Earth and Birth Day

"The earth has a skin and that skin has diseases, one of its diseases is called man." (Friedrich Nietzsche)

I thought I would start by making you aware of the significance of today with an uplifting quote.

Retry: Happiest of Earth Days--to you and yours! This is like the best day of the year, a day to totally embrace our dying planet. A day that passes with so little recognition, this nature Nerd (yes, that is "nerd" with capital "N") almost forgets to celebrate. I often--as was the case this year--get too caught up commemorating the birth of my no longer little brother, born 23 years ago today. Yep, after 19 previous Earth Day events, my parents decided upping the population was the way to go as far as celebrating was concerned. They quickly planted a tree to offset his carbon footprint--even in the late 1980s, those two were aware of the impact C.D.H. would have on this planet. You are uplifted, right?

Final try: Happy Earth Day--to the Earth Day babies. C.D.H., please know on April 22, in honor of you, I repeatedly (year after year) neglect the earth to sing your birthday praises. That way you get ONE FULL DAY of attention... and I feel less pitiful disregarding you the remaining 364 calendar days. Keep your eye out for the untimely and environmentally damaging card, present, and phone call--each one will arrive a wee bit later than planned. I know, I am the favorite sister.

I failed to inspire you to care, much in the way our planet is failing to capture our attention. Sad Day. 

First Game

On this Saturday afternoon at Nationals Park, where exceptional baseball weather extended through extra innings under the treat of torrential rain, the Washington Nationals pulled out a win over the Miami Marlins. In the company of R.D.S., a visiting friend, I scoped out the National League East competition for my Atlanta Braves. I witnessed the pitching of Stephen Strasburg, a notable concern--back in the National's line-up after being out in 2011 following Tommy John surgery. He was himself in fine form--consistently pounding the strike zone. Hits came mostly in the form of three home runs, nothing stolen from Strasburg's mound of course. I definitely did not miss his presence in the previous season.

It was today, I officially commenced the 2012 Major League Baseball season; there was no where else to be but the ballpark.

A Love Story with Kale

Among many other ridiculous fears, I equated work with lunching out, and I did not know where I would find my place. My dad eats out everyday. My mom claims I should participate to be social. I have had friends profess how hard it is for them to pack their lunches, to the extent they engage in challenges with co-workers--aiming for the most packed lunches in a month. Then there is the after work hunger and exhaustion... where I was warned grabbing to-go in route home routines were easily established. I worried. I freaked. I panicked. I did not plan on surviving. Should have opted for marriage and children! 

But now I breathe easy, it is true, I can be me wherever me is in time. I have packed my lunch every single day, including the day the company took me out on a "Buddy Lunch" date. I come home at night and cook dinner or eat cold leftovers. Thou shall not lie, my mom has cooked me one meal a week since starting; those days will eventually end. Perhaps I should save my declaration until then? I refuse since I am the technically the newest expert on working, I can honestly say I do not understand this over-sized portion, dining out frenzy. Preparing lunches and "cooking" dinner are not that difficult. Does it help that I started my career in Lesotho? Does it help that I am vehemently opposed to the other side of the bandwagon? (It is possible I will fall off, you can make fun of me then). And I understand if you enjoy eating out--that is one thing. By all means, continue on in peace. It is not the picnic tables in the parking lot yard, it is not the book in my hand and the sun on my face, it is not for me.

In Lesotho, I met Kale; I have been head over heels in love since then. He came into my life, at the moment I declared I could not swallow another bite of the onion and zucchini medley that pulled me through my first few months at site. (To this day I cannot look at a zucchini without feeling a bit nauseous.) My first impression of Kale was bitter. I kissed raw Kale goodbye when a friend cooked the leafy green. I suddenly believed in witchcraft after watching this leaf transform into a chip--holy heaven! On my own, I added peanut butter and raisins--wrap style. You would be pleasantly surprised.   

