that Pam was just over there, that we would be running against her, and the greatest revenge would be to beat her. Show her mom she shouldn't have bailed on us.
And it worked. We beat her and her team. After the meets I remember him letting us know how we did. At the time it felt great, it felt like we had won. Now it just feels pathetic.
Fortunately Pam never knew that we were secretly plotting to beat her every time she showed up. Pam never knew how we were coached to specifically beat her to get our revenge. She still liked us. What happened with her mom was nothing to her. She saw as old friends – we learned to see her as an enemy.
All of this hit me as I drove out of the parking lot on home. I no longer go to LaRosa's for cross-country dinners. I no longer think highly of Coach. And now I no longer dislike Pam.
Everything has made a complete 180. And while I loved my running career in high school, today I have never been happier. The years I dreaded saying goodbye to are in the past. And I no longer miss them.
I had this realization of how much my life has changed the other day when my mom asked me to pick up pizza. We ordered LaRosa's and as I drove into the parking lot of the restaurant, I realized the last time I had been there I was still in high school and it was a carbo-loading pasta night with my cross-country team. Bittersweet memories. But what really woke me up was the person I met inside the restaurant.
Her name is Pam, and she is the daughter of my first cross-country coach, the one who coached me for the first two years of high school. The last time I saw her I swear she was only 11 years old and still running faster than everyone else.
Well, now she's old enough to have a job and she works at this particular LaRosa's. As I was rummaging through my purse for my wallet I heard a voice saying, "Rebecca. Rebecca." Even though it was not my name I had a feeling it was directed at me. Sure enough I looked up and there she was.
I was sweet. I didn't have much to say, but what was there to say? I hadn't seen the girl in years. She recognized me but didn't even remember my name. Our conversation was short and awkward. I left hoping she didn't think I was rude.
As I got into my car though I realized the petty life I was living in high school and how much it meant to me. You see, when Pam's mom quit coaching, she didn't just quit. She took the team down with her. Her reasoning for quitting was that we were a bunch of lazy asses who didn't put forth any work effort. She did however call two runners and told them they were the exception. I was not one of them and this greatly offended me, especially since she had given me an award at the end of the season for being the hardest worker. I would run into her later and she would admit that she thought about calling me, but she never actually gave me a reason as to why she didn't. At that point I was too apathetic to care.
But running into Pam had nothing to do with her mom. It reminded me more of my second coach, the one I'll call, well, I'll just stick to Coach. When he heard about how our first coach quit, he used her daughter to fuel our anger. Her daughter was in high school our senior year and we competed against her. Coach never had any trouble reminding us that she was there, her mom was there, and our duty was to take her down.
I knew what he was doing. He was just trying to get us motivated, get us all hyped up and feel competitive. But it was petty. He used her daughter as a representation of how we felt for our old coach. I specifically remember he gathering us four seniors in a circle to tell us that Pam was just over there, that we would be running against her, and the greatest revenge would be to beat her. Show her mom she shouldn't have bailed on us.
And it worked. We beat her and her team. After the meets I remember him letting us know how we did. At the time it felt great, it felt like we had won. Now it just feels pathetic.
Fortunately Pam never knew that we were secretly plotting to beat her every time she showed up. Pam never knew how we were coached to specifically beat her to get our revenge. She still liked us. What happened with her mom was nothing to her. She saw as old friends – we learned to see her as an enemy.
All of this hit me as I drove out of the parking lot on home. I no longer go to LaRosa's for cross-country dinners. I no longer think highly of Coach. And now I no longer dislike Pam.
Everything has made a complete 180. And while I loved my running career in high school, today I have never been happier. The years I dreaded saying goodbye to are in the past. And I no longer miss them.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Rhyme and Reason
(My head won't leave my head alone)
At 8:30am on a Friday you can hear the sound of dedicated music majors as you walk down the practice rooms hall at the music building at Ball State. I, a mere journalism student, was among them to brush up on the piano skills I once possessed years and years ago.
While violins, pianos, and other instruments played difficult pieces by Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and so on, I pulled out a piece by Pachelbal. My favorite piece by Pachelbal. In fact, my favorite piano piece ever: Canon in D.
I fell in love with Canon in D when my sister first played it at home. While I had heard Canon in D before, hearing it on the piano, alone, with no other instruments, in the cozy comfort of my house, was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I immediately borrowed the sheet music from my sister and went about learning to play it. The score I have isn't hard, and because I was so determined to fill my ears with its lovely sounds, it didn't take long for me to learn it. Once I learned it I perfected it. And once I perfected it, I memorized it. And then I was able to sit down at the piano any time and breeze through the piece. It was one of the only pieces I had learned to play so well.
