I Feel Old

I know I’m too young to say this, but sometimes there are moments where I forget that I’m not 17 anymore.  And when the reality of my 25 years of age hits me, it’s really quite sad.

In the moment, I don’t think “Wow I feel like I’m 17” (or 19, or 23 – all numbers that were great ages and that I sometimes feel I will always be).  Rather, it’s in the midst of the moment that I realize I am 25.  And it’s when I remember that I’m 25 that I remember that I’m not 17 anymore.

I’m not in high school, I’m not in college.  I have to be responsible.  I can’t play all the time. Nobody is around to take care of me.  I have to make good decisions. 

Actually, I was always responsible.  I rarely played.  And I have always made good decisions.  Perhaps it is in moments like these that the sadness I feel is more of a mourning – a mourning of the irresponsibility I didn’t permitted myself, the playtime I didn’t have, the independence I asserted, the bad choices I never allowed myself to make.

I can’t think of a concrete example that has spurred this feeling, but it has happened several times in the past couple weeks.   It’s kind of a small burden that sets itself upon me and says, “You’re 25, Jen.  You have responsibilities.  People look up to you.  You have to take care of yourself; others won’t take care of you.  You can have fun, be lighthearted for a moment, but life is serious now.” 

You’re a grown up.

My cute grandma is upwards of 75 years old.  Last spring, as she jumped onto the back of a moving golf cart, she rolled into me, laughing, and said, “Sometimes, I just pretend to be old.”  I will never forget this, and every time I think of it, I smile.  Let me be always young at heart. 

A Little 'bout Love

Every time I'm with the girls, I find myself thinking about love.  What it means, how it's manifested, and - ultimately - overwhelmed with the selfless love I receive from them.  Filled with thankfulness that I am in a place where I can love them back.  Inspired by their dreams, humbled by their honesties.  Many of them are facing changes - please keep them in your prayers. There are a lot more thoughts where these came from, but they are still simmering.  For now, the blog will be brief.  In the meantime, let this image bring a smile to your face: every time I visit, at least 2 of them RUN to meet me the minute they spot me walking through the ragi field.  They run as if they haven't seen me for years...but I just visited last week.

Thanking my Pride

“We have a run on March 4, Jeni.  It is not compulsory, but I am telling you that you must do it.”  That was the primary trainer at the gym on February 15.  I hadn’t been to the gym for 2 ½ weeks.  I hadn’t run since June.  I explained this and asked if she thought I could. “yes, yes, you have been quite regular here, you can.”  Hm.  Thanks Sumitra, but 5 minutes on the bike, circuit training and toning are hardly comparable to running 3 miles.

The next day Raji asked if I was running.  I said yes (because I have no excuse not to), and she asked which.  I said the 5k.  She told me I couldn’t. Which means of course that the 5k is the race I signed up for....I love the challenge of doing things people tell me I can't do.

Pride got me into it.

Pride kept me in it – I started running alternate days at the park before going to the gym for toning. I had to report to Raji how many minutes I ran and show her my watch to prove it. (I did catch her bragging that I had doubled my time in just a week; it's nice to know she's proud of me).
Runs 1, 2, and 3 I was in awe at how God has created my body to move, to breathe, to circulate blood, to be pushed beyond what the mind thinks it is capable of.  I found myself very thankful - both to my pride for getting me into this mess, and God for giving me a body that allows me to run.

Runs 4, 5, and 6 (aka the week of the race) I started kicking my pride because I absolutely didn’t feel prepared at all.  But I had to complete – I had to finish, and I had to prove that I could.

Today was the 5k.  Pride made me run the whole entire time.  The gym staff were stationed along the race route, but I had no idea where my trainers were.  Therefore I ran out of fear that they would see me walking.   Not to mention I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it – me, Jen, who loathed running the mile in middle school and was always one of the last to cross the finish line.  Here I was, running for fun.

I have always wanted to be a runner; always wanted to run a race.  But I was never forced to.  Strangely, now I find myself thanking my pride instead of kicking it.  And on Tuesday morning I will be at the park again, and not I have to follow through on a commitment I made out of pride.  Because I like it.

