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life experiences

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December 31, 2009

10 years ago

Posted by Amy C under integration, life experiences, observations, perceptions, reflections, transitions | Tags: awareness, memories, perception, transitions |
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There’s a trend on twitter right now that got me thinking. #10yearsago — what was happening in your life 10 years ago?

The first thing I tweeted was: #10yearsago I had never run a mile in my life, couldn’t hike uphill w/o taking a rest every 5 mins & sanitas too 3 hrs to complete.

Then I remembered that I thought climbing was crazy and had sworn I’d never do it.

So I thought it would be a fun exercise to look back at 1999 and think about where I was and what I was doing in 1999 and into 2000.

10 years ago:

I thought swimming 15 laps in a pool was a good workout.
I didn’t like seafood. Or spicy food. Or interesting food. Or any food that wasn’t a carb or meat.
I was living with a boyfriend that wasn’t incredibly healthy for me (or him).
I was singing with the Colorado Symphony Orchestra Chorus.
I was working at a nursing home (as an Activity Director), burning out as a music therapist.
I got winded hiking up a trail and usually stopped every 5 minutes to rest.
I thought digital cameras produced inferior quality images and didn’t see the point of owning one.
I drove a Dodge Neon.
I didn’t know trail running was a sport.
I didn’t know much about the sport of climbing and thought “those people” were crazy.
I enjoyed snowboarding on greens and easy blue runs a few times a year.
I sewed a lot of crafts and things.
I was living in Littleton.
I didn’t know what perseverance felt like.

What I didn’t know 10 years ago:

That fresh sushi is about the best food in the world.
That climbing up a mountain was exhilarating and freeing. And that I could do it.
That my body was capable of developing muscles.
That my body was capable of running. At all, much less long distances.
That I would be competing in triathlons, marathons, trail runs and loving it.
That I would work in corporate America and go on business trips that involved good meals and a passport.
That I would meet amazing people who would teach me about true friendship, trust, support and total and full acceptance of who I am.
That I would meet, befriend and fall in love and marry an amazing man.
That I would climb 16 14ers and run up one of them (three times!).
That I would learn what a harness and carabiner were and then use them on real rock.
That I would fall in love with running and climbing so deeply.
That I would find a passion and turn it into a career that involved the outdoors, fitness and helping others learn and find that passion.
That food tastes really good with heat and spice added in.

I think the biggest thing I didn’t know in 1999 was that I was an athlete. I ran for the first time in March of 2000. Thinking back on all that I’ve experienced, tried, and accomplished in the world of sport and outdoor activity over the past 10 years I’m pretty amazed I fit it all in.

The journey and discovery of that hidden strength opened up so many other doors and perspectives for my world.

I anticipate the next 10 years will open up and reveal even more. I’m ready.

Where were you 10 years ago? What’s changed? What surprised you? What’s coming next?

November 14, 2009

injuries and setbacks

Posted by Amy C under life experiences, observations, surfing, yoga | Tags: awareness, honesty, perception |
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I fell off my surfboard Thursday evening and landed in too-shallow water. My left foot twisted, landing under me at an awkward angle. The pain shot through the top of my arch and I screamed “OW” (true story). I knew what it meant and I was pissed.

I hobbled out of the water to the sand and sat down to examine my foot. It hurt. A lot. A dull, throbbing pain began to course through my foot. I saw weeks—maybe months—of surfing disappear before me. I thought about yoga and balancing on a foot I couldn’t put weight on. It didn’t seem likely that I’d be moving around anytime soon.

I cried. Some because I was frustrated. And a lot because I was so utterly disappointed.

I’d waffled about going into the water at 5:00 in the evening. I get cold easily and the sun was going down. I didn’t feel like my mind was totally engaged. But I shook off the feelings, knowing how much I want to keep working at this new sport and with the intention of not giving in to my fearful, hesitant, and admittedly-sometimes-wimpy side.

And now, here I was, one wave into my session, sidelined. Certainly for the evening, but quite possible for months.

frustration settles in
It’s so easy to indulge in the pity party that accompanies an injury like this. When it’s not clear how bad it is, we tend to envision the worst.

I figured I’d broken it, or suffered a severe sprain. As I gingerly hobbled back to the car with my board and bag, I thought of all the stuff I’ve been wanting to do: get some hikes in, start running again, surf, walk the bay, window shop through town… the list goes on. I watched my friends try to walk slowly beside me, only to quickly end up far ahead. It’s hard to match the pace of one walking barely faster than a slug. Ugh.

