This summer has mostly been filled with these two things: job hunting, and running. I've learned a great deal from both.
Here are some of the lessons (some harder learned than others) that I've come away with.
1. Just get up and get going. There will be a lot of days when you don't feel like it, but I promise, if you just peel yourself out of bed, get dressed, and start moving, the rest will come.
2. Some days you will feel like you are absolutely crushing it. Your mile time will be better than ever, or you will have more leads than you know what to do with. Live in this moment. It might not last forever, but its a good feeling.
3. Some days you will feel like it is absolutely crushing you. These days are the worst. When putting one foot in front of the other seems impossible, and you want cry and scream and give up. Its okay to do the first two things on the list (in the privacy of your own home, preferably), not the third.
4. Laugh at yourself. This is important. Some days you may fall flat on your face. Its better just to laugh. If that doesn't work and you have to cry, that's okay too. Do it.
5. Some days you will get hurt or even just very tired, take the time you need to rest and let it heal. This is so much easier said than done, at least for me. Running on an injury only makes it worse and only requires more time on the bench. This one takes discipline, learn it.
6. Don't forget to enjoy the view from right where you are.You may only pass this way once. Look around, there are some really great things you might be missing while on your journey forward. While you're climbing the hill, take in the view from the top before you charge on to the next. Take a deep breath. Look around.
7. Enjoy the success of others. Some people might be faster than you or farther along than you. This is a hard pill to swallow, but in the end its not just better for them, but for you. Life is much more pleasant when you are happy for people rather than mad. Much.more.pleasant.
8. Not everyone will understand you. Deal with it. There will be times when you are thought crazy, or weird, or whatever else, the list could go on. You may be running in the rain, or the heat, and people won't get it. But the truth is, you're out there. And that's something.
9. You'll get there eventually. This is my least favorite. It requires patience, of which I've learned I have very little, but it's true. You really will get there eventually.
10. Don't give up. This will be tempting. And you may even claim to yourself on some days that you are in fact giving up, but don't. Keep on keeping on. Even on a slow day, you're still moving forward. Remember why you started int he first place. That helps.
That's it. They are simple, and maybe a little lame, but they are getting me through. Happy Tuesday! Keep on keeping on!
Showing posts with label working. Show all posts
Showing posts with label working. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
the story of shearing day
Up at 5:30 to pile on layers and layers of mismatched winter-wear. Long johns, jeans, sweater upon sweater, hats and scarves. A little while later she arrives and I hop into the car. Bleary-eyed, but quietly wild with anticipation, we hit a drive-through for some coffee and a quick a breakfast sandwich. After all, who has time to make breakfast on a big day like this?
A freeway and a few curving country roads later we arrive and step out into the cold. The farm is on a hill so the bitter chill of winter weather (still? it's March) swirls around us along with a few stray sparkling flakes. Magic. My heart jumps with excitement as we near the barn. I can hear the sheep bleating, not as gentle as some would think. They are hungry (no food before shearing), they are scared (why are we up and moving already?) and they don't seem to mind speaking their mind. Blurting out call after call.
It's funny how I love these sort of days but how unaccustomed to them I really am. I clumsily climb over the pen, limb over tangled limb, and introduce myself to Du-Roy, a white Shetland ram. I look at him and my friend unsure of what to do next. She explains to me what "rooing" is. Rooing?
It is the process of gently pulling away the previous years coat and exposing the new years' coat. The wool is thick, and soft, and greasy with lanolin. (Lanolin is an oil that sheep secrete, and before you cringe in disgust, go read the ingredients on your creams and lotions. Its probably listed.)
We wait on shearers and get to know the flock. A moving sea of sheep slowly become recognizable faces. There are two brand new lambs to cuddle and make over. Soft and brown. A week old, but already bouncing, skipping, all energy and wool. Their new faces show none of the fear that is written on faces of the others. Red, the English Shepherd keeps his close watch on mom and babies, his eyes shift as we pass the lambs from person to person.
