tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-115193272024-03-07T15:16:03.780-05:00when time meets eternityabout being myself, a writer, a creative-artsy type, a mother, a runner, an ex-pat New Yorker, a bit mad but not scary, what else?Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.comBlogger110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-1864571048977868872018-05-08T16:05:00.000-04:002018-05-08T16:08:10.800-04:00Start with Myself?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Start with yourself” was the secondhand advice a friend
gave me, more years ago than I can accurately say, when I talked about writing
again, writing anything. A mentor of hers had advised as much when the friend
was trying to get back to her photography work. (She is an awesome
photographer, my friend.) I am going with 12 years ago.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many of us creative types lose track of actually doing what
we love, are not as productive as we wish, or stop producing altogether for
some period of time, maybe years (um, decades). Not all of us. Some are
breathtakingly productive. I applaud you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to write again, but I think I don’t know how to,
think I can’t, tell myself writing a blog post is pointless anyway. I also feel
like I can’t be an “open book,” can’t be honest, bare.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Start with myself? I know nothing anymore. I am not sure how
I ended up where I am. I don’t have grand goals. I have isolated myself, on
purpose, because I trust so few people. I don’t feel safe. Being with friends
can be like writing: you have to be open. To be open, you need to feel
connected and trust. I am resistant to opening up in any real-real way
whatsoever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wow. That’s cheerful, for my 47<sup>th</sup> birthday (yeah,
today). I am such a healthy human being. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me try that again, on a lighter take. On Instagram, a random
Doctor Who fan account posted a photo of the Doctor captioned, “My whole life
can be summed up in one sentence: It didn’t go as planned and that is ok.” (Side
note: as a writer/copyeditor type, I had to fix the original caption. Notice the lack of punctuation after “sentence” and “ok,” plus
the division of the so-called one sentence, making it two. I had to fix it because my brain cringed.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiGDX_365kPPfUeQuzLM_YWVl1P6_DpJHBSk5VWo3j7onhq4BkSaib9tWlISP78l_d9bLxlHN8TJi7HcboV180QbkkNEcUmp0W-YbX5_njB8u2DaycQ8eo7m4V497GWFbrlgEX/s1600/IMG_0515.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="542" data-original-width="750" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiGDX_365kPPfUeQuzLM_YWVl1P6_DpJHBSk5VWo3j7onhq4BkSaib9tWlISP78l_d9bLxlHN8TJi7HcboV180QbkkNEcUmp0W-YbX5_njB8u2DaycQ8eo7m4V497GWFbrlgEX/s400/IMG_0515.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">This is likely a familiar feeling, for better or worse, that
many of us share.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The statement might be more accurate if I had ever planned
more than a year or so ahead. Well, I suppose had my planning moments:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1) I was going to be a medievalist. I determined to study
the middle ages in high school, and that plan lasted through college and later
was picked up again in grad school (a master’s degree—I couldn’t plan far
enough ahead for a PhD). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2) I was going to be a teacher, and I was, in two chunks:
two years out of college and three after grad school. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thus, the caption proves itself true: I loved studying the
middle ages, pursued my studies with rare focus and determination. Am I a
scholar now? Nope. (I still love the middle ages and keep up with some
scholarly stuff, if it is accessible and well-written.) I saw myself as a
teacher, and that plan was abandoned, by choice, for so many reasons. I didn’t
hate it, and I wasn't even bad at it. But that is a story for another time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The earliest life plan: From a very young age, the single
digits, I was going to be a writer. I wrote stories in those marble composition
books as a child, filled them with made-up stories of groups of friends with wonderful
names, fantastical events, talking animals. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can thank my mother that I still
have some of these. (Not really a side note: My mother was a writer of some renown
and amazing talent. She encouraged any and all writing.) I wrote in high
school, short stories, beginnings of maybe-novels, and lots of poetry. I
continued a bit in college. But then I stopped writing fiction and poetry. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was a budding medieval scholar. Scholarly writing examining
aspects of the middle ages for undergraduate and graduate school took creative
writing’s place. Even my scholarly writing was creative, however. It took on a
life of its own, relied on my instinct to move bits about to make an essay or
paper just the right shape, structure. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After that, my writing didn’t stop dead: I still write in journals. I love my journals of different sizes, some lined, some unlined.
Oh, and the graph paper ones! I have one in my bag, one on my workshop/desk,
another by my bed, mini ones tucked places just in case one is needed in an
emergency. I may also have half a small bookshelf filled with journals yet to
be used. Don’t judge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once, I even kept a blog, this one, When Time Meets Eternity, somewhat regularly,
after my first child was born in 2004. Today it is a very lonely blog, desolate
even. I am going back to it. Determined. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This post is my start, in 2018, on my birthday, so many
years later. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
PS: If you made it this far, I must say I am frustrated that so many of my photos disappeared from my blog. That is going to take some time to fix. Or I can simply look forward and not worry about the "broken photo" icons.</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-2370417215719810582016-03-01T11:58:00.001-05:002016-03-01T12:13:10.023-05:00my mother's broochesI am going through my jewelry drawer to find broken, orphaned, boring costume jewelry for a <a href="http://www.meetup.com/Gateway-Arts-District-Creative-Upcycling-DIY-Meetup/events/228786109/">workshop on upcycling such things</a>, offered by <a href="http://www.tanglewoodworks.com/">Tanglewood Works</a>.<br />
<br />
I opened the box holding my mother's brooches and began to cry. The week has started on a rocky note and unearthing one of the many, many collections of things I have of my mother's pushed me over the edge, yet comforted, hence the tears. <br />
<br />
My mother loved brooches: on a blazer lapel, to hold a scarf in place, on her hand-knitted wool coats. <br />
<br />
In her honor, like an OCD meditation, I sorted the little collection. Five distinct categories are clear.<br />
<br />
1. The ceramic, usually obtained from local Sydney artists, such as <a href="http://vickigrima.com.au/">Vickie Grima</a>:<br />
<center>
<a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=16/03/01/141.jpg"><img border="0" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/16/03/01/s_141.jpg" height="400" style="margin: 5px;" width="377" /></a></center>
<center>
<br /></center>
2. The museum shop pieces:<br />
<center>
<a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=16/03/01/142.jpg"><img border="0" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/16/03/01/s_142.jpg" height="322" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></center>
<br />
3. The travel souvenirs:<br />
<center>
<a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=16/03/01/143.jpg"><img border="0" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/16/03/01/s_143.jpg" height="400" style="margin: 5px;" width="310" /></a></center>
<br />
<br />
4. The family heirlooms:<br />
<center>
<a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=16/03/01/144.jpg"><img border="0" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/16/03/01/s_144.jpg" height="400" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></center>
<br />
5. Her Sydney roots:<br />
<center>
<a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=16/03/01/145.jpg"><img border="0" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/16/03/01/s_145.jpg" height="400" style="margin: 5px;" width="305" /></a></center>
<br />
One question: what is that delicate little chain on the antique/vintage brooches for? I have yet to grasp its use. Extra security in case the main clasp gives? A way to attach two sides of, say, a scarf? I could use the Internet, I suppose, but I prefer to simply pose the question and ponder possibilities. <br />
<br />