My tears came and went. Every movement sent a sharp pain or dull throb through my foot. I snapped at something someone said. I lost some grace along with my patience. And then I felt embarrassed and bad for losing my cool.

All I wanted to do when we got home was clean up and then curl up in a ball with ice on my foot and cry.

small victories
I had two choices that evening: indulge my private pity party at home, or go out and have fun with new friends. I will admit at the time it was a tough choice. Sometimes I’m simply not fit to be around other humans.

But I knew we were all a little on edge and I figured that getting out of the house might just be the thing we needed to turn the energy around.

And what a good idea it was! The entertainment was fun and the company good for getting my mind off myself and what I might be missing in the coming weeks. I was still thinking about my foot, but it was a good (and much-needed reminder) that I can still have fun despite a set-back. That life continues to move forward even when we want to stop and get off the ride for awhile.

a choice in perception
That night I made up my mind to go to yoga the next day. I knew it might not be a good idea, and I knew I may very likely end up doing nothing for the 90-minute class, but I wanted to see. I wanted to know the extent of the injury. I knew there were at least a few postures I could do. And there was also the fact that my hip had just started to open up. I could feel my flexibility increasing and I wasn’t ready to give up on that too easily.

(And frankly speaking, I was really hoping I’d wake up pain-free with the realization I’d over-blown the injury.)

I wasn’t so fortunate. After a night of tossing and turning with constant, dull pain, I woke up with more pain and stiffness all along the top of the arch. I couldn’t bend my toes up or put any weight on the inside of the foot. What was yoga going to look like?

I prepared myself for the very likely chance that I’d leave in the middle of the class. I laid my mat down by the door (for a quiet exit), talked with the instructor about my injury and had brought along my journal and book, ready to pass the time as I waited for my friends to finish class.

the mind of the curious
During the initial breathing, I thought about the class. I thought about feeling frustrated, and then I thought about my overall goals for not only yoga, but for being here in Hawaii. A big part of this trip is about restoration and nurture. I wanted to heal myself and at the same time, accept that things we don’t want to happen, sometimes do, despite our best intentions.

It’s how we respond to the bad stuff that defines our future, right? I decided in that moment that I wanted a good future based on my present situation. I asked myself, “What can I learn from this? What can I get out of this particular class, on this particular day?”

I adopted a curious mind and thought about what I could learn about my foot. How bad was it? How much range of motion and flexibility did I really have? I wasn’t too worried about over doing it. (I’m pretty aware of my physical body and my boundaries for pain, and tend to err on the side of caution.) Sometimes that trait gets in the way of progressing. Today, it served me well as I took it slow, held back and explored the pain.

I learned so many new things. There were moments of defeat when I realized I couldn’t do certain balancing postures and when my foot began to ache and throb too much from standing on it. But I was able to do far more in the class than I’d thought.

It’s only one foot after all. I have many other parts to my body that are in perfect working order. And with the help of my right foot, I was able to maintain a good balance between both feet for the initial postures.

During the first posture I was unable to do fully, I poured my concentration into my arms. (Awkward pose, for those of you familiar with Bikram. It’s the one that requires you to stand on your toes—and THAT definitely wasn’t going to happen.) The instructors are always saying to “lengthen the arms; hold them strong; maintain active muscles in the triceps.” In previous classes, I always work so hard to get my feet and balance right, that my arms are the last things I think about.

Yet here I was, given the opportunity to focus solely on the arms and core muscles. And it stunned me to realize I’d been using very little of my muscles there (or in my core). So much of my posture relied on my legs.

Ah-ha, I realized. I can still come to class and work on my arms until my foot heals.

I was reminded of the foundation. The platform upon which I am building my life. It begins with the smallest of movements. An observation here and there of the little things.

I imagined that process to be similar to what happens when someone builds a house. They check the angles of the construction and the materials they’re building with to make sure the house is stable and built to last.

It couldn’t hurt to check my materials. To make sure my muscles were engaged and moving forward with determination and strength. To align my mind with patience and clarity of direction.