The shearers finally arrive and the real work begins. There are two quiet young men, tall and lanky, that do the actual shearing. All day their faces shift from the focused scowl of a worker, to the softened smiles of a caretaker. The rest of us are bagging fleeces, sweeping the shearing the stations, handing off the shots and medications for each sheep, and wrangling sheep back into pens.
Its amazing the differences in sheep personalities. We start with rams, their fleeces so big, you could just roll up in them and sleep warm for days. Rams, for the most part, fought very little. Then the ewes. Some were quiet and calm. They looked uncomfortable, but just seemed to lay back as the wool fell to floor, soft like a cloud. Others though, struggled and bleated and kicked and rolled. It was a wild fight, and sometimes I wonder, who is really winning?
When it came time for returning sheep to pens, I have things to learn. Some seem to know right where to go. Then there are others. With these, there is plenty of panicking, running, and grabbing, and that's just me. Some sheep bolt past the gate, while others run the opposite direction. A real chase down. Mimosa, a small ewe, standing about a foot and a half off the ground, has me on the ground in a matter of a few seconds. She darts into her pen and we both slowly stand, look at each other, and wonder what just happened. Equally traumatized. With time I am better. Realizing sheep need direction more than force. They need a calming hand, rather than a powerful one. The shearers seem to know this. One of them scoops up the smaller ewes in his arms and carries them gently to the pen himself.
When the sheep are all shorn and the wool all bagged. The sheep enjoy their new lightness, unfazed by the cold. They scratch and shake, and dance their own noisy freedom dance. They rub against each other, reacquainting themselves with what they mistake to be new pen-mates. (Really, they don't recognize each other now.)
The llamas are next.
Octavias (above) and Lucky. Both of which have been aware all day that some part of this would eventually involve them. And they don't seem to like it. The llamas stand and spit, and wobble this way and that, but in the end, they are shorn to, and return to their pens.
The wool is carried into the garage heaping armload after heaping armload. Bag by bag. Some other day it must be cleaned and carded.
We say our goodbyes and head home, cold, tired, and smelling of hay and lanolin. But we are happy.
I arrive home and peel off the many layers in exchange for warm pajamas.
I am asleep, warm on the couch, in a matter of minutes.
A freeway and a few curving country roads later we arrive and step out into the cold. The farm is on a hill so the bitter chill of winter weather (still? it's March) swirls around us along with a few stray sparkling flakes. Magic. My heart jumps with excitement as we near the barn. I can hear the sheep bleating, not as gentle as some would think. They are hungry (no food before shearing), they are scared (why are we up and moving already?) and they don't seem to mind speaking their mind. Blurting out call after call.
It's funny how I love these sort of days but how unaccustomed to them I really am. I clumsily climb over the pen, limb over tangled limb, and introduce myself to Du-Roy, a white Shetland ram. I look at him and my friend unsure of what to do next. She explains to me what "rooing" is. Rooing?
It is the process of gently pulling away the previous years coat and exposing the new years' coat. The wool is thick, and soft, and greasy with lanolin. (Lanolin is an oil that sheep secrete, and before you cringe in disgust, go read the ingredients on your creams and lotions. Its probably listed.)
We wait on shearers and get to know the flock. A moving sea of sheep slowly become recognizable faces. There are two brand new lambs to cuddle and make over. Soft and brown. A week old, but already bouncing, skipping, all energy and wool. Their new faces show none of the fear that is written on faces of the others. Red, the English Shepherd keeps his close watch on mom and babies, his eyes shift as we pass the lambs from person to person.
The shearers finally arrive and the real work begins. There are two quiet young men, tall and lanky, that do the actual shearing. All day their faces shift from the focused scowl of a worker, to the softened smiles of a caretaker. The rest of us are bagging fleeces, sweeping the shearing the stations, handing off the shots and medications for each sheep, and wrangling sheep back into pens.
When it came time for returning sheep to pens, I have things to learn. Some seem to know right where to go. Then there are others. With these, there is plenty of panicking, running, and grabbing, and that's just me. Some sheep bolt past the gate, while others run the opposite direction. A real chase down. Mimosa, a small ewe, standing about a foot and a half off the ground, has me on the ground in a matter of a few seconds. She darts into her pen and we both slowly stand, look at each other, and wonder what just happened. Equally traumatized. With time I am better. Realizing sheep need direction more than force. They need a calming hand, rather than a powerful one. The shearers seem to know this. One of them scoops up the smaller ewes in his arms and carries them gently to the pen himself.