Today my mom, knowing my boyfriend well, shared a recipe: Crispy Kale Salad with Tossed Coconut. The title sold me--this was going to make my Friday night, as if Peanut Butter M&M's did not already have that covered. Throughout the day my mind wandered to this meal, conjuring up the flavorful concoction with each bland sip of water I took in. I was basically ecstatic when my carpool buddy wanted to abandoned work a few minutes early. We get home; I barely changed (and folded and hung) my clothes before I was chopping garlic, mixing oils, and scrubbing kale.

Mealtime over... brings me to two places I dared I never go: First, to the computer after hours. Second, a recipe posting on my blog. At least I shared a story. The ingredients and directions will be worth your reading time because I personalized this stolen masterpiece. 

Crispy Kale Salad with Tossed Coconut 
(adapted from Super Natural Every Day: Well-loved Recipes from My Natural Foods Kitchen)

• 1/3 cup olive oil (I one-thirded this.)
• 1 teaspoon sesame oil (My rendition read "t" which I interpreted as tablespoon. I cleared up my own confusion by spelling 'teaspoon' out for you. A "note to self" recommended one-thirding this in the future, funny how my taste buds could be the author of this dish!) 
• 2 tablespoons (That is big "T" I learned.) tamari (equals gluten-free) soy sauce. (Halved by yours truly.) 
• Splash or two (or four) of hot sauce
• 4 (or 14) large cloves garlic, thinly sliced
• 1 large bunch kale cut into ribbons however you like (though stems and large ribs should probably be removed)
• 1 cup unsweetened large coconut ribbons (I am not sure what ribbons are, aside from fancy string Moms torture their daughter's hair with. I used shredded.) 
• Cooked grains (I opted for barley.) 

Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. In a lidded jar, pour in the olive oil, sesame oil, soy sauce, hot sauce and garlic. Shake well. In a large bowl, dump in the chopped kale and coconut and pour in about half of the dressing. Spread out onto a large baking sheet, bake for 15 minutes or until the coconut becomes golden and the kale turns a bit crisp. Stir the crazy yummy combination about at the half-way through cooking. Remove from oven and serve on top of your grain of choice, drizzle (or do not) with remaining dressing. (This will feed me twice.)

No photograph, that would be over-stepping my limits for a third time tonight. (And the look does nothing to justify the taste!)

It is Friday, Friday, gettin' down with a book on Friday. May your weekend not be so rainy. 

The Commute

Yes, another post about the oh-so-exciting life I am leading. And you have heard it before, I am a functioning piece of the corridor of 9:00 am – 5:00 pm working America. I feel the need to repeat myself; I find this helps legitimize my situation—makes it feel real. For the record, this is not the first time I have held a job, believe it or not. Aside from serving as President of Human-sitting, I was in the Peace Corps—totally real job—for that short stint. Together, those with ample travel, sum up the past three years. (I never thought I had the capability to do that in a single sentence.) Yes, in May I will celebrate three years freedom from Clemson University—my graduation into reality, which I see as technically postponed with some life choices until now.

Though my prior totally real job as a high school math and science teacher in Thaba-Tseka, Lesotho never survived long enough to become resume caliber, it impacted my living resume in a grand way. For the sake of my upcoming point, let me recap the perks in a teaching position, more specifically my teaching experience in Africa. The school day began at 7:00 am sharp, the sole timely event in Lesotho, and ended around 4:00 pm… not so sharply. Because, like any high school in America, the learning was proceeded by activities, sports, tutoring and sometimes an after-hour meeting (I never approved of). I usually dodged out around 5:00 pm, unless I could convince running club to end at my place, more than three miles from the school grounds. On average, I worked a standard 10 hour day. My classroom time while at school extended around four hours a day. So during this time period, I was on my feet standing or pacing. And then there was the commute. 