My curiosity found new areas for growth and a newfound patience with myself. I found some creativity in seeking modifications for postures to get the stretch I wanted, but avoiding pain.

i admit the ugly
It’s certainly not an easy process for me. I will admit that I wanted to cry and feel sorry for myself. I wanted to move quickly and efficiently and am at my best when I am physically in motion. I wanted to talk about it and mention it to everyone I see. I wanted sympathy and kind words.

at peace
As I sit here with ice on my foot, thinking about the day, I am reminded that I am strong; that it’s a set-back, and not the end of the world. I know I will recover, and know that if it’s a slow recovery, then it’s a slow recovery. In the meantime, I will cherish the slower pace. I will pay attention to the smaller aspects of life that add up and give nourishment for a richer life ahead.

As in yoga, it is practice—A practice of patience and openness to what life presents us. A chance to relax into our lives, no matter what it looks like at the moment, and to trust in change and progress. It’s a practice to remember that within each setback, be it disappointment , injury, heartache or pain, there is growth, renewal and room for exploration and discovery.

In class, I chose to be curious. Curious as to how my body would respond to yoga. Curious to see if I could stand strong and accept the new, unhurried pace I walk and move through my days.

Our perceptions are so often within our control. How we choose to see and approach our world leads us into our future. The lesson isn’t new, but it’s always harder to put into practice. So I’m curious, what new perception will you explore today?

October 28, 2009

a yoga journey begins

Posted by Amy C under life experiences, setting goals, trail running, transitions, yoga | Tags: awareness, integration, perseverance, transitions |
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Here in Kaua’i I have one main fitness goal: to begin a yoga journey. I want to increase my flexibility for climbing. I want more core strength and mental focus. So for the next six months, I have committed to going to yoga six days a week (every day but Sunday). Our days are scheduled around it. And it helps that both Bracken and I are embarking on this journey together, as there’s no waffling when one or the other is feeling too tired or not in the mood to go to class—we go to yoga at noon every day. That’s it. No question.

I’ve done yoga before—Bikram, Corepower, yoga with weights, yoga for relaxation—but I’ve never gone more than two or three times a week at the most (and usually struggled to maintain a once-a-week routine). And I’d never gone two days in a row.

Today is my 18th day on the island and will be my 15th day of yoga. I’ve had mixed results. As a runner, my flexibility is extremely compromised. I notice it most in my hamstrings, but my back and neck are pretty stiff as well.

While I credit my once-a-week yoga practice back in 2004 for keeping me injury-free during my first marathon (February 2005), I began to think that combining long-distance running with yoga was tricky business. More often than I’d want, I would notice tweaks and pains in my knees and hips during a run after a yoga session. I have no scientific proof or resources to back up this theory, but I feel like the yoga was doing its job and stretching my muscles, but that my muscles didn’t have the time to strengthen along with the flexibility, and were so loose, that they were actually more at risk for injury.

I believe the two can (and likely quite beautifully) work together and complement each other, but it needs to be done slowly. I didn’t take the time to build that strength and flexibility back in Boulder.

So here in Hawaii, I’ve started developing a plan (always subject to change, of course). I’ve opted to focus on Bikram. I enjoy the heat and the familiarity of the postures. I may do a few other classes here and there, but will be predominantly focused on the Bikram series.

I have not gone on a run since I’ve been here, and plan to wait another couple of weeks. I want to take the time to gain some flexibility and strength before introducing the repetitive jarring of running back into my routine. And since running is not my primary goal here, it feels like the perfect opportunity to take advantage of the rest and allow myself to work back up to long distances slowly.

I don’t want to lose my current fitness level, but I do think it’ll be worth the small step back to incorporate more flexibility into my running form. When I do begin to run again, I plan to begin as though I’ve never run. One or two miles to start. And these will be slow miles. I want my body to build its strength while maintaining the flexibility and openness that yoga is providing.

Maybe in another few months I’ll be up to running 5 – 10 miles regularly, but my intention is to keep to this (admittedly painfully slow) plan. I miss running!

However, yoga is teaching me many, many wonderful things—about life, about fitness and about the journey toward a truly healthy body. Stay tuned for more posts on my yoga journey.

October 19, 2009

magical places

Posted by Amy C under integration, life experiences, reflections, setting goals, trail running, transitions | Tags: awareness, memories, perseverance, transitions |
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Mt. Sanitas

Our earth is vast—filled with so many places to experience, to live, to dream about and to wonder about. And there are a few places in the world for each of us that hold a special meaning. Places that mark transitions or growth. Places that remind us of others. And places that hold history.