Time to re-box the brooches. Must remember I can take them out and wear them myself. Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-77075850712455080362015-04-15T10:30:00.000-04:002015-04-15T10:30:01.691-04:00kick-ass running mixI found myself less motivated to run this winter, but not because of the cold. I like cold-weather running. I still don't quite know why I didn't often want to run, though I have theories, such as a reclusive mood.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNUCCguyv_cMWsKw8y8X7z_sbWc8V4TGlyU35Fpm-vQhfkk02Jhz3K8BUOejxR2RhZFQy4Cjs1CBueyZirp551tqNGZIsVobks8p4hZALskF0czs8HmaJp5ETuVujYJLtoPgJR/s1600/758435-1168-0050s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNUCCguyv_cMWsKw8y8X7z_sbWc8V4TGlyU35Fpm-vQhfkk02Jhz3K8BUOejxR2RhZFQy4Cjs1CBueyZirp551tqNGZIsVobks8p4hZALskF0czs8HmaJp5ETuVujYJLtoPgJR/s1600/758435-1168-0050s.jpg" height="200" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">NYC Marathon 2014</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I still worked out every day (because I am crazy), got into high intensity interval training, kept up with my spinning bike, and I ran now and then. I soon forced myself back into the every-other-day schedule to make sure I was prepped for my first race in five months, the <a href="http://www.cherryblossom.org/">Cherry Blossom 10-Miler</a> (which turned into a 9.39 miles due to a <a href="http://www.runwashington.com/2015/04/12/traffic-accident-forces-cherry-blossom-course-rerouting/">last-minute course issue</a>). A perfect day: 45-50 degrees, a light breeze, sunshine. I chose to run a little slower than usual; amazing that running a race pace :30 to :45 seconds slower per mile makes a world of difference.<br />
<br />
My next regular-old-run two days later, yesterday, was a mere hour, 6.5 miles. The old iPod Nano gave me a random but <a href="https://tapely.com/kickassrunning">kick-ass mix</a>, which is just what I needed on a very tough day (another story). This run in t<span style="font-family: inherit;">he 50-degree temperature and light rain was just perfect. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On Tapely, I have shared the mix for posterity, however long that is.</span><br />
<div align="left" class="col-md-12" id="ownerheader" style="background-color: #fafafa; box-sizing: border-box; float: left; font-family: proxima-nova, sans-serif; line-height: 24.1110801696777px; min-height: 1px; padding: 0px; position: relative; width: 810px;">
<span class="titleheader tk-aurea-ultra" id="titleheadar" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: aurea-ultra, serif; line-height: 61px;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://tapely.com/kickassrunning">kick ass running mix</a></span></span></div>
<div class="col-md-12" id="padder2" style="background-color: #fafafa; box-sizing: border-box; float: left; font-family: proxima-nova, sans-serif; line-height: 24.1110801696777px; min-height: 1px; padding: 10px 0px 0px; position: relative; width: 810px;">
</div>
<div class="col-md-12" id="uploadedlist" style="background-color: #fafafa; box-sizing: border-box; float: left; font-family: proxima-nova, sans-serif; line-height: 24.1110801696777px; min-height: 1px; padding: 0px; position: relative; width: 810px;">
<div class="sm2_debug high_performance movieContainer swf_loaded" id="sm2-container" style="bottom: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; height: 8px; left: 0px; overflow: hidden; position: fixed; top: auto; width: 8px; z-index: auto;">
</div>
<div id="songscontainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; width: 555px;">
<ul class="playlist dark use-peak" id="songs" style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<li class="tapesong" id="song_1" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab sm2_link" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424152" lk="/youtube/hfVdXCZZyBA" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 56px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">¡Viva La Gloria! - Green Day</span></a><div style="box-sizing: border-box;">
</div>
</li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_2" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424153" lk="/youtube/l-O5IHVhWj0" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">It's Tricky - RUN-DMC</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_3" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424154" lk="/youtube/fZn18rLlEXk" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Standing On My Own Again - Graham Coxon</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_4" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424155" lk="/youtube/JDKGWaCglRM" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Just Like A Pill - P!nk</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_5" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424156" lk="/youtube/9mIoDnOrlcQ" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Second Chance - Peter Bjorn and John</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_6" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424157" lk="/youtube/tcVLIN1cJQ8" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">The All for Swinging You Around - New Pornographers</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_7" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424158" lk="/youtube/mItuZ8i4wH8" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Invincible - OK Go</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_8" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424159" lk="/youtube/tRNDB9VqI3Q" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Bury Our Friends - Sleater-Kinney</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_9" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424160" lk="/youtube/3j4I0PqNzKE" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Pumpin' Blood - NONONO</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_10" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424162" lk="/youtube/MDVLiuto5Ec" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Underdog - Butthole Surfers</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_11" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424163" lk="/youtube/E8b4xYbEugo" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Dangerous - Big Data feat. Joywave</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_12" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424165" lk="/youtube/LeYn_W14zTU" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Bad Reputation - Joan Jett and the Blackhearts</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_13" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424166" lk="/youtube/gfZCYDX4gEw" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Joan of Arc - Arcade Fire</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_14" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424167" lk="/youtube/5h9_L98H84U" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Won't Back Down - Eminem feat. P!nk</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_14" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424167" lk="/youtube/5h9_L98H84U" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Godzilla - Blue Oyster Cult</span></a></li>
<li class="tapesong" id="song_14" style="-webkit-transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; letter-spacing: -1px; padding: 0.25em 0.5em; position: relative; transition: background-color 0.15s ease-in-out; width: auto;"><a class="songstext tk-museo-slab" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="song424167" lk="/youtube/5h9_L98H84U" style="-webkit-transition: 0s; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: museo-slab, serif; line-height: 18px; outline: none; padding-right: 75px; position: relative; transition: 0s; z-index: 2;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br /></span></a></li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
<span style="letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 24.1110801696777px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(Yes, I still run with a Nano. Why would I choose to run with a bulky smartphone?)</span></span><br />
<br />Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-36721182629601828702015-04-13T17:43:00.000-04:002015-04-13T17:44:28.409-04:00the smell of epoxy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOAcirM83TlijmEHc9eoWU7Gl_Ri3ogwAdTgOpqiyWuz8kVYFd51mVXXfmkKY2nfcrCOrhtxA57HJsgjCGkpgp6SWcSi9hj310GjX4fL_gPMWc7XIUJwW-i20UmDoCh2iHeEfo/s1600/epoxy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOAcirM83TlijmEHc9eoWU7Gl_Ri3ogwAdTgOpqiyWuz8kVYFd51mVXXfmkKY2nfcrCOrhtxA57HJsgjCGkpgp6SWcSi9hj310GjX4fL_gPMWc7XIUJwW-i20UmDoCh2iHeEfo/s1600/epoxy.jpg" height="200" width="166" /></a>I love the smell of epoxy glue. Nostalgia?<br />
<br />
I remember my mother taking out the two tubes, folding up a piece of tinfoil to make a disposable plate of sorts, using a wooden chopstick, saved from Chinese takeout, and mixing equal parts of the gooey substances. I remember one clearer, one more yellow.<br />
<br />
The chemical smell was strong but soothing, warm even. Some people like the smell of gasoline (I don't), so I cannot be completely alone here.<br />
<br />
I have rediscovered a range of epoxys, say, one to fix a broken cement gargoyle. That one combined a light grey goo with a black one, but it smelled just the same.<br />
<br />
I am looking for more things to repair now, with what seems like the ultimate in household glues, or at least which was such when I was a kid.<br />
<br />
Good on you, epoxy.<br />
<br />
I'll be sure not to sniff too much.Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-29578049281058083202014-06-04T13:20:00.002-04:002015-04-13T18:06:08.884-04:00on a run in DC<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQ80fcAql50zdL2BWVOWS1mYsOxwwyBjOTQ24vB53DsOBWjbsZdlKybqd2ZZLr9YJwZ7dgqc2bdCud7BHyEtFX29sg0lkiFwmxlkGHS0KOeA0V3r5bou21AlcG_nMYV5yQZIn/s1600/DC+school+trip+1985-004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQ80fcAql50zdL2BWVOWS1mYsOxwwyBjOTQ24vB53DsOBWjbsZdlKybqd2ZZLr9YJwZ7dgqc2bdCud7BHyEtFX29sg0lkiFwmxlkGHS0KOeA0V3r5bou21AlcG_nMYV5yQZIn/s1600/DC+school+trip+1985-004.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
On May 29, I had to drive the kids to school, across DC,
from Prince George’s County, which is to the east <span style="text-align: center;">of the District, to the far
NW of it, in the damned rush hour traffic. (Their dad usually drives them
because he works there.) I decided I wanted,
needed to cover 13.1 miles, my private half marathon, in downtown DC, for kicks.
