I don’t know when exactly this custom of mine started, but for the past five or so odd years I have found myself pounding the pavement – sometime betwixt the hours of nine and five – come the twenty-fifth of December.
And I love it.
Many of you who read this blog know that I am a bit of a nut when it comes to running.
For those of who don’t, running is my meditation, my calm. It allows me to bring focus and clarity to the busiest (and most bonkers) of days; it allows me to both greet the morning sun, and to bask in the late afternoon dusk.
When I run, I am life.
I am love.
And on Christmas – a day that marks so much love and life, that is chock-a-block full of bustle, and laughter, of wrapping, and lace – I like to sneak away for a half hour or so.
I lace up my runners, and slip on a toque, and run, run, run, until my lungs fill with fire, and my eyes cry wind-swept tears, and my cheeks burn from the sun, and the fine sea salt spray – and I can feel my blood rushing from the top of my head, to the tips of my toes.
And with each stride, with each step, I feel this love and life.
So yesterday I ran.
From my mother’s house I flew – across park, road, and path, buoyed (or blasted) by strong gusts of wind, I raced up to the top of the Halifax Citadel.
My breath strong, yet steady, and my legs felt weightless (although that could have been the cold.)
And there, at the top, overlooking all of the city –
Our short sojourn up the BC mainland has come to an end – much too quickly (as always), but we have many hilarious and brilliant memories to keep us content and warm until our next hop to paradise.
The mercury has dipped like a salsa chip here on the west coast – if I had to wager a guess, I would say that it dropped at least ten degrees Celsius over the past few days, from sitting comfortably in the low-teens on Thursday, to flirting with just above zero this morning.
Something shifts when the weather changes.
Just this morning, out on my run, my interactions with nature seemed both comforting and slightly stilted.
Like my environs were a dense wool sweater – protection against the frost – that I hadn’t yet grown into.
I swear I could hear ever rustle of every leaf, every gust of wind winding its way through every branch of every tree. The piercing call of a steller’s jay, the haunting call of a loon, the unsure bark of a dog – everything somehow magnified and yet muffled, overwhelming but also out of reach.
The rhythm of my breathing, a friendly, reassuring constant, despite the slight discomfort in my little lungs, adjusting to those first big gulps of frigid air.
My favourite route – high hills, blind curves, douglas firs. The sea salt air tickling my (red, running) nose.
Sometimes I run so fast I cry; tears streaming down my face, propelled by the wind, the cold, my speed.
Sometimes I don’t want to blink.
Because if I blink, it will be gone.
Magic:
Ferry.
Morning sunshine.
Afternoon fade.
Work.
Into the woods.
Games.
Dinners.
Music.
Fires.
Fog.
…
So there you have it beauty cats.
Memories, for another day.
We are now back at home, hunkered down. The fire roars and the fat rain drops coat the world a cool, slick, black.
My favourite term for an extended summer is Babye Leto (Бабье лето) – a Russian turn of phrase that translates to “Old Ladies’ Summer.”
How amazing is that? It just conjures up the bloody best imagery.
I can see it now: a gaggle of giggling grandmas, sunning their legs, sipping mimosas, adjusting their sunglasses, remarking every so often on the heat, or, you know, KIDS THESE DAYS.
And believe me when I say that out here on the West Coast of Canada the elderly babushkas have been having an absolute field day weather-wise.
Today for instance, the mercury is hovering around 20 degrees centigrade, the sky burns a deep, cerulean blue, and the trees either glow soft reds, oranges, and yellows or simmer deep purples, greens, and browns.
It is autumn perfection.
M and I have been bopping about the lower mainland, spending as much time outside as possible – going for runs, playing tennis (in shorts and t-shirts!), taking long walks down by the water, and venturing out for late night dinner dates.
Oooer.
I cannot think of a better way of spending a long weekend.
Here are some snaps from our adventures of late:
Into the woods.
Gifts.
Red head.
Date.
Down by the bay.
Sun cat.
Meditation.
I hope you all had a stunningly beautiful weekend, filled with sun, love, and laughter.
Well, another day, another dollar. I’m not sure about you folks, but I am absolutely knackered. Thank goodness it’s Friday. And a long weekend at that!
It’s Thanksgiving up here in the Great White North (GWN) which means that over the next three days there will be an extra serving of turkey on dinner plates across the country.