In Lesotho, I commuted 47 minutes to school, morning and night—hot or cold, rainy or barren, energized or exhausted; I made my walking way in either direction. Three days a week I was in charge of collecting the mail from the post office I passed on my way to school at lunch. This meant a 40-minute round-trip additional "commute" because of limited post office hours. The point is I had ample “on my feet time” throughout the working day. And the thing is, I loved it. Some days I would greet everyone, including animals, especially pigs, on my way… extending the commute by over 20 minutes. Some days I would zone out to my overplayed music. Some days I would run to or from or both ways, avoiding thrown rocks along the way. Some days I would walk with Middle Sister. Some days I would walk in silence, pondering my place in this world. Some days I would stop to watch a soccer match being played on an unimaginably rough surface. Some days I would test out a new route. Some days I would time myself, attempting to best the time on the way home (without running). Some days I would stop at my host mother’s restaurant for the leftovers. (I could keep going.) My commute never felt grudgingly long because of these variances. 

This brings me to today, over three weeks in to work in cubical land, where I find myself with a Lesotho-like commute and a much different means of transportation. I have music. I have podcasts. I have books on tape. And I have a neighbor to converse and share the ride with twice a week.  It is America—I can have anything I want. There are food hubs buzzing along the way. There is a Starbucks tempting me at every turn. There is a cell phone, with unlimited minutes, begging me to return calls. But what I want more than anything is to be out of that car. To be away from the congestion. To be free from poor food options. I want to be walking the streets (of Africa, but I would settle for America). 

Why the desperate need for relief? Well... I hate the required weekly trips to the gas station. Oh the environmental suicide I am committing. I hate more time sitting and less time for being outside during daylight hours. I hate the being in traffic, watching my life tick off the clock motionless. And the thought of a minimal guarantee of 10 hours sitting, commute included, five days a week... makes me restless. Each new day my commute, following the same route, traffic patterns, and nonexistent scenery develops a more ancient feeling. I am not complacent, I will seek alternative solutions until I am satisfied. Biking to work? Breaks on the hour for cubical jacks, knee lifts, and tricep kicks? Public transportation? The obvious solution: RELOCATION. I refuse to find my sitting place in this world; we humans were made to move. In the meantime, I am exceedingly grateful it took me slightly under three years to get here.

Yesterday Aside

So I am doing some LSD, which stands for long slow distance in the running world, and my mind is racing with blog updates—the general thought pattern being the positive path life is on. I am this perfect type of content, comfortable with room for improvement. This day, April 15 at 9:00 am, was already promising—I woke up with plenty of time to make (and eat) pancakes with a side of fruit and indulge in a latte, all before changing into running clothes and hitting the gym. The weather was so nice, yet I opted for the treadmill instead. I had plans set for lunch at the best café in town, where outdoor seating is plentiful. Throughout the pounding, I just kept thinking to myself “I feel so good right now. I am so happy!” This thought transcends beyond those running moments. I am physically the best I have been since January 2010--I am in shape, I am eating healthy (and regularly), and I am sleeping better. These sound like basic human rights—freedom to exercise, freedom to indulge, and freedom to rest peacefully… until they dissipate. In the beginning I struggled with the absence, then in human fashion, I learned to adjust… to the extent where a meal proceeded without a stomach ache or a full nights sleep threw me off.

It is ironic that on Sunday, just five days after recovering from a three-day migraine coupled with bouts of stomach pain, I was already thinking about how great I am doing physically. I was hesitant as to whether or not to share, when Sunday night, hours after this “thoughtful” run, I got a headache. (This one--luckily?--never progressed to full blown migraine and was gone after sleeping.) I decided the update was necessary because even if I am not operating at-best physically, I am doing much much much better.

I used to ascribe value to being more athletic, kinder, prettier, skinnier, smarter, etc. because I trusted in them to give me worth, to make me happier. Then I graduated from high school, quickly discovering that these things are not true. Like anyone over 17, I had to dig internally and find strength elsewhere. It was there. I was a strong person, or thought of myself in that manner anyway, faulty attributes and all. Adult or not, I ascribe significant value to my health. I believed general wellness was controllable... until the unrelenting parasite. The ongoing saga makes me feel really really really weak. Weak. Pitiful. Vulnerable. Exposed. Ashamed. Had I been told in February 2010 I would coexist with this parasite for a possible decade—the estimated time this friend will be with me—I would have given up. But now that it is April 2012 and I know how to manage the symptoms, I will survive, living a fairly normal life.