Actually, I was due for a long run, and the area is blessedly flat compared to
my hilly suburb. I parked on Ohio Drive in West Potomac Park. The weather was
cooler than usual for late May in this swampy region. I was grateful.</span></div>
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Over the course my two-hour run, the city offered sights and
sounds that struck me and have stuck with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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1. I was maybe a mere mile into the run, which had wrapped
under the Memorial Bridge and climbed up to the Lincoln Memorial. I was on the
wide shaded path between the Reflecting Pool and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.
On my right, a bunch of adorable, heart-melting ducklings, maybe six or seven,
waddled off the path, toward the pool. Their mother herded them. As I
approached and passed, she hurried them, then turned on me, beak open, and
lunged toward me. I knew I was faster and would escape unscathed. Really, how
much damage could she do to my lower leg? I confess, however, that I was a bit scared
of mama duck in protective-threatening mode.</div>
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2. (Preamble: When I was in eighth grader at Bank Street in
New York City, the whole grade visited DC in May.) The month of May seems to be
the “school visit to DC” month. Damn: Hoards of school groups covered the Mall
area. They were in my way, with their matching T-shirts or caps (a modern
paranoia of losing kids; my eighth grade didn’t wear matching neon tees). I
noticed that one spot on the far side of the Capitol Reflecting Pool seems to
be the preferred class photo stage. A group in white tees was arranged on the
few steps there. At least two other groups waited for their chance. Who knew?</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir8r4ZsC2IjG0Be5gmRgEu4FjQAJbXzKfopANZldBvySf-2iofHml8-PEdcR_Wr08sEBMa4eyvrBR0JVCauNtRAhRikeQHOJQ_bG-0dmaN6vimpsvp5uErVdSwiNAtwgGJeq5x/s1600/DC+school+trip+1985-002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir8r4ZsC2IjG0Be5gmRgEu4FjQAJbXzKfopANZldBvySf-2iofHml8-PEdcR_Wr08sEBMa4eyvrBR0JVCauNtRAhRikeQHOJQ_bG-0dmaN6vimpsvp5uErVdSwiNAtwgGJeq5x/s1600/DC+school+trip+1985-002.jpg" height="171" width="400" /></a></div>
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I made my way up Capitol Hill. At the top, I dodged school
groups waiting in line for the underground Capitol Building Visitor Center. When
I was 14, I wondered why DC was so interesting. Still do. I know, I know,
American history, the federal government, blah, bah, blah. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I returned along the south side of the Mall on the
gravel, one group of kids showed off by making fun of the local runners, me
included. The boys tried to outpace me and each other, pointed, laughed, “There’s
another one!” Dude, you all are, like,
14, and I have already run at least seven miles. Are there no runners where you
come from? Shut up, youngsters, no one is impressed. Yes, I know you are bored.
Come up with something else.<o:p></o:p></div>
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3. Taking into account at least 24 hours of heavy rain the
previous week combined with high tide on the tidal Potomac River, the cement walk
around Haines Point was mostly flooded. Park benches were standing in at least
a foot of water, the base of many cherry trees were engulfed as well. The
asphalt of Ohio Drive was fine until I nearly reached the point. I now know the
lowest point of the road around Haines Point. Even as tried to avoid the many
inches of standing water by veering into the interior grass, my sneakers were
soaked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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4. Realizing that I needed to run the 14<sup>th</sup> Street
Bridge into Virginia to the Mount Vernon Trail to make my distance goal without
having to drag myself past my parked car, which is demoralizing, I ran up the
steps up at the end of the Haines Point portion of my run, and turned onto the bridge’s
footpath. A cyclist passed in the opposite direction. He said either “congratulations”
or “evacuations” to me. Hm. I was wearing a Marine Corps Marathon tee, and the
Pentagon was in sight. No one has ever congratulated me when I wear a race tee.
I remember cycling to the Mount Vernon trail on September 11, 2001, and seeing the
smoke rising. Evacuations did and still do happen in this town. Damn. I didn’t
bring my smart phone with me to check. Was he warning me? I looked for smoke,
listened for sirens. Nothing. Perhaps he just said “salutations,” but that’s
just silly. I have to assume “congratulations.” Thanks!</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-20606405366217178492014-05-30T12:16:00.001-04:002015-04-13T17:58:16.807-04:00dialogue with my mother's journal<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzhS-3UE22wQLcadngDgGCMBX2o4mK1OGyiKbZ3wgsAOASsZ3vbIlCyMa_9kw1qnLfMjhREwPtO2Giv5MXGV1J5_mtbiSmXnxbYbrYUA1XRnyN9h8taj76KNKLtP6_kuKozNq/s1600/journal+page+1982.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzhS-3UE22wQLcadngDgGCMBX2o4mK1OGyiKbZ3wgsAOASsZ3vbIlCyMa_9kw1qnLfMjhREwPtO2Giv5MXGV1J5_mtbiSmXnxbYbrYUA1XRnyN9h8taj76KNKLtP6_kuKozNq/s1600/journal+page+1982.JPG" height="145" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So often, I want to call my mother and commiserate about having a different, outlying kid. This is not just about Iz, but also a selfish desire to know my own history through her eyes. I remember being so unhappy in elementary and middle school. Those eight years helped shape who I am now and reveal things about me that are both interesting and uncomfortable. But I do not know how my mother saw my unhappiness (and she saw it, for sure) or how it affected her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My Iz, now 10, is more social than I was, though he can be deeply both anxious and sad. He is as quirky, awkward and as much in his own head as I was (am?), but he attends the Lab School of Washington, which is for "bright students with ADHD, dyslexia, and other learning differences." He has friends of equal and ranging quirk. (I love it.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I cannot call my mother; I have not been able to for almost seven years. Again, I turn to her journals, those journals she wanted me to burn and never read. I find I need them. Her real, personal voice is still accessible, there to reassure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her journal pages from 1982 are typed on pages of lined, yellow legal paper. These pads were a staple in our house, in her office, by the phone, on the kitchen table. I turned 11 that May, near Iz’s age.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She does not write tons about me, which I respect because I cannot stand the thought of my own life revolving around my children, and I wouldn't want hers to have, though I know she loved me more than anything (no exaggeration). I do, however, pop up here and there. On May 2, she writes:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Today is one of the most wonderful days of recent years. I feel alive again, as if I can indeed realize what it is my mind. It’s a funny, powerful feeling of utter satisfaction and possibility. So that this apartment, this life, which I see as never changing, sometimes confined and imprisoning, seem trembling with newness. First of all, it is well and truly spring. Lovely, lovely. Campus is beautiful, instead of being this dreary place along whose walk I carve a furrow with my footsteps. Classes will be over Wednesday, and I have practically four months to myself. There’s the MacDowell Colony, and I think I shall go to Ireland in August, if I finish The Woman Who Said Mouse. Caity has had a splendid school report, Lisa telling me Friday that she is particularly bright and has become one of the class, a person to whose birthday party children want to go. (Sometimes strikes me as a strange criterion for adjustment and success, but Caity is very happy.) Her summer arrangements seem good.