Until one day, it wasn't.
I can't remember the exact moment I stopped practicing it, but I do remember the first time I tried playing it and couldn't remember. It was last year when I was an RA in one of the dorms. On a lazy Friday morning, like today, I found myself at the piano in our lounge and decided I would hammer out Canon in D, just for fun. The beginning part was easy. But then suddenly, I stumbled. A wrong note. I played it again. Wrong note. Okay, it's this note. No, no it's not. Is this note? No...
Suddenly I realized that not only had my fingers forgotten their way, I had forgotten how the piece even went. I called my mother and asked her if she would send me the sheet music.
I never did get around to actually practicing it last year. But this year I have gotten in the habit of stopping by the music building on Fridays and playing for an hour or so. I take with me an assortment of sheet music; most of it much more difficult than I had ever learned when I took piano lessons. But every Friday I barely touch the other pieces. Every Friday I sit down and the first thing I play is Canon in D.
I've been struggling with the piece for awhile. Looking at the sheet music actually makes it worse. My fingers have gotten so use to playing without having to read music, that reading music actually throws them off. It's much better for me to just play it by ear and feel, as I have done so many times before, and when needed glance at the sheets.
What's interesting is that my fingers do remember, it's just that I forget. I get nervous at the parts where I know I have a tendency to mess up and in the back of my mind I think "Don't mess up, don't mess up, you've got this..." which of course makes me mess up. Then I try to play it again and the same thing happens. Soon enough my practicing gets worse and worse. Before I know it I'm laughing at myself because I've completely butchered this beautiful piece and my hands are now keeping my head from banging against the top of the piano.
That's what's keeping me from playing this piece flawlessly. My head.
I knew it was all in my head, but I didn't realize to what extent until last Friday when I was at the music building. Frustrated once again for messing up at the same part, I started playing the piece from the beginning. Then I thought I heard voices outside. "Oh no," I thought to myself. "They can hear me. And they can hear how horrible I am." Soon my mind wandered off into this daydream of these music professionals laughing at me as they walk down the hall, or one barging in on me, screaming "You're not a music major! You're not even a pianist! Get out!". As I amused myself with such thoughts, I suddenly realized that I was still playing. Not only was I still playing, I hadn't messed up. In fact, I just made it through the toughest part in the piece without stumbling once. I kept playing and finished the piece. Although it wasn't played perfectly smooth, it was played without hitting any wrong notes. I took a deep breath, packed up my belongings and went home. It was a good enough note to end on.
The piano practices are only a metaphorical reminder as to how my head gets in the way of me all the time. My head prevents me from thinking I can be a writer. My head once kept me from dating the guy of my dreams. My own damn head gets in the way of things more than anything else.
I remember one time I was running 800 repeats and I didn't think I could go at a certain pace. My track coach said me, "The body is willing but the mind is weak." Translation: You have the ability, but you lack the confidence and belief. He was right. I had it in me to do the repeats at the pace he wanted. I had the ability to run the 2 mile (a race I was forced into but ultimately ended up loving). I had the ability to be a much better runner than I thought. But my head, my own mind, was keeping me from doing so.
And that's what I'm working on. These piano practices aren't just about practicing piano. They're not only about learning new pieces and perfecting the old ones. Every week my piano practice is a mental challenge. Will I be able to play Canon in D flawlessly or will my head mess me up? Sometimes my fingers win. Sometimes it's my head. Today, at 8:30am without my cup of coffee yet, I was still in zombie-like state of mind and so my fingers fortunately won. But will I be able to keep it up? Will I be able to break the mental block I keep facing? If the body is willing, will the mind stay weak?
Stay tuned.
At 8:30am on a Friday you can hear the sound of dedicated music majors as you walk down the practice rooms hall at the music building at Ball State. I, a mere journalism student, was among them to brush up on the piano skills I once possessed years and years ago.
While violins, pianos, and other instruments played difficult pieces by Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and so on, I pulled out a piece by Pachelbal. My favorite piece by Pachelbal. In fact, my favorite piano piece ever: Canon in D.
I fell in love with Canon in D when my sister first played it at home. While I had heard Canon in D before, hearing it on the piano, alone, with no other instruments, in the cozy comfort of my house, was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I immediately borrowed the sheet music from my sister and went about learning to play it. The score I have isn't hard, and because I was so determined to fill my ears with its lovely sounds, it didn't take long for me to learn it. Once I learned it I perfected it. And once I perfected it, I memorized it. And then I was able to sit down at the piano any time and breeze through the piece. It was one of the only pieces I had learned to play so well.
