In the depths of London she searches for a song.

Friday afternoon she reclines upon the mattress composed of springs and minimal padding. She reaches over, grabs a strawberry, and bites into it, caressing it with her lips as if it were her lover. Nothing has touched her lips besides the edge of a teacup or the steel of a utensil for a long while. She rubs her lips together, feeling the bits of chapped skin. The skin on your lips is thinner than other parts of your body, which accounts for it's speedy dehydration. She considers drinking some water. Water is so important for your skin, she reminds herself, and reaches past the strawberries for her water bottle. It tastes old, like barely chlorinated pool water. She shifts her weight, simultaneously smacking her gums, willing enough saliva to form and wash away the taste of decayed water.
Her sheets are a mess, wrinkled in snowy rivulets and mounds. The tiny rips show the tan-and-cream striped mattress beneath, How many people have slept on this same mattress, she thinks to herself. How many men, women, children, homeless, rich? The window, pushed open for ventilation, allows the sounds of the city to waft over her. The consistent drone of construction machinery, revving of a car's engine, scraping of shovels on concrete, indistinguishable chatter of pedestrians, these are the sounds of London. She thinks to the sounds that she loves so well: the wind fingering its way through fragile spring leaves; birds voicing their refrains in the cool of the morning or evening; the soft breathing of nature, rustling and stretching, surrounding itself around her; his voice in the morning whispering "I love you" as he heads off to another day of work. None of these are here in the city. They are thousands of miles away, an ocean and a continent between, it seems. It always seems.
Pollution and clouds filter the sunlight that comes through the open window. No streams of yellow light here, just a one-dimensional glow, nearer to a fluorescent bulb than sunlight. I think that is why kids have so much trouble staying awake in school, she decides: fluorescent lighting. The teachers always keep the blinds closed to prevent distraction, locking the students into an artificially lit box while they lecture. This city light, with its density of smog, is almost the same as those lights: dim and dampening of the senses. Though not always: there was five minutes of unadulterated incandescence in the West End this afternoon; and yesterday, she reminds herself, yesterday I ran in the park with the sun in my face. It is not always so dark.
She yawns. I wonder how silly I look when I open my mouth like a lion, she vaguely wonders. Not important. Moving on.
I want to run, she decides. But not today. Her muscles are too sore today. Tomorrow in the park, she tells herself, smiling. A real park in the middle of a city: trails, animals that are not wearing jackets, booties, or leashes, and grass. She misses the feel of the cool of shaded grass upon her bare toes: the thin soft grass of the north, Kentucky Bluegrass, rather than the stiff carpet of St. Augustine in the south. She doesn't even know what kind of grass grows in London. Most of the green spaces are dirt and pigeons. Oh, how she longs for the solitude of nature. Not solitude as in being alone, but solitude as in remoteness. Away from the city, the noise... The noise, she realizes, is gone for a few seconds. Silence on this city street? She closes her eyes, imbibing the few moments of the song she has missed so much. Then a motorcycle guns its way down the pavement, its rider hurrying to God knows where.
Those few moments were enough, at least for today.

A Season for Growth

Lent: This will mark the second year I have observed Lent. Last year, however, was rather a disappointment. I chose to fast from Facebook, and I didn't make it longer than three weeks. Lent is 40 days, from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday. This year, I have chosen to fast from processed sweets, alcohol, and YouTube.
These three things are minor "strongholds" in my life. Processed sweets because I like food too much, alcohol because it is expensive, and YouTube because I spend much too much time watching silly videos.
In addition to fasting, I have added some disciplines to work on: Running daily (though allowing for a rest day here and there), redeeming my time, and working on not complaining/gossiping. Also, I am going to read through the New Testament in this Lenten season. That makes about 5-6 pages daily.
Not too difficult, right?
The reason I am observing the religious practice of Lent is simple: because I desire to cultivate growth in my relationship with God and I love Him. Religion without a love of God is worthless.
Today is the second day of Lent. I am already benefiting from this season of self-denial and self-discipline in preparation for the joy of Easter. I believe this season's importance to be equal with Easter, for the reason that practicing denying the self and taking up the cross intentionally reminds us that it is our purpose to draw close to the Creator and to become like Christ. He says "Be holy, because I am holy." Be set apart. In this culture where God has gone out of style, practicing religious self-denial sets one apart even more.
I read an opinion piece in The Sunday Times titled "Rise up, quiet unbelievers, and drive faith from public life." Beyond being slightly shocked, I was saddened to read that the author relegates faith and religion to a mere "tribal ritual." A commentator within the article admitted to attending Anglican services when he in fact retains no beliefs in a higher power. He only attends church because it is his "tribal" duty. (I can't post the link, because you have to be a paying subscriber to access online content).
With that mindset, no wonder faith finds itself relegated to the rubbish bin for most people of the twenty-first century. But there is a remnant. There remains those who desire to follow and worship God, not only in their actions, but how we are called: with all our heart, mind, soul, and strength.
And that is why I am observing Lent: to love the Lord my God, with all of my strength, with all of my mind, with all of my soul, and with all of my heart.
Running: Moving on to another of my favorite topics: running. My sister ran in a half-marathon last weekend, and that has renewed my desire to become a competitive runner. I am going to register for a half-marathon in the States, and a shorter race, probably a 10k, while I am here in London! Once my name is on a roster, there shall be no turning back! So, yesterday I ran (in the rain!) for three miles. My left calf muscle bugged me for the last mile and a half, but I kept plugging away, stopping twice to stretch it a little bit. This afternoon I went for time instead of distance, jogging for thirty minutes with a distance of about 2.6 miles. Not awful, but definitely NOT good. I'd like to be running at the least a ten-minute mile by the time I come back home. Tomorrow will be a rest day, and then Saturday I am going to head out to the end of the tube line to Richmond Park and do a trail run. There are TRAILS in London!! So excited! The trail is over 7 miles long, so that will be the long run for the week. I don't have a specific training schedule locked on yet, I am just kind of running and seeing how I'm feeling.