Olympic Runners

This morning I went for a walk around my neighbourhood.  Tomorrow is my 5k so I didn't want to work out, but I also didn't want to let my muscles lie dormant.  The sun was rising, and one of my absolute favorite things about morning in India is the way the new sun shines through the dust.

As I was smiling about that, I tripped.  I believe I have mentioned it before, but Bangalore isn't exactly a pedestrian-friendly city.

This got me thinking about Olympic runners.  I always love the short biographical documentaries that they make about the "hopefuls", the "underdogs", and the "bests".  The ones of runners from Africa are always so serene and inspirational; may fave is always the aerial shot of the runner taking beautifully long strides down a dirt road with nothing else in sight.

I laughed out loud.  I would love - LOVE - to see a short doc about a runner born and brought up in Bangalore (or any other "developing" city with a population of multimillion, at that).  It would start with the new morning sun shining through the dusty air and gleaming on the colorful buildings.  And then show the Olympic hopeful dodging uneven bricks and jumping over holes in the sidewalk that leave the open sewer a dangerous variable to your morning run.  The arial view would zoom out slowly - first, the runner.  Then, a dog will start to bark.  and chase him/her.  another dog would join.  and another. and another.  Two old men would walk by, arms in mountain pose, as they do their morning yoga walks.  The woman sweeping the street doesn't even look up as the runner passes by, and s/he gets a faceful of garbage-filled dirt.  A bike comes out of nowhere and the runner has to jumps out of the way to avoid getting hit.  An auto was on the other side of the bike, and honks loudly, swerving in the exact same direction as the runner, who then has to dead halt to avoid another deathly collision.  It would be even better if the auto was on its morning school route, which means that there are about 14 children inside and the runner is kind enough to stop to pick up the books that they dropped as a result of the swerve.

Wow.  It sounds more like a video game than a biographical short.  And I'm getting tired just thinking about it...but I'm smiling big.  Please, India, bring some city-runners to the Olympics.  I want to watch the story of their runs. In fact, I would probably find them more inspirational than the peaceful and reflective films from the plains of Africa.  If someone can become an Olympian by running through Bangalore, there's hope for us all.

I Love India

This evening I was standing in line to board a flight to Pune.  As I waited in the long line (which was more like a crowded, smooshing blob than a line - I'm in India, remember?) I glanced at the flat-screen plasma TV on the left to see if I could get a peek at the news.  Instead of the news, it was a commercial for Incredible India.

Breathtaking scenes from across the country played, and although I couldn't hear the music over the airport din, I could hear it in my mind.  I can hear it now, actually.  I watched as women dressed in every color carried bundles on their heads, as elephants played and sprayed water in a palm tree-lined river.

Suddenly, something bubbled up in my stomach.  It was that happy and excited feeling, and I couldn't stop it; it burst onto my face as a huge smile.  I live here, I thought.  The feeling continued, the smile pressed on, and I probably would have squealed if it wouldn't have been slightly disruptive.  I felt so silly, boasting a beaming grin and eyes big with anticipation as I walked onto the plane.  People must have thought I was going home, but alas that won't be for another 5 months (But don't worry, Mom, my smile will be even bigger then).

Why the heck do I feel like this?!? I wondered as I settled into my seat, cheeks hurting from smiling so much.  I never found a clear answer or a reason for the unexpected burst of emotion, but those 10 seconds of the Incredible India advertisement catalyzed a subconscious response that reminded me of one thing, and one thing only: I love India.  And sometimes, believe me, a reminder like that is much-needed.

I took this photo in Kerala the first of this year, and it very well could have been taken from an Incredible India advertisement.  Kerala is known as "God's Own Country".

Why I Love the State of the Union Address

Today I realized that the State of the Union Address is like my Superbowl.  I look up the date far in advance so that I can save it on my calendar.  The day of, I wait in crazy anticipation.  When I live at home, I make my family stop what they’re doing and come sit on the big green couch to watch, comment, applaud, and question with me.  This year, I am in India so text message and email reminders had to do. 