Until one day, it wasn't.
I can't remember the exact moment I stopped practicing it, but I do remember the first time I tried playing it and couldn't remember. It was last year when I was an RA in one of the dorms. On a lazy Friday morning, like today, I found myself at the piano in our lounge and decided I would hammer out Canon in D, just for fun. The beginning part was easy. But then suddenly, I stumbled. A wrong note. I played it again. Wrong note. Okay, it's this note. No, no it's not. Is this note? No...
Suddenly I realized that not only had my fingers forgotten their way, I had forgotten how the piece even went. I called my mother and asked her if she would send me the sheet music.
I never did get around to actually practicing it last year. But this year I have gotten in the habit of stopping by the music building on Fridays and playing for an hour or so. I take with me an assortment of sheet music; most of it much more difficult than I had ever learned when I took piano lessons. But every Friday I barely touch the other pieces. Every Friday I sit down and the first thing I play is Canon in D.
I've been struggling with the piece for awhile. Looking at the sheet music actually makes it worse. My fingers have gotten so use to playing without having to read music, that reading music actually throws them off. It's much better for me to just play it by ear and feel, as I have done so many times before, and when needed glance at the sheets.
What's interesting is that my fingers do remember, it's just that I forget. I get nervous at the parts where I know I have a tendency to mess up and in the back of my mind I think "Don't mess up, don't mess up, you've got this..." which of course makes me mess up. Then I try to play it again and the same thing happens. Soon enough my practicing gets worse and worse. Before I know it I'm laughing at myself because I've completely butchered this beautiful piece and my hands are now keeping my head from banging against the top of the piano.
That's what's keeping me from playing this piece flawlessly. My head.
I knew it was all in my head, but I didn't realize to what extent until last Friday when I was at the music building. Frustrated once again for messing up at the same part, I started playing the piece from the beginning. Then I thought I heard voices outside. "Oh no," I thought to myself. "They can hear me. And they can hear how horrible I am." Soon my mind wandered off into this daydream of these music professionals laughing at me as they walk down the hall, or one barging in on me, screaming "You're not a music major! You're not even a pianist! Get out!". As I amused myself with such thoughts, I suddenly realized that I was still playing. Not only was I still playing, I hadn't messed up. In fact, I just made it through the toughest part in the piece without stumbling once. I kept playing and finished the piece. Although it wasn't played perfectly smooth, it was played without hitting any wrong notes. I took a deep breath, packed up my belongings and went home. It was a good enough note to end on.
The piano practices are only a metaphorical reminder as to how my head gets in the way of me all the time. My head prevents me from thinking I can be a writer. My head once kept me from dating the guy of my dreams. My own damn head gets in the way of things more than anything else.
I remember one time I was running 800 repeats and I didn't think I could go at a certain pace. My track coach said me, "The body is willing but the mind is weak." Translation: You have the ability, but you lack the confidence and belief. He was right. I had it in me to do the repeats at the pace he wanted. I had the ability to run the 2 mile (a race I was forced into but ultimately ended up loving). I had the ability to be a much better runner than I thought. But my head, my own mind, was keeping me from doing so.
And that's what I'm working on. These piano practices aren't just about practicing piano. They're not only about learning new pieces and perfecting the old ones. Every week my piano practice is a mental challenge. Will I be able to play Canon in D flawlessly or will my head mess me up? Sometimes my fingers win. Sometimes it's my head. Today, at 8:30am without my cup of coffee yet, I was still in zombie-like state of mind and so my fingers fortunately won. But will I be able to keep it up? Will I be able to break the mental block I keep facing? If the body is willing, will the mind stay weak?
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Only for a moment and the moment's gone (8/90)
Didn't know how long it was going to take me, but recently it finally hit me: I miss England.
Thing is, I'm not quite sure why. I very much enjoyed my time in England, but I was still homesick most of the time. By week 5 I was ready to go home. I was tired of always moving, always trying to see and do more. I missed my boyfriend. I missed driving. I missed Mexican food. I was ready before everyone else to pack up my bags and head back to the states.
Maybe I miss what I missed out on.
The more time passes here in the states, the more I wish I would've done in England. I wish I would've gone out more. I wish I would've hung out with my friends there more. I wish I had gotten to know the British more. I wish I had visited Oxford again. I wish I had ran around the Iffley Road Track. I wish I had traveled somewhere up north. I wish I would've gone for more walks and explored the city more. I wish I had purchased a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. I wish, I wish, I wish...
Funny thing is this wishing only set in recently. Everyone else seemed to have missed England the moment we arrived in Dayton. Everyone else seemed to want to go back immediately. Everyone else loves England and feels it's where they belong.
