Watching and Waiting and Falling in Love

Thank you all so much for your kind thoughts and prayers for my family as we wait for news about my brother’s diagnosis and treatment following his severe grand mal seizure last week.
Marty’s short-term memory is still pretty messed up, but he’s made more than a few people smile with his phone calls. For instance, he called his boss yesterday to tell him he wouldn’t be in to work because he was in the hospital. His boss is who found Marty unconscious in his house last Thursday. Marty also called my parents to tell them (they’ve obviously been to the hospital several times) and he attempted to call my brother, Matthew, only he inadvertently called my son-in-law Matt. Matt was surprised to hear from Marty, but he let him know who he was and Marty seemed to remember.

I’m trying not to bug Matthew too much for news. I got the hint the other night when he said to me, a little exasperated, “I’ll call you, Lynn. I promise. You know I keep you in the loop.” Yes, I know, but as the person who’d always taken care of family issues in the past, it’s not easy to A) live so far away from it; B) trust someone else to do it; and C) wait. As you know, I’m not the most patient person in the world.

But as I wait, I’ve done some intense biking and walking and falling in love…with Pittsburgh. I moved here 8 months ago, and although I’d been to the city many, many times in the last 20 years, living here is different because I get to explore it anytime I want and not just during a special trip from the Flannel Curtain.

A few things I’ve learned this year: I love the free concerts at Hartwood Acres. Beechwood Nature Reserve offers great hiking and bird watching (and it’s less than a mile from Greek Stop…yum!). And the Strip District is a must every other Saturday morning.

I wandered around Market Square for the first time yesterday and had a glass of wine at NOLA on the Square. One of these Sunday mornings, I will check out Bach, Beethoven and Brunch in Mellon Park, and before winter I will get to a concert at Heinz Hall. I really love the Pittsburgh Symphony.

For someone who is afraid of bridges and claustrophobic in tunnels, Pittsburgh can be a challenge for me. But I look straight ahead and not into the Allegheny when I cross the bridge in New Kensington to get to the nearest Giant Eagle or the Hulton Bridge when I take my grandkids to the library and bakery in Oakmont or the Highland Park Bridge to get to Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods or to visit my friend Colton in Penn Hills.

Last weekend, Colton, Cooper and I walked across the Smithfield Bridge, which spans the Monongahela. I can’t wait for the 31st Street Bridge to open again because I’m tired of the detour via the 40th Street Bridge. And today, I finally figured out how to get to the 16th Street Bridge, something I’ve screwed up at least three times since moving here. I have to remind myself that what Carlene calls the Jose Clemente bridge is really the Roberto Clemente bridge (believe me, we’ll never let her live that down), and that it’s easier to get to the Southside Works from the east if I cross the Hot Metal Bridge, a scary looking truss bridge.

As for tunnels, I’ve pretty much conquered that fear, particularly since this is the view you get coming out of the Fort Pitt tunnel from the southwest:

Today, I checked out the Heritage Trail for the first time, although I did walk part of the Eliza Furnace Trail (also known as the Jail Trail since it weaves around the Allegheny County Jail) on Saturday, which is part of the Heritage Trail, I think. Anyway, I hoofed it today as part of my 5K-in-36-minutes training, but I’ll definitely go back next week with my bike so I can explore more than the 5 miles I covered today. I didn’t take these photos, but here are a few views from the part of the trail I was on today:

16th Street Bridge

Near the 31st Street Bridge

Pittsburgh is a beautiful city with its share of eyesores, but its grit and contrast is why anyone who’s anyone in Hollywood has shot a movie or TV show here. (Click here for the list. "The Mothman Prophecies" was one of my favorites.).

I don’t totally hate the Steelers anymore, I adore the Penguins, and although I’m an American League girl, I like the Pirates…a lot. But if they ever someday fulfill my wildest dream of playing the Twins in the World Series (don’t laugh…it could happen!), I’m totally digging out my homer hankie. While Pittsburgh is my adopted hometown, I’m still a Minnesotan at heart, don’t ya know.

So as I await for news from Minnesota, I will continue to explore da ’Burgh. It feels like home, even though I don’t say “yinz” or drop my “to be”s when I speak. (For instance, I don’t ask my dinner guests, “Yinz want coffee?” or say “My hair needs washed.”). I also order my salads without French fries and my sandwiches without coleslaw on top, but the native Pittsburghers I’ve met so far don’t seem to mind. Besides, this is where my grandkids live, so that makes Pittsburgh the best place I could ever live. Besides maybe Florida in the winter…

If It Rains, You Can Only Hope and Pray It Doesn’t Pour

A few minutes after I posted my last blog about my rainy bike ride, my younger brother Matthew called to tell me that my older brother Marty had had the mother of all grand mal seizures. It happened as he was getting ready for work around 6:30 or 7 that morning, but living alone, no one found him until noon.

Marty will be 58 on August 14, the same day I turn 48. I always tell him I was the best gift he got that day. He tells me it was the transistor radio. In 1971, when he was 18, Marty was on a missions trip in Puerto Rico when the van he and his fellow missionaries were in crashed. Marty was thrown from the van and knocked unconscious. He was in a coma for 3 days.

A few years later, Marty started to experience these vacant moments in which you could wave your hand in front of his face and he would be completely unaware. The look in his eyes was cold and robotic, like he was dead with his eyes open. We know now that he was having petit mal seizures, but at the time he didn’t seek medical help. He just called them his “ghosts.” And they scared the hell out of him.

Then came the Des Moines flood of 1993. My brother and his kind heart ventured down to help the good folks of Iowa bag sand and clean the debris left by the flood waters. When all was said and done, he went back to Minneapolis, worked a few days, then wound up in the hospital with meningitis, which almost killed him.

A year later, he had his first grand mal seizure. It took several months and seizures for his doctors to fine-tune his medications, but once they did, Marty was able to drive again and enjoy a fairly normal life, despite chronic headaches.



Matthew helping Marty cut up his hamburger.