When the sheep are all shorn and the wool all bagged. The sheep enjoy their new lightness, unfazed by the cold. They scratch and shake, and dance their own noisy freedom dance. They rub against each other, reacquainting themselves with what they mistake to be new pen-mates. (Really, they don't recognize each other now.)
The llamas are next.
Octavias (above) and Lucky. Both of which have been aware all day that some part of this would eventually involve them. And they don't seem to like it. The llamas stand and spit, and wobble this way and that, but in the end, they are shorn to, and return to their pens.
The wool is carried into the garage heaping armload after heaping armload. Bag by bag. Some other day it must be cleaned and carded.
We say our goodbyes and head home, cold, tired, and smelling of hay and lanolin. But we are happy.
I arrive home and peel off the many layers in exchange for warm pajamas.
I am asleep, warm on the couch, in a matter of minutes.
Friday, April 20, 2012
listenING
It’s funny, how baseball's always been a man’s game.
It fits so well into a woman’s schedule.
It come's in with spring.
belts out the game all afternoon,
between ads, and static.
A pop-fly during the
dishes,
a 6-4-3 double when the towels are folded.
You stop for lunch, and the crowd roars over a four-bagger,
putting Cleveland
in the lead.
It’s April, clothes waving on the line, as history is made,
the longest opener ever.
16 Innings.
Night games are the most exciting, at the end of some scorching
summer day
and you sit,
The porch swing, powered by the gentle movement of your legs,
fighting off the day’s fatigue, as Detroit takes the
Central Division.
It’s funny, this man’s game,
but it’s us who listen, and hear it.
It's rhythm, in sync with our own.
No running clock, the work is over, when it’s done.
Image Credit: Google Image
Friday, June 10, 2011
balancING act
There are two types of hiking packs.
One for men, and one for women.
The difference comes in how the weight is carried.
Men hold the weight on their shoulders.
Bearing up under it, lifting it up high,
wide and strong, like Atlas, under the weight of the world.
All shoulders and arms and strong backs, with grunts and heaves of power,
efficiently moving the burden from one place to another,
with such splendid strength.
A women's pack though, fastens across the two hips,
balancing the burden, evening it out, until its almost a part of them.
They carry it steadily, absorbing the weight,
carrying it for miles and miles, step after step, sometimes even forgetting it's
there, or where exactly its going.
They hold it with quiet subconscious groans and sighs, busying their free hands with some other task,
touching the world as they walk, still plodding on.
There are two types of packs,
each designed with some purpose at hand.
One for men, and one for women.
The difference comes in how the weight is carried.
Men hold the weight on their shoulders.
Bearing up under it, lifting it up high,
wide and strong, like Atlas, under the weight of the world.
All shoulders and arms and strong backs, with grunts and heaves of power,
efficiently moving the burden from one place to another,
with such splendid strength.
A women's pack though, fastens across the two hips,
balancing the burden, evening it out, until its almost a part of them.
They carry it steadily, absorbing the weight,
carrying it for miles and miles, step after step, sometimes even forgetting it's
there, or where exactly its going.
They hold it with quiet subconscious groans and sighs, busying their free hands with some other task,
touching the world as they walk, still plodding on.
There are two types of packs,
each designed with some purpose at hand.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
air conditionING
the other day along the freeway, i passed a sign,
"FRESH BLUEBERRIES, PICK YOUR OWN,"
it said boldly, blue letters on a clean white square.
i smiled, as i thought about how charming it would all be ,
picking blueberries on some sunny spring day, popping a few into my mouth, every now and again.
then i wondered,
what would happen if i told some woman,
from a hundred years ago, or even a thousand , it doesn't really matter,
about that sign,
"pick your own!" she would sigh and shout,
throwing her sturdy arms into the air,
"my whole life, i've been pickin' my own!
and cleanin' my own, and cookin' my own,
and his own, and their own! pick my own.
of all the...."