Because I’m in India, the address was at 7:30am. I woke up extra early so I could get my workout in and shower before Mr. President started speaking.  When I walked to the gym, it was still pitch black, the stars were still twinkling, and I couldn’t help but think that I should probably win the most dedicated SOTU viewer award.  I burst through my apartment door at 7:28 and didn’t even wait for my water to heat up but jumped into a cold shower so I wouldn’t miss the opening remarks.  I prayed all morning that my internet would work and the times that it stopped I begged God to help it buffer quickly.  I chatted with my live stream, commenting back to the president’s remarks.  The net cut out before he could say “God bless America”, and I felt like I missed the buzzerbeating basket in game 7/7 of the NBA Finals.  I quickly looked up the speech so I could read his ending, but it just wasn’t the same.

My computer couldn’t handle watching the responses, so it was on to Twitter.  It’s kind of an awkward moment when you get so distracted following the #SOTU @Twitterfeed and fact checkers that you end up realizing its time to leave for work around the time you’re supposed to arrive and your boss calls as you’re unlocking the office door 20 minutes late.  But all day long I was on cloud nine; SOTU had absolutely made my day.  It was all I could do to not keep up with the aftermath while I was at work, and I couldn’t wait to get home to reread the speech and some more reactions.

Why do I love the State of the Union address so much?  I think it started back in 10^th grade, when Mr. Cwodzinski scared me into paying attention into current events.  If I didn’t know what was happening and was called on in class, he would most likely shame me into feeling unworthy of being an American citizen.  He taught the ideology that if the president of your country – who may also perhaps be the most powerful person in the world – is addressing the nation, you should listen.  I was scared into listening 10 years ago (WOW I’m old), but I vehemently agree with him; even moreso than I did when I was just watching so I could be “Student of the Day”.

The president of your country is addressing your nation.  You should probably listen.  My sister got mad at me because I told her she should move her basketball game; that there shouldn’t even be campus basketball games scheduled during this time because the president of your country is addressing your nation.  This is important.  Should there even be other options on TV?  Regardless of whether you like him or not, regardless of your political affiliation, regardless of the fact that each and every one of us find the standing ovations to be incredibly annoying and a fantastic waste of time, the president of your country is addressing your nation.  We should prioritize it.  We should teach our children to be involved.  We should be involved ourselves.  If we want the government to be even close to “of the people, by the people, for the people”, we should probably pay attention to what’s going on.

I’m not saying that this is the only day that you can do this.  But it is a big day, the one day that the president addresses, well, the state of our union.  Yes, it’s a  grand summary.  And yes, there’s an agenda (especially during election year…ahem).  And yes, it’s generally over-zealously patriotic, aiming to reassure Americans that everything is ok – great, even – and that America is still the greatest nation on earth.  But the president of your country is addressing your nation.  It’s a chance to hear what’s going on – from his perspective.  A chance to discuss all the important issues in the same place.  It’s a chance to ask questions and to think critically.  A chance to be inspired to research an issue further or to double check some statements that are made.  A chance to learn something about your country…and to talk about it with others.

And that, my friends, is why I love the State of the Union Address.  I wonder if the date for 2013 is published yet…?

New Day, New Start

Ever since the first of January, I have been reveling in the meaning of a new year.  A new year – a new start.  I have also rejoiced in recognizing that we don’t have to wait 365 for another fresh beginning.  Instead, “New day, new start” has more or less become my motto.  The first 19 days of this year haven’t been easy by any means, and believe me – I am more than thankful that every day is a new day.

Even though I was fully awake when my alarm went off this morning, the fact that it was still dark outside tempted me to stay in bed just a little bit longer.  Something about waking up before daylight reminds me of standing outside waiting for my high school bus in a Minnesota winter, and believe me, that is not a pleasant memory.  But it was time to go to the gym.

I walked through my neighborhood, congratulating myself for getting my booty out of bed and feeling uncharacteristically fresh.  I turned the corner.  There in front of me was a glorious sunrise.  Brilliant, I tell you.  Orange, pink, neon yellow.

A new day with a beautiful beginning.  I stopped, I smiled.  What a reminder.  Thanks, God.