Anyway, I don't know who reads this (though I do have 3 followers o_o) but I feel that if I post about commitments I have made in these areas, I'll be infinitely more likely to finish. Plus, I kind of just like writing :)
Leave a comment if you have any running advice for me! Or anything to say, really.
Cheers!

Freedom...

Sounds like a personal problem.

I'm not snobby, I'm just antisocial.
I'm not mean, maybe I just don't have your sense of humor, or maybe I have just accepted the joys of honesty over pretense.
I'm not a bitch, I just like being alone.
But yes, I am elitist, if that means I hold my interests and intelligence to a higher standard than yours.
Maybe I don't like you because you have given me no reason to do so.
Maybe I don't like you because you're an idiot. I do have low tolerance for idiots.
I'm not at all what you think I am, I'm sure.
But I don't care if you don't like me, because I don't need your acceptance to make me feel worth something.
Yes, I have feelings under my Ice Queen exterior.
Yes, I actually have friends. I am just picky about who I let get that close.
I know I may come across as distant, rude, or judgmental. Take your pick. Just know this: Appearances aren't always the reality.

The Best Tea Drinker

After an English class, she murmurs to anyone who will listen, I always ponder why the hell I am even alive. Why can I not take a more clinical view of life and have majored in the Sciences. Everything has a prescribed meaning, a prescribed purpose. The Humanities affords no such free pass, as it were. Everything must be discovered, pondered, agonized over. It hurts to feel, she thinks as she smiles vaguely.

She heats a fresh kettle of tap water to boiling. It is always best to pour still-boiling water over a fresh teabag, she remembers reading on the package. Never mind the fact you have to wait ten minutes to even drink the tea, it must be boiling at the time of pouring. So that is what she does. Very clinical, this making of tea: heat freshly drawn water to boiling; pour over tea bag; let steep 3-5 minutes for best flavor; this tea is most often served with milk and a touch of honey. She stirs and gazes, and ponders the meaning of life.

Such a tired subject, this, the “meaning of life.” She has exhausted it a hundred times over in her mind and in discussion in class. It may take a different shape, but the general concept is always the same: how do we discover our purpose and live the best life possible?

Someone killed themselves yesterday on the Piccadilly tube line. She imagines the suicide clenching and unclenching their fists, their heart rate rising and falling as the subterranean wind tugs at their hair like an insistent lover. They look around for someone, anyone, to stop them. No one? They throw themselves forward onto the tracks, arms widespread like a pigeon taking flight. Then it is over in this life. A brief moment of terror and pain, and then…

Write this down...

I've been thinking about writing. I love to put pen to paper, or fingers to keys, and spill what I am thinking or feeling. However, I do not write half or even a quarter as much as I should. I've questioned myself "Why" several times. I think I may have come up with an answer: Writing saps me emotionally. When I finally get those phrases out of mind, and they become visible entities, there is palpable catharsis. Something I have been holding inside is let out and suddenly I feel even more vunerable than before.
I like to think I'm strong and invulnerable. Truth is, I'm far from that. Writing just reminds me. Yet it's healthy. Being vulnerable and fragile when all we want to show the world is our false strength could be the best remedy for healing.
We all have something to heal from. Writing, at least for me, opens up that festering cut that I haven't kept clean, painfully flushes it out, and then gently wraps it with gauze and antibiotic ointment. It's painful at first, but later on, I'm glad I did it.

Separation

It is a thirty-four year investment
The homemaker informs me.
Her intonation resonates
Fragile and insecure.
“Has this weekend been hard?”
I picture her tucking her blonde
Highlighted hair behind one ear.
“It comes and goes.
Moment by moment, baby.”
Her voice depresses further.
A hiccup, then an audible tear.
“Has he called you?”
Silence.
“Mom, he has made his choice.”
A sigh. “I know. I am afraid of
Being on my own. I haven’t
Worked in twenty-one years.”
“Hang in there, Mom. Try
Not to sleep in tomorrow.”
I tell her I’ll see her this weekend.
We will all be together for a few days.
Without Dad.