 Thursday’s seizure wasn’t like the others. The post-ictal period (the time during which the brain recovers from a seizure) lasted several hours, and it was the next day before he recognized anyone. Five days later, he has no sense of time and yesterday couldn’t remember the words “blue jeans” when Matthew asked him what he wanted him to bring him from his house.

Marty is aware, however, of his feelings, and the feeling he’s experiencing most is sadness.

“I feel so low,” he told Matthew and my sister-in-law, Tracy.

My family, taken at Dad's 80th birthday in March

Marty is one of the most positive people I know. In nearly 40 years, he’s never let his epilepsy or headaches get him down. To know he’s sad makes it that much harder for me living 1,000 miles away from him. I can’t hug him. I can’t even call him. I can only hear about him through my family.

I went on another bike ride today and wouldn’t you know it? It began to rain. When I got back to the car, wouldn’t you know it? There was a message from Matthew. Marty’s doctors found a shadow on the part of his brain that affects memory. They’re going to do a spinal tap this afternoon to find out if the shadow is due to an infection. The doctors are hoping for an infection, Matthew said, because an infection can be cured.

Right now, it’s raining in Marty’s world. I hope and pray it doesn’t pour.

My brother needs all the positive thoughts the world can send him. No need to comment because it’s enough that you are reading this and have Marty, even for a moment, in your thoughts. I promise to update you on his prognosis and progress. Thank you for your help.
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Marty began writing essays several years ago after a little encouragement from yours truly. To hear his voice and get the essence of the kind of guy he is, I’m posting the essay he wrote in 2007 about his friend Leila who passed away.

“I Cried This Morning”
By Marty Haraldson

That may sound a bit unusual as a title for a personal essay, but this was an unusual day.

My Tuesday morning started out in the same way as most of my weekday, workday mornings. The short drive to the office through residential neighborhoods was pleasant, yet uneventful.

I made my usual stop at the corner Shell station for my cup of hot cocoa. Then, it was over the bridge, a right on Computer Av, and a left hand turn into our parking lot. Routine is a comfort to me. It helps me to be organized. Upset to that routine can be annoying.

After walking into my office, I set about my “routine” of getting things turned on and set up in preparation for the day of sales ahead. I moved my wireless mouse across my desk to rouse my slumbering computer. New emails had arrived overnight. The customary emails and spam dotted the screen. I was soon highlighting one email after another, then sending them all to the kingdom of “DeleteAll”.

One particular email stood out. The subject line contained one word only. It was a name
actually. It read, “Leila”. Even before I clicked to read it’s contents, I was certain what it would say. It was sent from Vesta, one of Leila’s daughters in Maine. I cried as I read it.
Back in October of 1991, I bought a small house in a quiet neighborhood in St Louis Park. My neighbor in the house directly to the south was a widowed elderly woman named Leila. I expect she was around 80 years old back then. Her daughters lived out of state. Leila did not drive. She depended on a volunteer agency in our city called “S.T.E.P.” to bring her groceries or give her a ride when requested. They would also send a volunteer over when a light duty repair was needed or to cut her grass.

I introduced myself to Leila one day while she was re-painting her front door trim. It wasn’t long before I began taking care of her yard, trees, and house. In the winter, I made sure the snow was cleared from her sidewalks and driveway. Eventually, I won Leila’s trust and favor.

The big event for both of us was our once a week trip to the big new “Rainbow Foods” store in Eden Prairie. Leila looked forward to that. She’d be waiting by the door, dressed up, purse in hand, ready for me to help her “up” into my big truck for our shopping adventure. It was a slow journey through the aisles of the stores. She had to look at everything while carefully selecting the items she wanted. One of the cashiers “adopted” us as her customers. She looked forward to seeing Leila each week as much as I delighted in bringing her by.

Years ago, an ambulance was sent to Leila’s house. She had fallen and had no idea where she was. After a stay in the hospital, her daughter Vesta thought it best to move her out to Maine to be close to her. There was a very pleasant senior care center in the country near Vesta’s house. Leila was moved to Maine. I never had the chance to say goodbye to her.
While her family was getting things in order to sell her house, I was invited in to select an oil painting that Leila had painted in her younger years. I did not know how talented she was. The picture I selected is a magnificent portrait of a mountain with trees and a lake. The frame is equally magnificent, made of carved and painted wood. In the corner of the painting, Leila signed her name. I was honored to receive such a generous keepsake.
I kept in touch with Leila and Vesta these past years. Although Leila’s eyesight had deteriorated badly she kept a photograph of me and my lawn mower near her bedside. Leila continued to believe that one day, I would drive out to Maine in my truck and take her back home to her little house in St Louis Park.

The email was short and meaningful. It read – “Hi, Marty. Leila died this afternoon. I think Leila’s body and spirit finally just wore out. She died very peacefully – just went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Thank you again for your friendship to us through the years. It meant a great deal to Leila, who adored you. It meant a great deal to all of us who were not able to be close to her to know that you were next door, keeping an eye on her and helping with the things she was too frail to do on her own. Best wishes as you make your next life decisions.” Vesta

That closing remark about “next life decisions” albeit rather odd, really hit home with me. After 28 years in sales here with the same company, I have been wondering lately if what I am doing really matters? Perhaps I should consider partnering with a missions agency to do some “good work” overseas, whatever that may be.
Then, an email like this one comes along to remind me that my life has not been a series of haphazard accidents. No matter where I have been, I have had the opportunity of helping someone. That someone can be a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker, or total stranger. I need not think that there is some “better” place for me to be or people elsewhere more deserving of my time and talents. I am where I am meant to be.

I did cry this morning. I liked Leila. And, to hear someone tell me how much I meant to this elderly woman, was a bit emotional. It’s time for me to once again to look for the opportunities in “my world” where I can help to improve the life of someone else. I encourage everyone to look around them to see how they can help another. You’ll never know how much of an impact you can have in someone’s life unless you try.