Half (or more) of our being is mental. And, here too, I am a revived soul. How is that for drama? In all seriousness, since September 2010 I have waited on me. The third changed my life drastically, and mostly I could handle this, but I refused to start from scratch; there were pieces of me I very much liked—my passion above all. Part of my new found “mental energy” I suppose comes with having a working purpose, though job or not, I am less apathetic. Following the tragedy, I stopped caring about much of what fueled my past, namely Mother Earth, starving African children, and friendships. It is nice to have recently caught myself inserting opinions where and taking pleasure in pastimes. I honestly shock myself with my concern regarding this and that, experiencing these feelings is foreign.

My family joked that my 24^th year of life had to be better than 23… but the mood-swings in September and illness in November shot that dream down quickly. Then, no longer joking, we hoped for 2012. And one-quarter in, this might be the year. Because if nothing else, I have a recovered frame of mind.

Not Today

Today was not a good day. I made the conclusion this day would be awful at 6:34 am. I got up, scurried around the house in search of my phone charger… mysteriously missing from my prepared belongings, and still managed to get out the house door by 5:09 and in the gym door by 5:25. My favorite teacher was absent, her sub was a noticeable four minutes late. The workout began at 5:34 am, yet managed to conclude at normal 6:30. I was done, absolutely spent; I could barely move. My body was screaming louder than any music I planned to run to could. To give up on an hour is unlike me; usually I proceed into the next hour with relative ease. Not today.

I climbed right on that treadmill, ignoring every signal in my body. I lasted a minute… barely… and I was walking. First the charger. Then the teacher. And finally an inability to numb my pained body. The day was shot. Never before have I craved my bed, even sweat soaked sheets from the night before—Hooray! It is 90 degrees in April, and we H’s like to conserve energy, ahem cut costs!—sounded more enticing than work. I needed an attitude adjustment in the form of a Panera multigrain bagel. Normally mood and hunger are positively correlated for me. Not today.

Today was a not shaping up. With an empty plate, I attempted to configure my multi-state taxes, those ones due today. Fail. I am worthless. My spirits dampened further, I telephoned Pops, the man responsible for filling them out, to inquire about a late penalty. He relieved me… or said we can assemble them tonight—I am not worth much, which I suppose translates lightly in the slap on the wrist department. (And in Virginia, I will not even be late!) This looming task will nevertheless irk me till completed. I got to work, excited to have an assignment boldly waiting for me in my inbox. After interpreting I was even more excited I had a tiny clue what to do with the task. But I should have known… not today.

I googled and googled and googled to no avail. Then I worried I would be fired. I used to have nightmares. Now I have daymares. At 10:00 I realized NASA's Discovery shuttle was going to be flying over my office (a photograph received from a witness below), but with most my team out, I was unsure what protocol was on spending a non-lunch hour on the office building lawn waiting for something I thought was fascinating. So like anyone paranoid of being fired, I researched right through it. Already frustrated I had almost nothing to show for this hour of time, headquarter distribution emails of the plane/shuttle combination start dinging in my inbox. And then there was pizza for lunch to celebrate. There was nothing to celebrate. Not today.

The rest of the day continued angrily and bitterly and stupidly. Nothing could salvage today. I made that clear to myself as the sun rose through the gym windows. Here I sit, wondering how I survive with my four-year-old behavior patterns. I am seriously inconsolable… unless, on days like today, I get exactly what I want, when I want it--a rarity. That could have been many things. My bed around 7:00 am. A second attempt at a mid-morning run in the 70 degree sun… instead of the stuffy gym confines circa early bird hour. An extra large black iced-coffee this afternoon—in my hand as Louis chased his friends at the dog park. Or a king-size bag of Peanut Butter M&M’s and on the couch in time for ESPN’s Pardon the Interruption. Unfinished workout, unfinished taxes, incomplete work, leftovers, and an early bedtime will instead mark today. There are no repeats in this life. There is tomorrow.