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My favorite phrase: “along whose walk I carve a furrow with my footsteps.” That woman could write, even when the words were to be private. I love that image of the furrow along the Columbia Campus walk; I close my eyes and can imagine a surreal image of the walk and a dark figure walking an actual furrow. I recall that real walk in an instant. I made my own furrows, walking to Bank Street every morning for five years, then to the 116<sup>th</sup> Street subway station when I went to high school in Brooklyn, to St. Ann’s, then again as a 20-something, returned to my city after college, for various jobs and grad school on that very campus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, oh, my poor young Caity self. (I will still answer to that name.) How I hated elementary and middle school. I do remember the year with Lisa (teachers went by their first names at Bank Street), and it was one of the better ones. But it sounds as if it took me a while to “become one of the class,” implies that I was an awkward outsider for at least the beginning of the year. I am not at all surprised. How my mother worried. I would have, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Aside: my summer plans “good”? Was that the summer of that disastrous, hated first year of camp? I certainly was not “part of the cabin” that year. I pretended to be sick all the time to be in the nurse’s cabin. I begged my mother to take me home, but she was obviously booked. Was I also doing something with my father? I cannot exactly recall.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On my 11<sup>th</sup> birthday, May 8, my mother’s mood was dampened by an uneasy last class (she taught fiction writing at Columbia) and the arrival of the author copies of <i>Games of the Strong</i>: “An ugly little book. Tiny print, out of proportion acknowledgements, and ugly red printing on that beautiful blue photograph. It looks crude, amateurish…So there is something of a letdown.” I did not know she disliked the cover and layout. Hm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe it wasn’t the class or the book, but rather her worries about me. She writes:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“And perhaps it is Caity’s birthday. Today. I am glad that Gordon is giving her her birthday picnic. I couldn’t have done it alone. But I am worried that the children won’t turn up, and that she won’t have friends there for the sleepover. At least Katarina and Christina are sleeping over. Sarah and Lola refused the invitation at the last minute. Lola said she had something else to do. Sarah said she had a friend coming over after all. Caity said that meant Lola was going to Sarah’s. She said Sarah hasn’t been all that nice to her recently. I asked her if her feelings were hurt, and she said they were. She really doesn’t talk about that kind of thing. And I can’t bear her to be hurt by other children. Am I uneasy because I have given her so many presents, and it isn’t the presents that make her happy? She loves the little unicorn and Pegasus best, and the $1.00 headband from Woolworths. The bike, well, the enthusiasm has waned, but that’s because I have frightened her about safety, about getting mugged.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Where was I going to ride my bike nearby West 116<sup>th</sup> Street in Manhattan without at least some threat in those New York days? Anyway...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I do not remember Sarah or Lola fondly, so I </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">now</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">don’t care that they rejected me. They were run-of-the-mill mean girls. For example, the next school year, in a moment of wildly misplaced trust, I told Sarah I was “in love” with Adam, and she promptly told him, and he avoided me from then on. That sucked and further cemented my outsider status.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I marvel at how aware of the social dynamics I was. I was sensitive but not savvy enough to fit in or navigate. I have frequently used the same phrasing to describe Iz: “sensitive but not savvy.” He is a darling, but he has had some social issues over the years, been hurt or confused. He does not navigate easily in large groups. At least he does not face the constant social challenges at school that I did. I do, however, recall that something went on earlier this school year when his declared “best friend” was being cruel to him for a few weeks. Iz was so confused by the turn of events, but they are buddies again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mother was sensitive. I am the apple to her tree in that and other ways, and I can imagine my hard times, my quirkiness, my sadness, affected her deeply. Iz’s do me. Now I know a little more; I am not alone. I wouldn't have it any other way, though. I want to be tuned into my children, but the connectedness is also very hard sometimes. Like my mother, I also want to be caught up in my own life, have my own things going on, and not just be focused on my offspring. I do my best. Like my mother, I need my own space, and I do not write only about my children. That would be dull.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(For another time: I wonder about how being the only child of a single mother has shaped me, and how her caution affected me. My mother was always very aware of the possibilities, dangers, of New York City living in the 1970s and 1980s. Hell, the car battery was stolen from her Dodge Dart twice when she risked parking on Morningside Drive. She pulled the curtains of the street-facing windows in our fifth floor apartment at night, so no one could see in. But she didn’t hover; she was not a helicopter parent. I don’t find myself overly fearful, perhaps that is my reaction. I often don’t pull the curtains or drop the blinds, and I live in a house. Something to think about.)</span></div>
Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-1690814298731334822014-01-04T17:24:00.000-05:002015-04-13T17:59:43.497-04:00being bullied<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ft2h2Dbtk6k/UsiFwidEjJI/AAAAAAAAAXE/d6xWsyND0ZA/s1600/Shane+Koyczan.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIGNySKQadAVtQXw6Q1iqOy91C5njMC83K57x7JCcc6UKqPzUBGflWTvGsOgYgO5zn6Aks2mBFO78nZsm0j-wdPD3wnHrRjpve0PdkZl7a9_qTJu7MTzuQobdNo1mJP3Qgw2ZG/s1600/Shane+Koyczan.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIGNySKQadAVtQXw6Q1iqOy91C5njMC83K57x7JCcc6UKqPzUBGflWTvGsOgYgO5zn6Aks2mBFO78nZsm0j-wdPD3wnHrRjpve0PdkZl7a9_qTJu7MTzuQobdNo1mJP3Qgw2ZG/s1600/Shane+Koyczan.jpeg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="background-color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">I spent many years of my
life being bullied. I have not recently dwelled upon it, but I have not
forgotten. (I know I am not alone or special here.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Listening to the <a href="http://www.npr.org/programs/ted-radio-hour/">TEDRadio Hour</a> from January 3, 2014, I was caught up by the theme of “overcoming.” But I was especially
struck by <strong><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0in;"><a href="http://www.npr.org/2013/12/20/255814090/what-s-it-like-to-be-young-and-bullied">Shane Koyczan'stalk about being bullied as a child</a></span></strong></span><strong><span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; padding: 0in;">. <o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></span></div>
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<strong><span style="background-color: black; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">On any old day,
I will remember that, yes, I was teased and criticized, felt pretty much a
total outcast in elementary school. I don’t often use the word “bullied,” but,
yes, I was. From 1<sup>st</sup> grade through 8<sup>th</sup> grade, I faced all
sorts of bullying: having my baseball cap taken off my head and tossed around
the school bus as the horde laughed in 1<sup>st</sup> grade; being called
freckle faced and fat in 3<sup>rd</sup> grade by a boy who himself was freckled
and actually chubby (I had not yet hit my chubby phase and was still lean);
being challenged to a fight in 4<sup>th</sup> grade by a boy who thought I was
not enough of a girl to be covered by the social prohibition against hitting
girls; having my secret crush revealed to the boy by a popular girl I
mistakenly trusted in 6<sup>th</sup> grade; being ridiculed by the “mean girls”
in 8<sup>th</sup> grade for wearing a vintage 1950s pink satin ball gown with
an Army surplus green pullover and grey slouchy boots. (“Did you make that
dress?” *Sneer.*) <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background-color: black; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">I was safe and
even outgoing and social in nursery school and kindergarten. And I was fine and
found my own way in high school. I was not always happy during these earlier
and later phases, but I was not bullied. High school actually offered me relief,
which is not true for many. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background-color: black; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">But eight years
of all sorts of bullying left their mark. I, like Shane Koyczan, remember
begging to stay home, crying about going to school, faking being sick to avoid
school. Like him, I still always take the side of the underdog because I
relate. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background-color: black; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">I have strengths