It Seemed Like A Good Idea: The Best Worst Bike Ride Ever

I checked the radar. I swear I did. And all I saw was a little green blip 40 miles southwest of my house. I got dressed, did some strength training, then headed outside and loaded up the bike.

I was going to do my favorite little 14-miler today. The first half is a nice gradual incline, one I like to do at about 9-11 miles per hour, then I turn around and ride somewhat downhill about 13 mph.

The temperature was perfect – 74 degrees – and there was a nice breeze to keep me cool. I pulled into the parking lot and saw Creepy Next-To-The-Trailhead House Owner dude talking to a fellow biker who was loading his bike. I got out of my car and hoped Fellow Biker would keep Creepy House Owner busy until I unloaded and started riding.

Such was not my luck. Creepy House Owner, with his 5-day beard and breath of chewing tobacco, came up to me and said, WHILE REACHING OUT TO TOUCH ME (cue heebee jeebees), “Those look like rain clouds coming in.”

I shrugged him off my shoulder and worked as fast as I could getting the straps undone and lifting my bike off the rack.

“Yeah, well, I won’t shrink,” I said, as I locked my car and hopped on my bike before he could touch me again. I didn’t bother hitching up my iPod until he was well out of sight.

A few miles in, I was in my stride, enjoying the breeze and the dense foliage that has filled in so beautifully along the trail. Three miles in, I felt a few drops of rain. No biggie. I kept going. It got a little steadier a half mile later and I got off my bike under a tree to wait it out.

I didn’t take out my Blackberry to check the radar (as that would have been the prudent thing to do) because, as those of you who’ve know me longer than five minutes know, I’m as patient as a 2-year-old sometimes. Three minutes under the tree, the rain was still sputtering and I figured why waste my time? Just ride it out, literally.

I hopped back on my bike and continued up the trail. Another mile in, though, the sputtering turned steady and I was getting pretty wet. Frustrated, I turned around and headed back. Nine miles would be all I could ride today.

A half mile later, the steady rain had turned into a sheet of rain and my bike was kicking up so much dirt into my mouth and eyes I had a hard time seeing the trail.

I knew there was a shelter a few miles from the parking lot, so I peddled as fast as I could, never getting below 15 mph.

That is, until I saw the fawn.

She was a lovely little thing, standing on the trail looking toward me.

‘Awww…’ I thought as I slowed down to admire her.

The rain was pouring over me, but I was already soaked so I figured, ‘What does it matter, right? How often do I see a deer on the…’

Crack! Boom!

Oops. I didn’t anticipate thunder. And it was really close and I was really not close to the shelter. I still had at least a mile to go.

‘Um, Lynn?’ I said to myself. ‘Haul ass!’

I cranked on my bike like I was being chased by the devil. Sixteen, 17 mph. I was flying and it was pouring and I was having the time of my life. Soaking wet, cold, but damn, I proved I could be fast when I needed to be.

I saw the shelter up ahead and saw part of a bike sticking out. I remembered passing one other biker on the trail. A guy. I debated: Do I stop or keep going? Stop or keep…

CRACK!

I stopped.

“Holy crap!” I laughed as I got off my bike. “It’s really raining out here!”

I looked down at myself and saw to my total embarrassment that…well…I was in a t-shirt…and I was cold. You know…*ahem*…COLD. I held my arms nonchalantly over my chest as the man moved over so I could sit down. If he looked he never let on.

He had a nice face; a short graying beard and soft eyes. Looked younger than me, but I found out later he just turned 50. He opened his pack and handed me a couple of paper towels (I only carry Kleenex). I thanked him and began drying off my arms and face. We exchanged names and what do you do’s and rode out the rain in pleasant, fun conversation.

He’s been riding for a few years, just like me. He’d converted a 1970s 10-speed Schwinn road bike into a six-speed mountain-type bike. It was really cool looking. He asked if I’d ever ridden the GAP Trail. No, I said, but it’s on my riding bucket list. He told me about his favorite section of the trail and how it wound through several small towns.

“You’ll think you’re in Mayberry!” he said.

Mr. Shelter Guy was funny, smart, and articulate, and when the sun came out, we talked a little longer. Not a bad way to ride out a storm. He asked for my blog site, but since neither of us had paper or a pen, I told him to Google my name.

We got back on our bikes and he went his way and I went mine. I called over my shoulder, “Hey, if you find me online, write if you’d like a biking partner!” I think he yelled back, “OK!” but maybe that’s because it’s what I wanted to hear. I don’t mind biking alone, but it would be fun to go with someone once in awhile.

When I got back to the parking lot, I was even muddier than I was at the shelter.

Creepy House Owner was there waiting for me, too. I’ll tell you what, I’ve never put my bike on the rack so fast as I did today, and I did it while not allowing him to invade my personal space again. I mean, really. Ew. Who touches someone like that? Oh right. Perverts!

When I got home, I put my bike in the garage, closed the garage door and stripped.

Got in the shower and hosed off.

Not sure I got all the dirt out of my hair, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be digging black specks out of my eyes for the next several hours. But you know what? I’m pumped. Today’s ride was, by far, the best worst ride of my biking career. Even though that green blip grew into a massive red blob on the radar, hitting the trail was a really good idea.

Maintenance is a Marathon, Babe, Not a Sprint

My friend Colton is always reminding me, “Life’s a marathon, babe, not a sprint.”

The same can be said for maintenance. Only I forget sometimes and fail to see the big picture when I’m living inside my bubble of scale-watching minutia.

In maintenance (to paraphrase Newton), for every emotion, there’s an equal and opposite “remotion.” Since reaching goal four years ago, I’ve been challenged/bored, frustrated/encouraged, confused/crystal clear and obsessed/aware. Thankfully, however, for every moment of obsession, I seem to have a moment of awareness, usually sparked by a fellow maintainer.