...and her voice would trail off as she thundered into the other room,
to do some thing that needed doing.
i think she would jump at the chance
to walk alone, into some fluorescent lit supermarket,
and feel the cool manufactured air breeze over her summer-stained skin,
and pick out the first, square, plastic quart of berries she saw,
throwing it in the cart, on top of the box of kix cereal,
and the boneless skinless chicken breasts.
she would remember the days she spent, up with the sun, and out in it,
knees pushing against the hot ancient earth, as she knelt down,
filling the apron that she starched herself, watching the scarlet blue blood,
staining the perfect white,
pausing, as she used the back of or her arm to wipe the sweat from her wrinkled brow.
"pick your own." she would mutter and shake her head,
throwing in an extra plastic quart,
just for good measure.
"FRESH BLUEBERRIES, PICK YOUR OWN,"
it said boldly, blue letters on a clean white square.
i smiled, as i thought about how charming it would all be ,
picking blueberries on some sunny spring day, popping a few into my mouth, every now and again.
then i wondered,
what would happen if i told some woman,
from a hundred years ago, or even a thousand , it doesn't really matter,
about that sign,
"pick your own!" she would sigh and shout,
throwing her sturdy arms into the air,
"my whole life, i've been pickin' my own!
and cleanin' my own, and cookin' my own,
and his own, and their own! pick my own.
of all the...."
...and her voice would trail off as she thundered into the other room,
to do some thing that needed doing.
i think she would jump at the chance
to walk alone, into some fluorescent lit supermarket,
and feel the cool manufactured air breeze over her summer-stained skin,
and pick out the first, square, plastic quart of berries she saw,
throwing it in the cart, on top of the box of kix cereal,
and the boneless skinless chicken breasts.
she would remember the days she spent, up with the sun, and out in it,
knees pushing against the hot ancient earth, as she knelt down,
filling the apron that she starched herself, watching the scarlet blue blood,
staining the perfect white,
pausing, as she used the back of or her arm to wipe the sweat from her wrinkled brow.
"pick your own." she would mutter and shake her head,
throwing in an extra plastic quart,
just for good measure.
Image Credit: Google Images
Monday, February 7, 2011
the science of bakING
i bought a bread machine last month,
i measured and poured each simple ingredient
and flipped a switch to "on" and went about my day.
it whirred and it hummed, and it tapped
metallic, like some alien craft on the kitchen counter
the bread came out in soft, square, blocks
warm on the tongue
and was eaten up with butter and jam and so much soup
all just the same.
but my hands
missed the feel of oil and flour and cracked wheat
sticking to my skin and under my fingernails
and the strength my arms felt
as they kneaded and kneaded to the rhythm of my own passionate breath
pausing only to brush my hair back from my brow with my wrist
leaving primitive streaks of flour across my human cheek
like a journey, a pilgrimage
to Mecca, or the holy land
or Damascus
measuring the oil as careful as Elijah's widow
choosing a place, a warm, dry womb
to watch the dough, the yeast, the flour, rise like some miraculous, living, testimony
to the way things are and have been for centuries.
Image credit: www.ooh.com
i measured and poured each simple ingredient
and flipped a switch to "on" and went about my day.
it whirred and it hummed, and it tapped
metallic, like some alien craft on the kitchen counter
the bread came out in soft, square, blocks
warm on the tongue
and was eaten up with butter and jam and so much soup
all just the same.
but my hands
missed the feel of oil and flour and cracked wheat
sticking to my skin and under my fingernails
and the strength my arms felt
as they kneaded and kneaded to the rhythm of my own passionate breath
pausing only to brush my hair back from my brow with my wrist
leaving primitive streaks of flour across my human cheek
like a journey, a pilgrimage
to Mecca, or the holy land
or Damascus
measuring the oil as careful as Elijah's widow
choosing a place, a warm, dry womb
to watch the dough, the yeast, the flour, rise like some miraculous, living, testimony
to the way things are and have been for centuries.
Image credit: www.ooh.com
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