Frequent doctor’s visits call for comfort food. For me, that means lentil soup and falafel at Open Sesame in the East Village. I also love the lanterns.
I slipped on my Des Moines Half Marathon pullover, the one made from that fancy ever-dry fabric, rather than the “Newton Superfan” cotton T-shirt I often wear, long faded from Cardinal red to a confused pink color. I laced up my new running shoes, their neon colors still blinding from the box. Then I ran and ran and ran, probably too fast, probably too far at this stage in my training; I got a little power hungry.
The pace, the distance, the, “I’m a serious runner,” outfit — if I embodied power, embodied strength, it would somehow emerge. I was so close. Continue reading
I used to think I traveled to unearth the dormant dimensions of my being, the risk and exoticism and uncertainty all chipping away at the everyday manifestation of “me.” As crumbling rocks shuttled down the mountain like a comet, dust trailing in their wake, I realized I travel not to unearth the dormant dimensions of my being but to reconnect with risk and exoticism and uncertainty, inviting each to nest in my psyche for a few time-bending days.
I own this mountain. Or the lighting makes it look like I do, anyway.
As I hiked to the Hollywood sign over the weekend, stumbling, as usual, over the rough terrain (I’m not terribly nature-savvy), I remembered the 12-year-old who didn’t care how frizzy her hair looked on her first trip to Florida. The one who skipped the morning session of a conference to wander the French Quarter of New Orleans. The one who sipped (probably) questionable pomegranate juice from a rickety street cart in Istanbul. Continue reading