Ellen of Fat Girl Wearing Thin posted a blog recently about the betters and worsts of maintenance. She begins, “Maintenance is a bit like experiencing the ups and downs in a long-term relationship. There are good days when everything is going along just fine and dandy. But then, there are other days when there is a bit of, how shall we say… inner turmoil?”

When I was no longer pursuing a scale goal and the compliments died off because everyone got used to me looking the way I do now and very few people – let alone me – understood how to stay the same weight, the question I had to answer was, “Now what?” I spent more than two years pursuing the bright light at the end of the tunnel (my goal weight), but when I got there, no one handed me the light and said, “Here you go, hon! You’ll always know where you’re going now.”

As I commented in Laura Jayne’s recent post on maintenance, when I reached goal at 138 pounds, my body took me down to 128. Then I started thinking 120 might be even better. I got to 125 before I understood how obsessed I’d become with losing AND how afraid I’d become of gaining. I stopped losing, but I took that obsession into the gym and began over-training. I paid a high price physically, injuring joints that were already battling osteoarthritis.

Two years ago, I allowed myself (albeit reluctantly, I admit) to sit in my obsession and to take my exercise routine down several notches to see what happened. And what happened was...not much. I maintained for a year before I had knee surgery (which was a year ago tomorrow…wow…has it been that long already?). Then perimenopause hit like a ton of bricks late last year. The result: I’ve gained about 10 pounds from my ideal weight of 130-132. Coming to terms with my ever-changing body at age 48 has definitely been the biggest maintenance challenge so far.

In maintenance, it’s imperative we direct the positive, determined energy we had while losing weight to other goals. To meet the challenge of my changing body, I decided last spring to concentrate my energy less on losing weight and more on exercise goals.

My first goal was to, by Labor Day, do a 20-mile bike ride with no more than a 5-minute break. Because I rode 19 miles in 1 hour, 35 minutes on Sunday (I was so proud of my knees!), I’ve changed that goal to 25 miles.

My second goal is to walk a 5K in 36 minutes, breaking my personal best of 38 minutes. So far I’ve walked 3 miles in 41 minutes, so I have a ways to go. But my thighs are strong and that makes me happy. I get outside and that makes me happy.

The other part of the challenge is, of course, food. I still watch my food intake, definitely. But I’ve loosened up some of my hard and fast rules, at least the ones that directed my obsession. For instance, I used to hate going out to eat. Was afraid to try food that – oh no! – might contain some fat! *eyeroll*

Now I love discovering new restaurants with fresh menus. I’m in love with Mad Mex and their pepita hummus, and their Overtly Masculine Grilled Portabello with Foo-Foo Tofu fajita is seriously fabulous. In my super-obsessed restrictive days, tabouli was taboo and tzatziki sauce was a no-no. Now, they’re my “usuals” at Greek Stop. It’s all about moderation and control and having the strength to get all Mom on myself when I beg for more than I need. Just as strong thighs make me happy, so does a good food find.

Maintenance doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Maintenance is part of the fiber of my life, and like everything in life, nothing stays the same. My body will change. My mind will change. These things happen over time. And time, as Lyn from Escape from Obesity wrote in a recent post, is the true measure of success.

Maintenance is a marathon, babe, not a sprint. There will be equals and opposites and obsessions along the way. But there can also be clarity and awareness that can take us on longer bike rides and faster walks, and lead us to some really excellent enchiladas and gyros if we just step outside the minutia and into the big picture.

In Memory of Sgt. Joseph Garrison, Whom I Never Met, But I Owe

I hated someone once. The feeling was so deep and raw that it threatened to incinerate my heart and leave it in ashes just above my belly button. The feeling lasted for a moment, no longer, because it was so heavy and difficult to hang on to that if I’d surrendered to the pain, it would have left a scar so deep that plastic surgery couldn’t have fixed my heart to the way it was before.

The gift within that moment of burning clarity was the knowledge that the pain was my own damn fault.

Not God’s.

I never met Marine Sgt. Joseph Garrison, but on Thursday I stood outside the church in which his funeral was held, ready as best I could to make sure hate didn’t permeate the walls of the stone structure in which his family and friends mourned in the way we all deserve to mourn: in peace.

Garrison, 27, died June 6 when a road-side bomb went off near his vehicle in Helmend, Afghanistan. He was a local boy, the friend of a friend of my daughter’s, and the son of parents I knew remotely through this connection and that. Western Pennsylvania, like all the other parts of this county, raises up some mighty compassionate, dedicated children. The kind who wake us up to what’s really important.

The folks at Westboro Baptist Church threatened to bring their cardboard signs of hate to Joey Garrison’s funeral Thursday. They wanted to use his death to forward their message that God hates homosexuals and therefore kills those who serve in the military in defense of our homosexual-tolerating country…or at least that’s what I’ve been able to cull from their convoluted postings on their website.

I grew up Lutheran. Went to a Lutheran grade school, and graduated from a Lutheran college with a minor in theology. While I’m not a practicing Lutheran right now, I know Lutherans make the best church coffee ever AND they know the Bible. Individual Lutherans might not always interpret the scriptures the same, but we’re usually in the same theological boat. God’s cool, he’s mellowed with age, and while he created us in all our messiness, we still believe (yes, even me, despite my spiritual meandering the last 15 years) he loves us just the same.

There are many instances in the Bible in which God got mad. Really mad. He threw a LOT of tantrums. Flood, anyone? And while I’m pretty sure surging water wasn’t the best solution to his problem at that moment, God's anger personifies real feelings we all experience at some point in our lives. God knows mad. But he also knows tolerance. That’s in the Bible, too.

There was an undercurrent of apprehension, volatility, anger, incomprehensiveness, sorrow, tolerance and genuine love at Joey Garrison’s funeral. The feelings were there in the counter protestors' signs, in the flags held by the veterans – young and old – and in the hearts of the Patriot Guard Riders, who stood ready to defend against anyone who got in the way of Joey Garrison’s ride from church to cemetery.