and weaknesses influenced by my experiences: I embrace being myself, whether I
fit in or not (which does not always mean I am confident, but I am myself); I am
open minded and don’t tend to judge others (I have not been kind every moment
of my life, but I have not bullied); I can react with unintended anger when
teased by a loved one; I have some social anxiety and do better one on one or
in small groups; I am sensitive to criticism. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background-color: black; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">I think being
bullied has shaped me more that I have recognized. Yes, it seemed part of my
past, but listening to this TED talk opened the memory gates up. I can see how
I was shaped and damaged, but also how I recovered, for better and worse. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background-color: black; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">Bullying is clearly powerful and damaging. It is not "nothing," "only words" or "just how kids are."</span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background-color: black; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">PS: If you are interested in following Shane Koyczan on Twitter, <a href="https://twitter.com/Koyczan">here he is</a>. </span></span></strong></div>
Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-1719530056474282672013-04-16T10:41:00.001-04:002013-04-16T10:41:48.623-04:00Boston: finishing a marathon<br />
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I have not actively aspired to run Boston, though I have run five marathons
and am an avid runner and racer of shorter distances, for 15 or 16 years now. The
only time I came close to qualifying was in 1999, during my first marathon, the
NYC one, in my hometown. And the BAA has gone and made the times even harder to
reach. Now that I am in my 40s, I can aim for the old time of 3:50; the newer
one of 3:45 is a much iffier. I am aware of the possibility, but I am not
scrambling to make it reality, and I am shy about trying to raise thousands of
dollars from friends and family for an alternative charity entry.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mDzXZvVxnXc/UW1issokaKI/AAAAAAAAAVc/AgQYO0eZRZI/s1600/marathon-bomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mDzXZvVxnXc/UW1issokaKI/AAAAAAAAAVc/AgQYO0eZRZI/s1600/marathon-bomb.jpg" /></a></div>
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So I was not running in Boston yesterday, April 15, 2013, tax day,
Patriots’ Day, mere days before the 18<sup>th</sup> anniversary of the Oklahoma
City Bombing, the day gun control legislation was reaching some sort of
milestone in Congress. I don’t think I know anyone who was running, either.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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If I were running Boston, I would likely have finished a tad before the
explosions, in around 3:55. The finish clock read 4:09 and change. I probably
would have been in the post-finish area, walking, sweaty, relieved, even euphoric,
wrapped in a mylar blanket, drinking water, eating a banana. I would have heard
the booms and the screams. Seeing the videos over and over, I can put myself
there all too easily.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I finish a marathon, I may be in some pain, but I am elated. I
love seeing that finish line. I feel tough, and I feel safe. The bombing in
Boston has shaken me more deeply than I can express; it is tapping bits in my
subconscious that I cannot extract. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course I can imagine myself or spectating loved-ones being in that
very kind of spot. What really panics me is I know how those runners felt--safe
and happy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This is terrorism, whether domestic or international. (I lean toward
domestic, though I have little evidence to back up that gut feeling.) This was
an attack directed at innocents, targeted to gain media attention, determined to
make us scared. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am out of words for now, though there is so much more to learn, sort out, feel, say, write. I am thinking of all those who were there. </div>
Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-16726454238970300062012-05-11T14:53:00.001-04:002012-05-11T14:53:15.730-04:00how my atheism works<br />
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<a href="http://www.fightingmonkeypress.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/soul_body-257x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.fightingmonkeypress.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/soul_body-257x300.jpg" width="171" /></a>My essay, "<a href="http://www.fightingmonkeypress.com/the-atheist-and-her-soul-by-caitlin-e-adams/">The Atheist and Her Soul</a>," is up on <a href="http://www.fightingmonkeypress.com/blog/">Pavarti K. Tyler's blog</a> in her <a href="http://www.fightingmonkeypress.com/category/roots-of-faith/">Roots of Faith series</a>. I may work it into something longer and more detailed. </div>Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-75080067526113402132012-05-07T08:11:00.003-04:002012-05-07T08:11:48.134-04:00dream (combining a toilet and a washing machine?)<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IYLlR446rtI/T6e7o8r8y6I/AAAAAAAAATU/d5mDJYmaZSE/s1600/toilet+washing+machine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IYLlR446rtI/T6e7o8r8y6I/AAAAAAAAATU/d5mDJYmaZSE/s320/toilet+washing+machine.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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Last night, I dreamed about traveling to Sydney, Australia, with my sons, to see
my mother. The travel was, as it usually is for me in dreams, confusing,
last-minute, fraught with mix ups. </div>
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<br /></div>
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My mother’s apartment was dark, with rooms off of a long
hall (but it was not my childhood New York City apartment on 116<sup>th</sup> Street,
which had a super-long hall). My mother was there the whole time, but, as
usual, I cannot remember anything she said (if anything). </div>
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<br /></div>
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I tried to have dinner with my stepbrother’s
partner (a step-sister not-in-law?) the night before I was to return home to the
States, but we could not find each other in the city. Mobile phones and texting failed
us. I ran through unfamiliar and dark parks, feeling like I was always going to
long or wrong way.</div>
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<br /></div>
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After the failed dinner, I returned to my mother’s apartment
and the boys were asleep. When I had to do a load of laundry in the toilet, I
questioned the wisdom of combining the two appliances (if you can call a toilet
an appliance).</div>
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<br /></div>
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We were to leave first thing in the morning. My bags were
not packed, and I was trying to dye my hair fire-engine red (which I have actually been wanting to do for a while). I worried as the flight time approached, my clothes were still in the toilet, the boys were
still asleep, and I was running out of hair dye.</div>Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-18755046140745495702011-12-30T20:50:00.000-05:002011-12-30T20:50:06.608-05:00my mother's ski sweaterIn honor of what would have been my mother's 72nd birthday, today, I wanted to write something thoughtful to honor her. I wrote some notes about what she called the "clothing museum." It included clothes of hers and mine that were special in some way. I have not finished this piece for many reasons. I will get to it, soon. For today, I will post one photo of one item from that museum: my mother's ski sweater from the 1950s. It was handmade, tiny and wool.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_fkC9rvmOuQ/Tv5nvEhz36I/AAAAAAAAARw/-qRXMnU8uUU/s1600/ski+sweater+1950s+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_fkC9rvmOuQ/Tv5nvEhz36I/AAAAAAAAARw/-qRXMnU8uUU/s320/ski+sweater+1950s+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I would never have worn it--even if it would fit me--because wool makes me itch. And I never saw my mother wear this sweater. But I picture her in it when I read her short story, "The Circle," in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hottest-Night-Century-Glenda-Adams/dp/0943433037">The Hottest Night of the Century</a>, which revolves around a skiing trip.Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-38012203369039205392011-05-29T20:11:00.000-04:002011-05-29T20:11:30.888-04:00yet another...As I wrote in my last post, I rarely see things that are my style in the NY Times, though everything presented is usually in fabulous taste of some sort or another. But today I again saw <a href="http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/05/20/look-of-the-moment-zoe-saldana/">a dress I would wear</a>. I am shocked. Am I getting old? Or is style NY Times style finally catching up with me? (I will fess up that I don't know who Zoe Saldana is.)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VK-IwTkY5oM/TeLgIAhq4XI/AAAAAAAAAMY/fkG102jjnXI/s1600/20saldana-barsamian-tmagSF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VK-IwTkY5oM/TeLgIAhq4XI/AAAAAAAAAMY/fkG102jjnXI/s320/20saldana-barsamian-tmagSF.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-42818416304522629742011-05-23T13:42:00.000-04:002011-05-23T13:42:28.786-04:00ads, airbrushing and clothes I want<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nvbsLW16lEs/TdqajP58QxI/AAAAAAAAAME/IWhjUC_vee0/s1600/lauren-hutton-alexis-bittar-ad-campaign-spring-summer-2011-jewelry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nvbsLW16lEs/TdqajP58QxI/AAAAAAAAAME/IWhjUC_vee0/s200/lauren-hutton-alexis-bittar-ad-campaign-spring-summer-2011-jewelry.jpg" width="140" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">(Was it more than a month ago that I collected these photos? Damn. At least the topics—advertising and fashion—are not especially time-sensitive.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">I was reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The New York Times Magazine</i> (or is it actually, really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">T Magazine</i> now?), probably not on the Sunday (April 17) it came out, rather during the week following. A few photos caught my attention.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LplxR0NAyQw/TdqasOrfeEI/AAAAAAAAAMI/O-6ShvoWtlY/s1600/kim-cattrall-olay-590bes011711.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LplxR0NAyQw/TdqasOrfeEI/AAAAAAAAAMI/O-6ShvoWtlY/s200/kim-cattrall-olay-590bes011711.jpg" width="141" /></a>The first set of photos fall under the “ads and airbrushing” category. As I flipped through the mago, I immediately noticed a contrast between two ads featuring “older” women and how they employed airbrushing. Sure, Lauren Hutton (67) has more than 10 years on Kim Cattrall (54), if I have my math right, so Hutton should look older. But I am also sure the Cattrall has some wrinkles, or at least pores. Need I say, I like the Hutton ad better. Of course, both women are lovely, I just wish Kim was not so willing to submit herself to such heavy, obvious airbrushing. Should Alexis Bittar be credited and Olay not? Both have chosen not-young women as centerpieces for their campaigns. I suppose that is a start. But I love that we can see Hutton’s cleavage wrinkle.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">The second set of photos accompanied fairly vapid articles on Charlotte Dellal (<a href="http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/04/06/foot-prints/">“Footprints”</a>) and Cate Blanchett (<a href="http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/04/15/vanishing-act/">“Vanishing Act”</a>). I love the latter, but I don’t really know who the former is. Here, I saw clothes I actually admired, coveted for myself, and I usually see little of my own style in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NY Times</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">I WANT these clothes (putting any possible airbrushing aside).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YXBrzf-XrCg/Tdqb5rR-R3I/AAAAAAAAAMM/Ci5e3s2fdd4/s1600/17remix-dellal-custom1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YXBrzf-XrCg/Tdqb5rR-R3I/AAAAAAAAAMM/Ci5e3s2fdd4/s320/17remix-dellal-custom1.jpg" width="229" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UyEZlqqHPug/TdqcKHK4EqI/AAAAAAAAAMU/jq6XDoFP-wQ/s1600/17well-cate-custom4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UyEZlqqHPug/TdqcKHK4EqI/AAAAAAAAAMU/jq6XDoFP-wQ/s320/17well-cate-custom4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AZRl8Gxf03Y/TdqcDMtzFTI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/Ml7qEf1Ti4w/s1600/17well-cate-custom1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AZRl8Gxf03Y/TdqcDMtzFTI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/Ml7qEf1Ti4w/s320/17well-cate-custom1.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-80112410600716590802011-02-15T14:44:00.000-05:002011-02-15T14:44:06.962-05:00god discussion with Iz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Juzk_UYE-Y8/TVrW9JFCqfI/AAAAAAAAALo/o_l-eghQJe8/s1600/stained+glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Juzk_UYE-Y8/TVrW9JFCqfI/AAAAAAAAALo/o_l-eghQJe8/s200/stained+glass.jpg" width="122" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Iz and I have our best discussions in the car.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Iz has decided he wants to create a city out of boxes for his Godzilla-themed birthday (which is two months away). He discovered a new way of painting windows—with a single vertical brushstroke. But he wanted ideas for other types of windows so his building would look different. I picked him up at school a few days ago, and, on the 30-minute drive home, I pointed out the wide variety of window types in downtown DC through Capitol Hill. While none are Godzilla-city skyscrapers, they offered inspiration.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We passed a small church on Independence Avenue with arched stained-glass windows. I have always loved how you can see the leaded lines, darkened colors and vague forms from the outside of a stained-glass window. I pointed and said to Iz, “Look at the arched windows of that church.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Iz asked, “What is a church?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I paused, stumbled over some words, “On Sundays, some people meet at the church to talk about god. It is like a school where you learn about god, for those who believe in god.” I know, a simplistic description, but functional.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t actually remember if Iz asked, “Why don’t we go to church?” But I knew he was thinking it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I answered, “We don’t go to church because I don’t believe in god.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Iz said, “I kind of don’t believe in god and I kind of do.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I asked, “That’s cool. If there is a god, what is he or she like?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Iz replied, “Big. Much bigger than people, and god is a girl.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I appreciated that, “I do think that if there is a god, she would be female—or like a female.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XpjTG9Oidno/TVrXFEO4V1I/AAAAAAAAALs/DdQ9KdjnNPw/s1600/clouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XpjTG9Oidno/TVrXFEO4V1I/AAAAAAAAALs/DdQ9KdjnNPw/s200/clouds.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Iz said, “And god would live in the clouds.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I said, “I think god wouldn’t really have a body like we do—I think she would be something different. I do believe there is power in nature, a way that things work that makes sense, that seems to be come from a thoughtful being. Some people call this ‘Mother Nature.’”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Iz said, “Mother Nature is a girl.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, she is.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We then merged onto Kenilworth Avenue and probably started talking about whether he could have a doughnut when he got home.</div>Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-70804213541282767762010-09-24T15:35:00.000-04:002010-09-24T15:35:36.759-04:00maybe painting is more my thingConsidering that I have struggled with the writing, and this painting (in progress) feels much stronger, I may be a better painter than writer.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/TJz9VNMkVII/AAAAAAAAAKw/809rqEkUUIQ/s1600/iPhone+September+2010+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="397" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/TJz9VNMkVII/AAAAAAAAAKw/809rqEkUUIQ/s400/iPhone+September+2010+005.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-36410321838123739562010-09-09T12:12:00.000-04:002010-09-09T12:12:00.481-04:00introverts<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We know who we are, and according to the Psychology Today article, "</span><a href="http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/201008/revenge-the-introvert"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Revenge of the Introvert</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">," we make up 50 percent of the population. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I have no question that I am an introvert. And this article explicitly explained two of my biggest pet peeves about how non-introverts treat us: 1) pressuring us to "be happy" as if pursuing happiness is the thing to do (it is a very American ideal) and 2) trying to help us become more extroverted, as if that were the desired state. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">An introvert is not necessarily shy, but recharges alone, thrives with time to consider problems and questions, and even likes this kind of rumination. But, and I know this feeling well, introverts often feel alien in the U.S. culture that values extroverts: "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">As American life becomes increasingly competitive and aggressive, to say nothing of blindingly fast, the pressures to produce on demand, be a team </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">player, and make snap decisions </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">cut introverts off from their inner power source, leaving them stressed and depleted. Introverts today face one overarching challenge—not to feel like misfits in their own culture." </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Yes. (Though I've not minded feeling different for a long time now.) </span></span>Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-29608786566234284142010-06-01T15:23:00.000-04:002010-06-01T15:23:53.093-04:00chucking it all<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/TAVd9I7JXdI/AAAAAAAAAJg/1ptvZxla2VM/s1600/yellow+paint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/TAVd9I7JXdI/AAAAAAAAAJg/1ptvZxla2VM/s200/yellow+paint.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I am covered in yellow (washable) paint. That should teach me to wear a smock when painting murals in my son’s kindergarten class.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have decided to chuck it all these past couple of months. I’ve been following up on academic concerns about my older son, Iz, which has required taking him to and from testing, going to preliminary and follow-up meetings, and being in his kindergarten class often. (He will be fine. He’s just not skilled at following teacher-directed tasks, remembering names of his classmates or the letters and sounds of the alphabet, or following classroom routines. It’ll come.) And I only have 16 hours a week with no children in the house. So I still have almost-3-year-old Az much of the time. I don’t have a lot of time to work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I signed on to be the flexible parent. It made sense. I work from a home office, so I can control my own hours. But then my main client went bankrupt (more than a year ago now), and I’ve been editing online content for meager pay. So I had less and less work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I am lousy at marketing myself (possibly the worst lack of a skill for a freelancer).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, with all the recent demands, I’ve done little to no work the last couple of months. Yet I am not independently wealthy, so the financial side worries me a lot. But what can I do? I have mostly let the worry go, or buried it so it can give me an ulcer. I can’t be sure which.</div>Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-44383124648536330992010-05-08T21:25:00.000-04:002010-05-08T21:25:09.647-04:00my mother's dayI was born at 9:06pm on Saturday, May 8, the day before Mother's Day. My mother relayed that fact to me every birthday, with affection. She died in 2007; this is my third birthday without her. I remember her reminding me to remember her. How complicated. Happy Mother's Day to my mom, wherever she might be. Love you!Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-87884154937308853652010-03-13T20:41:00.004-05:002010-03-13T20:47:11.408-05:00my purple tutu<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/S5w-fT3OYQI/AAAAAAAAAI8/ara8ZbYWTl0/s1600-h/Solid_Purple_Tulle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/S5w-fT3OYQI/AAAAAAAAAI8/ara8ZbYWTl0/s200/Solid_Purple_Tulle.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 16.8pt; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 3.0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal;">I am going to try being one of <i>those</i> runners, one who pulls on a tutu over the running tights. I have bought myself a purple one -- seemed the best color choice. (I'm not such a pink person<i>.</i>)<i> </i>And I am excited about the whole idea. I enjoyed picking out my ensemble for the race more than I usually do.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal;">I am wearing it for the <a href="http://www.runwashington.com/news/304/">St. Patrick's Day 8K</a> tomorrow. The race is a festive dress-up kind of one, though a green tutu might be more appropriate -- but I don't have one of those. And the race is a shorter distance, so I can test run the tutu for next weekend's <a href="http://www.nationalmarathon.com/Half_Marathon.htm">National Half Marathon</a>. That's the ultimate plan, people! </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal;">My time goal? Around 40 minutes. But I have not run a race since November 2009, and I've had an injury, so we'll see what I can pull out, especially in a tutu. But I also don't care so much about being faster and faster anymore. Though I still like being kind of fast. And, in a purple tutu, kinda fast will also be fun.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal;">Look for me if you are in downtown DC on Sunday morning at 9am -- Pennsylvania Avenue and 13th Street!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal;">The next question: How do I wash the tutu?</span></div>Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-30432812275871118342010-03-01T14:12:00.000-05:002010-03-01T14:12:10.041-05:00happiness vs. sadness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/S4wLsFm3VNI/AAAAAAAAAI0/4YI4rYn0BJQ/s1600-h/look_from_sadness_to_happiness_562165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/S4wLsFm3VNI/AAAAAAAAAI0/4YI4rYn0BJQ/s200/look_from_sadness_to_happiness_562165.jpg" width="141" /></a></div>Reading the Sunday <i>New York Times</i>, I read these two articles back-to-back: <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/28/fashion/28rubin.html">On Top of the Happiness Racket</a>, by Jan Hoffman, and <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/28/magazine/28depression-t.html">Depression’s Upside</a>, by Jonah Lehrer. The juxtaposition interests me.<br />
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The first article is a profile of Gretchen Rubin, a wealthy and published New York author and mother (my snarky thought: sure, I could stay on top of everything is I was wealthy, lived in an NYC triplex, had a sitter for my kids and a housekeeper to clean my house -- but, still, I might not be happy). Hoffman also gives some review of Rubin's book, <i>The Happiness Project</i>. Supposedly, we can expect a slew of books about how to be happy this spring. Why do I find this annoying?<br />
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The second article presents a study that suggests some depression--shorter-term depression, not debilitation long-term depression--can help the sufferer focus on the problem and solve it. Charles Darwin is the lead-in example here. And the idea that depressed people are the creative ones is also addressed. I found this new take on no pain, no gain interesting, if limited.<br />
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The second was much less annoying that the first.<br />
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Somewhat indirectly, both articles remind me that I have two--yes, two--appointments with psychologists today. One is for me (yeah, so?). The other is to discuss Iz, my 5 1/2 year old, who is an anxious and creative little guy. Fun, fun, fun.<br />
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Happiness, anyone?Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-9041885917686848642010-01-13T13:58:00.000-05:002010-01-13T13:58:55.032-05:00mother and child<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/S04XdASMhrI/AAAAAAAAAH8/FRa1w1dNJxs/s1600-h/a0000674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/S04XdASMhrI/AAAAAAAAAH8/FRa1w1dNJxs/s200/a0000674.jpg" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/S04Xeru6rMI/AAAAAAAAAIE/NTO0Xozei-o/s1600-h/claude-monet-footbridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/S04Xeru6rMI/AAAAAAAAAIE/NTO0Xozei-o/s200/claude-monet-footbridge.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>My mother would visit the National Gallery of Art on every trip to Washington, DC. It was a favorite place. She came to love the Impressionists in her middle age (after a fascination with Surrealists, such as Dali and Magritte, when I was young). Especially Monet. I remember her office at the University of Technology Sydney plastered to the ceiling with Monet posters. Some she bought at the National Gallery.<br />