For us (quasi) veggiephiles, Thanksgiving is the perfect excuse to go double duty (or just completely bonkers) on the multitude of multi-coloured tubers and gourmet gourds, so readily available around this time of year.
And goodness knows I plan on eating myself into a sweet potato stupor come Monday, mid-afternoon. Airing on the side of caution, if one of you could check in sometime Tuesday morning just to make sure my glucose levels have returned to normal I would really, really appreciate it.
(If I don’t respond, please contact that appropriate authorities.)
One million thank yous!
In the meantime, let’s get started on this Friday’s Fry-Up.
Hair today, gone tomorrow
Guess what I did?
Check out MAH NEW HAIR!
As a treat to myself for my success at the half-marathon last weekend I got it cut and dyed professionally.
Professionally! For the first time ever!
I’VE MADE IT TO THE BIG TIME MOM!
Meep.
As you may remember from my post last March, all previous attempts at colouring my hair had been self-initiated (with varying levels of success.)
The lows were, erm, very low.
So, I vowed I would never again colour it again with dye from box. I’ve done my time wearing Dexter gloves and ruining M’s t-shirts.
And may I just say, I LOVE the results.
I’m digging the bangs, I’m digging the colour, and my ends no longer look like I stuck my finger into wall socket.
I also totally cracked up when why stylist told me, “You look like Jesse Pinkman’s dead girlfriend.”
Oh I certainly do.
Only, you know, less addicted to heroin and making much better life choices.
I am, after all, a role model.
Next!
Weirdos, weirdos, everywhere
I recently started watching Freaks and Geeks on Netflix. It’s pretty freaking awesome (no pun intended.)
Bill is hands down my favourite character. I just know that if I was fourteen years old I would be head over heels in love with him.
Check out his fancy moves:
I have to say I like the “Geeks” story-line much more than I like that of the “Freaks”. There is only so much James Franco I can take. And I just not that big a fan of Lindsay and her freak-chic slumming ways.
Is that harsh?
Eh, whatevs.
On the other hand, the trio of Neal, Bill, and Sam is just perfection.
I certainly wasn’t the coolest ice cube in the high school tray (my penchant for the musings of long dead Russian communists and nihilistic German misogynists didn’t exactly ingratiate me to a ton of suitors) but even though I wasn’t exactly on the same level as these three nerdos, I sympathize with them entirely.
The brilliance of their friendship warms my heart like mad.
It almost, almost makes me yearn for the days of braces and topical acne gel.
ALMOST.
Onwards!
Bradbury, you evil genius
Given that I’ve been keeping up an intense reading regimen, I’ve been reading a ton of Bradbury.
Just today I finished The Illustrated Man.
All I can say is: HOW CAN SOMEONE WRITE SO WELL ALL THE TIME!? HOW?
How could this man describe things in such unimaginably beautiful ways – describe all things in such heart-stoppingly fantastical language – in a manner that never, ever gets tiring.
In a manner that is never, ever trite.
It is never too flowery, it is never overkill.
It is always perfect.
His words tie my stomach in knots, they bring tears to my eyes; they make me think. They make me fear. They make me nervous for – I don’t know what.
They make me question my life, question my writing; they make me want to be a better writer.
They make me want.
“They moved down the echoing throats of the castle, level after dim green level, down into mustiness and decay and spiders and dreamlike webbing.”
M and I have just arrived home from four days spent out and about, bopping along the BC coast.
Here are some snaps from our travels:
Sunflowers.
Woods.
Ferry.
Docks.
Sunset.
Pond.
JUMP.
So there you have it kidlets, a brief look at the last four days spent running, hiking, boating, cooking, and building (woodsheds!).
I got some pretty serious sun on my face (M told me that I should probably stop wearing those sunglasses for the next while because it’s starting to look like I have a wicked goggle tan!), watched the meteor shower – so amazingly beautiful, and learned that a cow has six teats and that the UN General Secretary during the Cuban Missile Crisis was was U Thant (oh Trivial Pursuit…)
Now we’re watching Star Wars and eating blizzards after a simple, delicious dinner of garden grown beans, squash, and local Island gruyere cheese.
Sublime.
What did you cats get up to for the weekend? I want to hear all about it.
Rant and Roll 