I was at the funeral in Distant, PA, with friends; one who knew Joey and one whose son wants more than anything to be in the Air Force. Her niece was there, too. She stood quiet and alone much of the time, pondering, no doubt, the fact that her husband is in the military, training in California for what will most likely be a tour to a war zone.

We’ve not, as a nation, been asked to sacrifice much except our military personnel to the wars we’ve been fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. It’s not like World War II when citizens bought war bonds and planted victory gardens and collected steel and rubber and asked its women to work in factories dominated by a male work force but who were now fighting a war. We are disconnected in so many ways, living these wars through reports that we can ignore simply by muting the TV or turning the page of our newspapers and magazines.

But attending a military funeral – even if it’s to stand outside ready to deny access to someone who wants to disrupt mourning with hate – is something every American citizen should do. We should all listen to the bagpipes and watch as a soldier’s casket is lowered into the hearse by pall bearers dressed in their uniforms, knowing it could be them being buried that day. We should all feel the weight of the grief of the families and hear, through the looks in everyone’s eyes, the burning question, “Why?”

I've never felt as connected to my citizenship as I did last week. I didn’t realize how the gravity of the responsibility of our citizenship is so often lost in the very freedoms in which we move.

I am sorry for the folks at WBC who harbor, cling to and profess such hatred and anger. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live with a yolk of cement tied to my heart every day.

But more than sorrow, I am proud to be a citizen of the United States of America. And I thank God – the very God who I’m sure still rolls his eyes and wonders what the heck this world is doing to itself – that there are folks like Joey Garrison who work every day to defend me and my sorry ass views.

Thank you, all of you, who serve and have served our country in the military and as civilians. We might not always have our crap together, but I refuse to believe we are forsaken by hate.

Peace. Namaste.

Nothing Like A Good Apple

Sometimes my arthritis gives me a snit, like a grounded teenager, and I need to grab an apple and sit in the sunshine. It works for all kinds of pain. Try it and see. Because even when the world feels sucky, an apple will taste good. And while you eat, birds will still sing, the sun will warm you deep into your joints, the breeze will move your hair into and out of your eyes, and the dog laying at your feet will wait patiently for you to be done eating so he can have the core.

Just make sure you pick a good apple, firm and crisp and brightly colored. Your time’s too precious to waste on a mushy one.

Never settle for bad apples. Or wilted lettuce. Because sometimes sorting through pain is like picking a piece of eggshell out of a bowl of egg whites. The little slivers slips through your fingers the first and second and third time you try to get them out, and you’re left with sticky fingers and swear words on the tip of your tongue. But in the end, a good apple will give you respite.

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Congratulations to Gayle and Amy who won the latest workout DVD giveaways! Lots of email entries this time...thank you! It's always so good to hear from you guys. More giveaways in the upcoming weeks, including a visit from my favorite misfit!

Zen and the Art of Bicycle Maintenance

“Like those in the valley behind us, most people stand in sight of the spiritual mountains all their lives and never enter them, being content to listen to others who have been there and thus avoid the hardships.” From Zen and the Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance

Biking is a “spiritual mountain” to me, but I’m not content, as the quote above contends, to merely stand in the sight of that mountain. I understand the importance of listening to others who’ve been there to learn how I might avoid some of the hardships. It occurred to me while riding the last leg of the Butler-Freeport Trail alone last week – having ridden six miles more than I planned and being very hungry but having no food with me and still nine miles from my car when I ran over a rock that I thought punctured my tire but didn’t – that perhaps…perhaps…I should learn something about bike maintenance.

Enter Lori and Kyle.

Lori (whom many of you know from Finding Radiance) is an avid biker and is my go-to guru with all things biking. I asked her recently what she takes along with her when she rides and how I might go about seeking advice on bicycle maintenance.

Her answer:

“First off, if you are by yourself the one thing you should do is tell someone where you are going – or at least close to the general vicinity. (Note from Lynn: I always text a friend or my daughter when I start and let them know my ETA from the trailhead back to the Jeep. They know if they don’t hear from me within 20 minutes of that ETA to come find me.)

“I have a bike bag on the back of my bike. I always take:

“Cell phone; spare tube; small hand pump (or CO2 cartridge inflaters); tire lifters (small plastic wedges to remove tires); something like hard candy in case I am out too long; water. For long rides, I also include: a bike lock; food; sunscreen; anti-chafing cream; hand sanitizer; chain lube.

“I would also practice taking off your tire at home so that if it happens in the field, it won't be the first time. Most bike shops will have free classes on tire changing and maintenance, so definitely check them out!

“I would also recommend a book called Every Woman's Guide toCycling. See if your library can get it for you.”

I Googled bike shops in my area and found Michael’s Cycles: “Independent shop on the outskirts of town… We are a small, family-run business that treats everyone to courteous service. One of the biggest complaints we hear about bike shops is that if you aren't wearing spandex, you get ignored. Well, not here.”

I knew this was a place I wanted to check out, so after a sweaty 2-mile hike in 88-degree heat through horse- and deer-fly infested woods, I went to Michael’s Cycles. A good sweat makes me more confident, and I knew that I needed all the confidence I could muster because whenever I set out to do this kind of thing alone, my FFG (former fat girl) comes along for the ride, keeping me just off balance enough that I feel a nagging sense of self-doubt.

It was just my luck that when I pulled into the parking lot, a young man was putting a bike rack on the top of a male customer’s car. I like men, but their Y chromosome makes me nervous. It’s one of those self-instilled FFG reactions/assumptions I fight all the time: I’ll be judged/stared at/laughed at/ignored.

The customer was sweaty, like he'd just been on a ride. He was about my age and, of course, nice looking. But I bucked up and walked across the lot. ‘I am responsible for how I allow myself to be treated,’ I told myself. ‘You are a woman who bikes, not a woman with baggage.’

As I approached them, the young man looked down from the bike rack and smiled. “Hi! What can I help you with?”

“Well,” I said. “I used to bike with someone but I don’t anymore. I need to know some things about bike maintenance. Do you guys do that kind of thing?”