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Iz and I have many just-us outings there. We have attempted joint copies of Monet’s Rouen Cathedral and Japanese Footbridge paintings with markers on sketchbook paper. We go underground to the café, walk along the moving walkway through the light tunnel, then sit at a table near the fountain for a snack. <br />
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When there, I think of my mother, and I enjoy being Iz’s mother. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/S04XPA0WpII/AAAAAAAAAH0/EfRgMfQRHC0/s1600-h/monet-woman-with-parasol-1875.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RsNKgQ3Swxw/S04XPA0WpII/AAAAAAAAAH0/EfRgMfQRHC0/s200/monet-woman-with-parasol-1875.jpg" /></a>Yesterday, Iz’s kindergarten class had a field trip to the National Gallery. His teachers asked for parent volunteers; I couldn’t say no to that trip. The plan: to see the French Painting of the 19th Century exhibit. My mother's on-and-off favorite painting, Woman with Parasol, which pictures a mother and child, is included. <br />
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Iz grabs my hand the moment he gets off the bus, sometimes pulling me, sometimes melting into me. He doesn’t let go. I feel as if he is barely paying attention – focused only on me. <br />
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The class of twenty sits on the carpet, looking up at the woman with her parasol and her child on a windy day; I, of course, think of my mother and am melancholy (in that oddly satisfying way); and Iz insists in sitting in my lap, his face turned to me, his eyes closed. <br />
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Mother and child motif repeated in a moment.Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-1479162641414642282009-11-17T15:42:00.000-05:002009-11-17T15:42:06.814-05:00no idea what I am doingAs I do this National Novel Writing Month thing, I must remember two things my mother wrote:<br />
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1) One of the last things my mother wrote – in May 2007, just over a month before she died – was for a discussion panel on creativity at the university where she taught creative writing for more than 10 years. She wrote, “Writers don’t really know what to do or how to do it. They are uncertain.” My husband said, “Come on, some writers must be confident,” assuming my mother was not confident. But I think uncertainty is not the opposite of confidence.<br />
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2) I found a list in my mother's handwriting, a list of events from a very bad year (1983-1984). A tiny piece on that list jumped out: "I feel useless, stupid, not a writer." <br />
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These two bits go together. I must remember both as I write: as I think I am getting nowhere; as I complain that I can't write dialogue and that I don't have a plot. I have no idea what I am doing. And that is okay and, maybe, even exactly right.Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-86485487451741537152009-11-03T11:10:00.000-05:002009-11-03T11:10:59.012-05:00NaNoWriMoNovember is <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">National Novel Writing Month</a>. Hm. So I signed up. Day 3. I've got 1800 words that look nothing like a novel. I don't care -- I will try to write more words than I would write without the structure of NaNoWriMo. They may turn into a novel. Who knows?<br />
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First, I'm going out for a run.Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-59698827317275088032009-10-20T15:41:00.001-04:002009-10-20T15:43:39.845-04:00the better marathonNot the “perfect” marathon, I am hoping to run a better marathon. I am running the <a href="http://www.marinemarathon.com/page11.aspx">Marine Corps Marathon</a> on Sunday. It will be my fifth marathon, or my fourth (depending on how you count, since I didn’t finish my second marathon). <br /><br />I have never finished strong. I think it comes down to a simple problem: I start too fast. I have indeed finished three of the four marathons I have run. But, in two of those, I was reduced to frequent walking breaks for the last 6-8 miles.<br /><br />In the past, I have been concerned about speed, though my time goals have been realistic while also being challenging. I can finish a 10K in 48 minutes, a half marathon in 1:45. That should mean I can finish a marathon in 3:45 or even less. I did that, once, for my first marathon, my best marathon. <a href="http://www.nycmarathon.org/">New York City</a>. I was 28 years old. I had been running for a mere 1 ½ years. (I am no high school track or cross and field runner. In high school I was smoking and taking soccer juggling to fulfill my physical education requirement. My dad ran, but I had no interest.) <br /><br />During that first marathon, I did slow down a bit for the last four miles, but I didn’t have to walk (I tried, but when I walked, I felt I would never start running again – so I kept plodding and finished in 3:43). <br /><br />For my second marathon, I had a time goal – to qualify for Boston. Don’t know why. I don’t really care about running Boston – but it was a goal. Problem was I did not do any speedwork. So, while I covered the proper distances, I started too fast and my legs literally seized up around mile 19. A terrible disappointment. Maybe I could have walked it out, but the time goal loomed so large in my mind, and I knew I would never make it. <br /><br />After that, I didn’t care about Boston. But I still cared about speed. I trained with a group for the 2002 National Marathon in Washington DC. (The one that went bankrupt the next year, cancelling the 2nd annual race. It has been revived <a href="http://nationalmarathon.com/">under new management with a new course</a>.) I was convinced by my training and the coaches that I was capable of a 3:50 finish. So that’s the pace group I ran with. But the pacer had us going too fast, running 8:20s for the first five miles. I can do that, easy, for five miles, but that is not my marathon pace. I knew I was in trouble by mile 16. I had dropped off the pace group with two friends who were also suffering a little – but less than I was. I took walk breaks and wanted to stop by mile 19 (again – I know, the wall). But my training friend pushed me, talked me into continuing. Eventually, she ran ahead. I finished in 4:15.<br /><br />I ran no marathons for six years, during which I had two kids and kept running and racing 10Ks, 10 milers and half marathons. In 2008, with my two kids aged 4 and 1, I looked to the <a href="http://www.philadelphiamarathon.com/">Philadelphia Marathon</a>. I was talking running with a new friend in my town, a friend I made because I saw her running in the early AM as I do and we both had 4-year-old sons who became good friends in school. I mentioned Philly, and she said, “Sign up; I’ll do it, too.” That little push did it. <br /><br />Again, I thought 3:50. I am now dedicated to doing speedwork on a regular basis. My race times for other distances hold steady and strong. But, once again, I started too fast (trying to catch up to the 3:50 pace group, with their bouncing balloons). I knew I was in trouble by mile 10. That’s bad. I walked at each water station, then every mile. At mile 23, the 4-hour pace group balloons bobbed past, and I pulled myself together and suffered for the last 3.2. I finished in 3:59.<br /><br />So, how to fix the blow outs? I think I just need to have some self-control and trust in the beginning – and avoid pace groups. My time goal is now 4:00. That I can probably do “comfortably.” And maybe I’ll even surprise myself and finish strong. <br /><br />I want to run a better marathon. Five days to go.Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11519327.post-25516920744208194572009-10-16T12:20:00.001-04:002009-10-16T12:20:15.691-04:00running makes mice smarterSo, mice who are forced to run on a treadmill at a faster pace than they would choose are smarter. Does this mean when I force myself to run faster than a steady pace, say, do sprint repeats or tempo runs, I become smarter? Or do I need some outside influence forcing me? <br /> <br />http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/16/what-sort-of-exercise-can-make-you-smarter/<br /><br />-- Post From My iPhone<br />Caitlin Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506645292422442823noreply@blogger.com0