Me? Nope. It took four months for me to start thinking of England and actual miss it. Probably after three weeks of being in England (probably when I realized how much I crave mexican food) I realized I belonged in America. I belong in the country where stores are open 24/7. Where football means the scoring a touchdown instead of scoring a goal. Where people drive on the right side of the road. Where you don't have to pay to pee in a public restroom. You get my drift.
So why do I suddenly long to take a boat ride along the River Severn? Why do I want to go dance with my friends in one of the trashy named clubs like Sin & Bushwackers or Tramps (craft names aren't they)? Why do I want to go for a run in the Malvern hills?
Because I loved it.
Being homesick and missing loved ones did put a slight damper on my time in England. But it was still a dream come true. I was still in England. I got to see the English countryside I had literally dreamed of. I got to visit my dream European city. I got to hear English accents and visit so many places. I had high tea at the Pump rooms in Bath. I stood at the exact same spot where McCartney met Lennon and got chills; and I'm not even a Beatles fan! I almost cried at the track where Roger Bannister broke the 4 minute mile. I kissed the Blarney Stone in Ireland, tried Guinness for the first time, and saw Dolores O'Riordan (lead singer of the Irish band the Cranberries) house. I had one hell of a time in europe. And that was only visiting two countries.
There are always experiences I'll want to live over. There's always going to be things I wish I had, or hadn't, done. Not just in England, but wherever go and whatever I do. I'm sure once I'm done with college I'll look back and think of things I regret and the things I wish I could've experienced. It's a shame you can't do it all.
I guess it just goes to show that you really do have to live in the moment. While I was in England I shouldn't have been counting the days til I was home. I should've been trying to experience it all while I was right there in the middle of it. It's too late to realize that for then, but at least I'll know for the future. Because I will go back. I made a promise when I left England that one day I will return.
Thing is, I'm not quite sure why. I very much enjoyed my time in England, but I was still homesick most of the time. By week 5 I was ready to go home. I was tired of always moving, always trying to see and do more. I missed my boyfriend. I missed driving. I missed Mexican food. I was ready before everyone else to pack up my bags and head back to the states.
Maybe I miss what I missed out on.
The more time passes here in the states, the more I wish I would've done in England. I wish I would've gone out more. I wish I would've hung out with my friends there more. I wish I had gotten to know the British more. I wish I had visited Oxford again. I wish I had ran around the Iffley Road Track. I wish I had traveled somewhere up north. I wish I would've gone for more walks and explored the city more. I wish I had purchased a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. I wish, I wish, I wish...
Funny thing is this wishing only set in recently. Everyone else seemed to have missed England the moment we arrived in Dayton. Everyone else seemed to want to go back immediately. Everyone else loves England and feels it's where they belong.
Me? Nope. It took four months for me to start thinking of England and actual miss it. Probably after three weeks of being in England (probably when I realized how much I crave mexican food) I realized I belonged in America. I belong in the country where stores are open 24/7. Where football means the scoring a touchdown instead of scoring a goal. Where people drive on the right side of the road. Where you don't have to pay to pee in a public restroom. You get my drift.
So why do I suddenly long to take a boat ride along the River Severn? Why do I want to go dance with my friends in one of the trashy named clubs like Sin & Bushwackers or Tramps (craft names aren't they)? Why do I want to go for a run in the Malvern hills?
Because I loved it.
Being homesick and missing loved ones did put a slight damper on my time in England. But it was still a dream come true. I was still in England. I got to see the English countryside I had literally dreamed of. I got to visit my dream European city. I got to hear English accents and visit so many places. I had high tea at the Pump rooms in Bath. I stood at the exact same spot where McCartney met Lennon and got chills; and I'm not even a Beatles fan! I almost cried at the track where Roger Bannister broke the 4 minute mile. I kissed the Blarney Stone in Ireland, tried Guinness for the first time, and saw Dolores O'Riordan (lead singer of the Irish band the Cranberries) house. I had one hell of a time in europe. And that was only visiting two countries.
There are always experiences I'll want to live over. There's always going to be things I wish I had, or hadn't, done. Not just in England, but wherever go and whatever I do. I'm sure once I'm done with college I'll look back and think of things I regret and the things I wish I could've experienced. It's a shame you can't do it all.
I guess it just goes to show that you really do have to live in the moment. While I was in England I shouldn't have been counting the days til I was home. I should've been trying to experience it all while I was right there in the middle of it. It's too late to realize that for then, but at least I'll know for the future. Because I will go back. I made a promise when I left England that one day I will return.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