“Oh heck, yeah!” he said. “I’m Kyle. If you’ve got some time right now, I’ll show you how to change your tire when I’m done here.”

 “I have an appointment this afternoon, but are you around tomorrow?” I asked.

“Yeah, after 12,” he said, jumping off the top of the customer’s car. “I’ll get you a card.”

 As he walked into the shop, I turned to the customer and apologized for taking Kyle away from his bike rack installation. The man smiled and said it was no problem and asked if I’d heard of the Butler-Freeport Trail. ‘Yay!’ I thought. ‘Common ground!’ Any insecurities I had melted away as he talked to me as a person who bikes, not a person who was formerly overweight or even who had sweaty gross hair. I felt on equal ground. That hasn’t happened very often in my obese or even in my formerly obese life. It’s not because of other people; it’s because of me and how I allow my FFG to throw me off balance.

The next day, I took my bike to the shop and Kyle showed me how to change a tube and gave me tips on maintenance. I am now the proud owner of a 700 x 35-40 inner tube, 3 tire levers, a portable air pump (which Kyle mounted on my bike) and a primo pressure gauge that works with both Schrader and Presta valves (and I know what each of them is…*grin*).

"In a car you're always in a compartment, and because you're used to it you don't realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You're a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame. On a cycle the frame is gone. You're completely in contact with it all. You're in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming."

I’ve spent too much time avoiding that which scares me. Moving forward in spite of my fears and not waiting for them to dissolve, I’ve discovered the beauty of self-empowerment. Not only do I learn something – a concrete skill or something about myself – I change something about myself. Not a bad way to spend a life.

In what ways are you “in the scene” and not “just watching it anymore”?  

It's DVD Giveaway Time Again! (another Cassie review inside :))

I’m giving over the blog today to daughter Cassie, who reviews Tracey Mallett’s “Pilates Super Sculpt” and her friend Jessica, who reviews Patricia Friberg’s “Belly Beautiful Workout: Prenatal/Pregnancy.”
You know the routine. If you want to throw your name in the hat to win one of these DVDs, leave a comment below or shoot me an email at lynn.haraldson@gmail.com. I’ll draw a winner on Wednesday, June 15.

Belly Beautiful Workout with Patricia Friberg

Reviewer Jessica is a 26-year-old new mother living in Shreveport, Louisiana. Her daughter, Sarah, is two months old. Getting back into shape post-baby means taking long morning strolls with her little girl and doing some regular light strength training to get her arms and legs in baby lifting shape! She documents-her family life and travels at http://www.leelafish.com/.

"Belly Beautiful" is a post-natal DVD has several short workouts, each designed for different stages of post-partum strength. It took me a while to complete this DVD because I thought I had to have an exercise ball, and let’s face it, a new mom doesn’t have much time to go exercise equipment shopping. However, after watching a bit I discovered that a pillow works in its place just fine.

Abdominal Rehab: This workout is great for easing back into exercise. It focuses on basic, controlled movements to boost strength and help repair your pelvic floor. This short workout helps prepare for other, more challenging workouts on the DVD.

Baby and Me Workout: This is similar to the abdominal rehab, but requires more strength. While it touts that it is a workout you can do “with your baby,” only the first five minutes or so actually involve baby, the rest of the time she kind of lets the baby play around her while she works out. I personally found that my two-month-old got tired of it rather quickly, so I put her down for a nap and finished the routine. This particular routine really focuses on your glutes with a little bit of arm and ab toning.

Toning Workout: This was by far my favorite workout. It was one of the longer ones. Using your exercise ball (or pillow) for support, Patricia takes you through toning exercises for the hips, glutes, abs, calves and arms that build in intensity as the workout goes on. She gives options for different strength levels, which makes this one great for about 6 weeks+ post partum.

Busy Mom Bootcamp: You need to be feeling stronger when you attempt this one. As Patricia says, “this is good for when you’re sleeping through the night.” Lots of short cardio bursts and lots and lots of different lunges. I was winded after several minutes into it, but felt great (and sore!) afterward.

Rejuvenation Stretch: These stretches allude to yoga and slowly allow you to stretch each muscle of your body, allowing for a great cool down.

Diastasis Recti: This short segment explains what happens to your ab muscles during and after pregnancy and how to tell if your muscles are still separated. She gives you a few tips on exercises to avoid or modify if your abs are still recovering.

What I loved: Workout leader Patricia Friberg is real. You can tell by looking at her that she has had a baby, but she is still in great shape! Each workout is short, about 10-15 minutes, so you can get a quick one in while baby naps, or you can string several together to get in a long, tough workout. It really focuses on repairing the areas that are weak after childbirth (abs, pelvic floor) and strengthening the muscles you need to take care of baby now (arms and legs).

What I wasn’t crazy about: The “baby and me” title is a bit misleading, and your baby needs to be just the right age for this workout to be effective (between 3 and 6 months).

Overall, I think this was a great video for easing back into exercise and toning those muscles weak from pregnancy. It definitely helps rebuild strength and made me feel good after I completed it!
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Tracey Mallett "Pilates Super Sculpt"

To say I loved this DVD would be an understatement. I actually had a dream about it the night after I first did it, and when I woke up the next morning, I promptly did the video again.

The DVD is about an hour long, but it is so seamless, it just flew by. The instructor, Tracey Mallett, is very calm and relaxing. She also has a killer accent.

It's broken down into six segments, all about 10 minutes long, give or take a few seconds. There's a warm up, a classic Pilates ab segment, oblique and buns sculpt, legs and thigh burn, total body challenge and a flexibility segment all while using a ball. I loved them all.

My favorite, however, would be the legs and thigh burn. In it, there's a frog movement in which you lay on your back with the ball placed under your tailbone. Flexing both legs outward, you bring both feet together, simulating frog legs. It is an amazing stretch. Just make sure your blinds are pulled, because otherwise it'd get the neighbors talking.