The Requested Update

I am confident you have not missed my musings nearly as much as I have missed writing. Life has been a whirlwind of mostly good events lately. This is an update on the day-to-day. I cannot promise it will be interesting… but this is what is going on.

The days start early, 5:00 am early, with a workout. I have my eyes set on a June half-marathon. My training is in the midst of finding its rhythm. I used to have time for lifting and running and now it seems I must chose. Poor me!  I refuse to let up on breakfast, so I then take the time to sit and eat a hearty breakfast. The vegan diet is being repeatedly slammed as oatmeal (with milk) and greek yogurt are the current go-to.

Now that I am fully awake, I shower before making way to my office cube along the clogged roads of D.C. suburbia. I often pause to appreciate a cool bird or the risen sun—these bits of nature might be the extent of what I see that day. In my cube I perform standard work-y tasks until I am released of duties for the day. When I am busy, I love it. When I have nothing to do, I absolutely hate it. As I travel home I dream of the endless dinner combinations I might appease my appetite with that night. I usually settle for the quickest combination… unless I prep my mom in advance with a dinner request. Tonight is a new favorite eggplant dish from Mark Bittman; I am already salivating. Stomach satisfied, my brain and body toggle back-and-forth (over the entertainment list) until one wins out. My body wants to sit and rest, but my brain will not allow it—that seems ridiculous after sitting for eight hours. Plus, I am not much for television, since Dance Moms, like the best show ever, has ended for the season. And activities like walking Louis, which used to be enjoyable, now seem more like chores. I usually end up doing dishes, packing lunch for the next day, and prepping my clothes. I am super fun these days, you see?

To really spice life up, I pass the time with BBC Africa, This American Life, or NPR: Fresh Air podcasts, day dream about my next vacation, perform yoga in heat intensified atmospheres, or hurriedly squeezing in a phone call. At 8:00 pm I am ready to crash… but I resist the urge to climb into bed until the clock strikes nine, when I am joyously hop in bed—knowing the day has ceased—with my book. Right now, Star Island by Carl Hiaasen is the book of choice. This book will be finished by Wednesday because Seriously… I’m Kidding by Ellen DeGeneres is in the mail(!!!). There is even more to be excited about here because A. J. Jacobs just released his newest book, Drop Dead Healthy. Once I convince Pops he needs this book to complete ourcollection, it too will be in the mail.

The weekends are over before I remember they started. I spend my time walking around the nature preserve near my house (where I am sure to pick up Lyme disease), running errands, having (or sleeping through) movie nights with neighbors, taking Louis to the dog park, making extensive Sunday breakfasts while sipping chai tea lattes, kickboxing at the local gym, lunching with Returned Peace Corps Volunteers, anticipating out of town visitors, and working on my newest project—refinishing a table. I have a true appreciation for the weekends now that they span only 48 hours. There you have it, life is good.

Beautifully Rotten Food

I intended to spend a significant amount more time writing following my trip to Central America. Then life sort of swept me up in a tornado of March madness. Or maybe it is because of this trip to Central America I got distracted?

In the goings of the past month plus, I have had a couple of afternoons on the deck reading, engrossed in my flavor of the week. I could and would like to write a book review, or nine, however, I will save that for when my writing is thriving. When my head in not stuck in a book, I resort to my inbox filled with articles on wedding ideas to the mountain lions of Northern California to Spring Training (Notice I transitioned smoothly into baseball instead of addressing the demise of the Kansas Jayhawks to the Kentucky Wildcats of all teams.) to world aid for reading... never knowing what to expect. Tonight, I want to share a really great piece titled "Beautifully Rotten Food" recommended by a friend, an avid reader of The Huffington Post's Food Section. This article sheds light on food waste in a unique manner--Austrian artist Klaus Pichler uses still life photography to capture food far past the expiration date.  

And since I have exhausted myself encouraging others to buy local, buy quantities you can eat, clean your plate at meals, and never leave those leftovers untouched... these images "accompanied by statistics regarding the food's origin, time of harvest, means of transportation, distance traveled and its carbon footprint" might be all the motivation you need to help reduce food waste. If you are not too squeamish, I highly recommend checking this out.