Most of the work is done laying on the ground, so I'd suggest you use a mat. I relied on my carpet as a buffer and now I have a bruised tailbone. Also, you need a ball for this routine. I used my daughter's playground ball, but this lead to a tantrum. So I'd suggest that you buy one of your own. Something like you'd see at the grocery store in those large wire bins. You also need to be able to grip it with one hand, so make sure that it's not over inflated and not incredibly smooth.

It is recommended on the site that it's for advanced beginners and up, but what is an advanced beginner anyway? We all have to start somewhere. Might as well be here and now with this DVD. (I'm seriously not getting paid to say any of this.) In my opinion it is perfect for people of all fitness levels and joint ability. There's only one part that puts heavy strain on your wrists, and that's in the Total Body Challenge in which you do walk out pushups. That's the only bit of upper body training you'll get in this DVD, however. That's fine with me, because I do most of my arm work at the gym, but I know a lot of people rely on that in a workout DVD. So please note that.

Now, don't get me wrong, this is tough. There are several simple moves, but every so often she'll throw in one that'll have your muscles shaking. At least mine were. There are a lot of classic Pilates moves thrown in, such as the teaser sequence, but then there's a lot of original moves as well that specifically targeted all the problem areas I have. And if I'm like most women, that would include saddlebags, love handles and lower belly pooch. It hits them all.

Best part of all, the next morning I wasn't the slightest bit sore. I felt stretched and strong. That's the beauty of Pilates. It works you out, makes you tired and leaves you more beautiful than before you started.

You want to win this. I want you to win this. And if you don't win it, I want you to go out with your hard earned money and buy it. I'm serious. It's amazing. In fact, it's in my Amazon.com shopping cart as we speak. (Because I'm seriously not getting paid to say this.) This workout just blew me away with how it was both challenging and efficient. I don't like to waste my time with lame workouts, and with three kids that's not an option. I want to get the most out of my workout and I did with this one. Truly.

Like Buttons In A Biscuit Tin: A Blog In Three Parts

Part 1
When I was 3 years old 45 years ago, my mother bought a tin of biscuits for Christmas. It was turquoise blue with gold trim and white inlay, topped with a noble-looking knob. It looked European, but the tin was made in the U.S. and the biscuits were made in Hopkins, Minnesota. Didn’t matter. It was still fancy.

Mom used the biscuit tin to store buttons she snipped off discarded items of clothing (worn out shirts and coats mostly), and my brother, sister and I used to sort through them on rainy or snowy days. We’d examine each of them like they were works of art, which some of them were, and we’d play tiddlywinks with the flat ones. Need a green plastic shamrock button? It’s in there somewhere.

I don’t remember how (there was probably begging involved), but I inherited the tin years ago and it’s now under an end table in my living room, filled with additional buttons I kept that were sewn or attached in little plastic bags to the inside hem of the shirts, skirts and jackets I’ve worn over the years. Claire recently discovered the tin under the table, and since she’s no longer putting anything and everything in her mouth (I still don’t trust 2-year-old Luca duke), I opened it for her. Claire’s eyes got as wide as the biggest jacket button in there, and she proceeded to sort through them the same way I did when I was little – by size, color and texture.

Part 2

Last week I went hiking alone for the first time. A real hike at a place I’d never been before – Todd Nature Reserve. With a scant reading of its trails, I decided to hike Loop Trail, a 2-mile hike that, according to the website, goes “through various forest habitats, including upland deciduous forest and the edges of hemlock ravines. The trail has rocky portions, one stream-crossing, occasional wet spots and moderate grades. Walking time: 60 minutes.”

I’ve been hiking many times, but always with a companion, usually my ex-husband. I was a little nervous to hike alone, and it didn’t help that: 1) when I got out of my car at the trailhead, there was a sign posted that read, in part, “If you encounter a bear…” and 2) I was also the only person there as the only other hiker was leaving the lot while I was pulling in.

I walked toward and into this very Thoreau-esque entrance to the woods:

And it wasn’t long before I met up with the mud:

And the stream crossing:

Each step was like adding a button to the biscuit tin that is my life. Some were ordinary, some felt like they were shaped like shamrocks. If I fell, too bad. I was the only one there to lift me up. If I slipped, I was the only one to catch me. If I was afraid, I was the only one who could comfort me.

Part 3

Last year, I left the life I’d known for 14 years; not happily, but for the greater good of not only me, but my husband. After three rough years, one of us had to flinch.

Leaving that comfort zone – which enveloped not only a marriage, but my home of 20 years – was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My first instinct was to find new comforts, but I slowly learned that’s not how life works. You don’t replace what you’ve known forever with things you’ve only test driven. A few months ago I stepped back, reevaluated, and started listening to my heart and gut and not so much my head and its ceaseless thinking and planning, convinced it’s always right.

One. Thing. At. A. Time.

Every one thing we do adds up, like adding buttons to a biscuit tin. Pretty soon you have an eclectic collection of experiences.

For instance, while I love the healthcare professionals who took care of me in my former life, for practical and financial reasons I had to replace them with folks locally. I now have a new primary care physician, chiropractor, dentist, eye doctor, and physical therapist. I shop at a different grocery store, drink coffee from a different coffee shop and a different Sheetz, buy wine at a different liquor store, bank at a different branch, hike different trails and bike different paths.

And it’s OK.

The only way we grow (or lose…as in weight) is through change. And change demands we step outside our comfort zones. But the anchors that tether us to who we are, those things that remind us what our lives are about (like those buttons in the biscuit tin), help us move more confidently outside our comfort zones.

In fact, stepping away from my comfort zones made the anchors that tie me to who I am that much stronger. As I’ve moved and changed these last several months, I’ve relied on my anchors more readily – those anchors being my children, grandchildren, friends, books, and silence. They have been with me willingly all the while. I just needed to remember I needed them.

Today I went hiking at Todd with BFF Shari. I took her on the Loop Trail. She said, “I can’t believe you did this by yourself.” Man…what a compliment.

Like buttons, I continue to add experiences, friends, and realizations to my biscuit tin that is my life. And when I have a bad day, I take out the buttons and sort them, flip them over, look at their beauty, and appreciate them for the anchors that they are.

As you move through your life – particularly as it pertains to weight loss – what are the anchors you rely on and what are some of the buttons you’re adding to your own tin? I know that this weight-loss journey I’ve been on keeps teaching me more than probably anything else has in my life.

"Ma'am, it's just a deer" Um...No It's Not

I woke up at 4 a.m., sweaty from a slight fever from a UTI that had been percolating the last 12 hours. You can wonder if you’re pregnant, be unsure if you have strep throat, lost as to why your lower back is bugging you, but if you have a UTI, you know it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Ten trips to the bathroom in two hours? Yeah… You know.

Urgent care didn’t open until 9:30, so I slept a few more hours and dreamed I yelled at a church congregation because they didn’t know the third verse to the hymn “Holy, Holy, Holy.” Whaaat was that about?

I got up at 7:30, made some breakfast, and took a shower, all the while feeling a low-grade yuck. Got in the Jeep at 9:00 and headed down the hill to Walgreens. I had to check out their clinic after crying with laughter last month watching Stephen Colbert’s report: Pap Smears at Walgreens. (“They’re between the Swiffer refills and the cat food.”)

It was a beautiful morning, warm and sunny. I was thinking of the latte I’d get at Panera and was singing a few lines of One Republic’s “Good Life” when a deer ran out in front of the Mercury Mariner ahead of me. The driver slammed on her brakes, but there was nothing she could do to prevent hitting it. The deer clipped her front left bumper and was thrown into the shoulder on the other side. The driver pulled over and I pulled in behind her.

The road we were on is a high-traffic road, and its 35 mph speed limit is a joke. Most folks climb and descend that hill doing 45 or more. It’s a tight road, too, with a steep hill on either side. The deer, had it successfully crossed the road, would not have been able to climb that hill without a rope and climbing anchor.

The driver and her husband got out of their vehicle and I out of mine.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

“Yes, yes,” said the driver. “I…I…” She looked across the road. “Oh my god, it’s still alive!”

He was a beautiful little buck, no older than a year and change. He laid on the shoulder, breathing hard, his head facing the hill. The left side of his head was bloodied. Cars passed him, unaware he was still alive or that he was even there. He looked around and then he tried to get up, but his legs were broken.

The driver called 911 and her husband walked up the hill toward him. The deer struggled and struggled and the driver and I stood on by our vehicles, horrified by his pain and desperation. The deer didn’t understand what had happened. All he wanted to do was get the hell out of there, get back to his life. But as hard as he tried to stand up, to get away, he failed. He was dying. And there wasn’t a damn thing we could do.

Two men pulled over on the other side and helped the deer stay on the shoulder, petting him and holding him in place. I tried to distract the driver and asked her where she’d been heading to.

“I was going to Oakmont Bakery to pick up my birthday cake,” she said. “Happy birthday to me, right?” She was bawling.

The deer died just before the police arrived. The officer told the driver that since her car was drivable, a deer collision was a non-reportable accident.

“But he was still alive. If nothing else, he had to be put out of his misery,” she cried.

“Ma’am, it’s just a deer,” he said. “And did you see that guy was petting that deer after it died?” He rolled his eyes. “Kinda weird.”

It’s only because that man had a gun and could arrest me that I didn’t go ballistic on his ass. I’m sorry, but that animal was in a lot of pain. Someone had pulled over and tried to offer him some comfort as he died. What the hell is wrong with that? That driver felt awful for having hit the deer, which was not her fault at all, but she felt bad. That feeling is going to sit with her for a long time, and not one more birthday will go by without her thinking, ‘On my ___ birthday, I hit a deer.’

There’s nothing good about suffering, whether it is our own personal suffering, or the suffering of those repressed by tyrannous governments, or the simple, unnoticed suffering of an animal on the side of Coal Hollow Road on a Saturday morning. I’d rather surround myself with people who care about a deer who suffers than people who don’t give a damn.

I went to Walgreens. I got my prescription. I got my coffee. I went about my day as planned. But I hope that no matter how focused I am on MY life and MY plans and MY petty illnesses that I forget the deer and the driver and the suffering we all encounter every day, small or life-altering. I don’t ever want to be someone who says, “It was just a deer.”

I'm Still Here! Three Weeks in Photos

Man…the weather turns nice and I totally disappear from the blog-o-sphere! I lurk early in the morning, reading blogs and always promising myself I'll write one. I have a lot to tell you because a lot’s been going on. The wretched winter and the non-existent spring kidnapped my writing discipline. Give me some warm weather and I’m a college student on spring break. I lose all focus. I mean, it’s sunny, I have a bike, I have legs, I have grandkids full of energy…
However...the intoxication of warmth is becoming the norm, so I promise to be around a bit more. Thanks, as always, for sticking with me.

Thought I'd share a photo diary of what I’ve been up to.

There was Luca’s 2nd birthday

Hanging out with Cooper

Biking with Claire

Playing with Mae-Moo

Helping potty train the Luca Duke

Sliding and swinging with Luca and Claire.

I still love to slide down a big old metal slide. I'm also teaching Claire to swing. You know how many muscles it takes to swing? Pull back with your arms, stretch your legs out going up and back going down, repeat for 10 minutes. Takes some calf and ab strength, I tell you what. We found an old school slide the other day. The metal kind with steep stairs and hardly any guide rail. The three of us climbed up the stairs and slid down without falling on our butts at least 20 times. I had to bribe them with bubbles (“Let’s go blow bubbles at Grammy’s!!”) to get them to stop.

I’ve been hiking and biking alone, too.

Not a sign you want to see going up the grade on a steep hill

I hope this finds you enjoying your spring, too. I wish you the joy of a slide and a good swing. I’ll be in touch soon. Promise :)