These places are small landmarks in our personal history, mapping out where we’ve been, what we’ve experienced and maybe even hold a clue to where we are going.

There are a number of such places in my own life, but one stands out more than any others for me.

mt. sanitas
Mt. Sanitas is a popular trail in Boulder. It’s a 3-mile loop that covers approximately 1,300 vertical feet within the first mile, reaching a summit of 6,863 ft. From the summit you can see Boulder to the east and Indian Peaks Wilderness area to the west.

I have learned efficiency, humility, patience and strength—and I have known victory—on Mt. Sanitas.

patience and humility
It all started when I was still living in downtown Denver back in 2006. Two very good friends had just moved from Dallas to Boulder and began training with me for the Pike’s Peak marathon. I drove to Boulder every Wednesday after work, meeting them at the trail head at 6:00pm. We’d run the loop, head to the climbing gym for a 2-hour climbing session, and then eat a quick dinner after. I’d then make the drive back to Denver late at night.

It was my favorite day of the week.

They were waaaay faster than me on the trail. Sometimes they’d run/walk behind me, but more often than not, they’d run up ahead (and they could actually run up to the summit, whereas I was running for the first five minutes, only to end up hiking most of the rest of the way up, huffing and puffing, my heart rate skyrocketing). I spent lots of time alone thinking and wishing I was faster and in better shape. “I will run up this trail without stopping by the end of the year,” I told myself one day. And as simply as that, I’d set the goal. That was in 2006.

I didn’t meet that goal by a long shot, but I did experience two very important lessons.

heading up the trail

1. efficiency
There was one day in particular that summer that sticks out more than all the others. It was one of those mid-summer days when no one wanted to be outside. The temperature was over 100º and the air was heavy.

I headed up to Boulder, determined to get my run in. My friends bailed, wanting nothing to do with such a hot run (and rightfully calling me crazy). However, I arrived at the trail head and climbed out of the car. And it was hot. I didn’t want to run. I wanted to crawl back into my car, crank up the A/C and drive away toward sanity. But I was already there, and I was determined to stick to my schedule.

Fortunately, I decided that simply hiking it might be a good idea, considering the heat. I figured a run might be pushing it a little too hard. I planned to go slow and steady and try to enjoy the effort. I’d been timing myself on the weekly runs to gauge my progress, and was getting a little better at running more often, but looking back, I’d guess I was still walking for over 60% of my time to the summit.

I began hiking, stepping deliberately and steadily, placing one foot in front of the other. I took my time and focused on my fluid and fuel intake. I took very few breaks, keeping my steady pace. When I finally reached the summit, I looked at my watch and did a double take.

I’d made it up two minutes faster than my fastest “run” time.

I puzzled over this on the way down and came to the conclusion that by walking, I had been able to make better placements with my feet and take longer strides. My heart rate had been able to maintain a steadier beat.

I learned efficiency can be more effective towards a goal than pride or false expectation (like thinking running is always faster than walking). It prompted me to question other perceptions, expectations and ideas I held for myself and others. And I gained even more confidence and found renewed enjoyment in exploring and pushing my physical limits.

some of the many, often interminable, stairs on the trail

2. perspective
It was my first year running the Pike’s Peak Marathon and close to the summit it’s a pretty steep climb: all high, awkwardly spaced steps up large rocks for what seems like forever. Tired, hurting, and pushing myself forward, I experienced a relative calm when I looked up at the final climb. I’d realized that “it’s just like Sanitas.” My thoughts shifted mentally and I imagined I was climbing my home trail. It felt similar enough (only my breathing at 14,000 feet was a little harder to manage), and it allowed me to focus on the steps, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before I was on my way down.

I learned to separate the big task (finishing the darn race) into smaller, more manageable moments (climbing that last stretch of stair). The technique worked then, and I still utilize it in so many other aspects of my life (like running, hiking, yoga, travel, packing, working): breaking the task at hand into smaller bits and staying focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

spring on sanitas

my experiences on sanitas
I first hiked Mt. Sanitas back in the late ‘90s when I moved to Colorado. It took me over three hours to hike the full loop. Since then, I have run and hiked this trail with a myriad of people, in every season and in tons of different weather conditions. I have cried along the trail. I have run it sweating in 100º temperatures, and I have run it on the ice with screws in my shoes.

I’ve been lost on the trail after following a game trail. I’ve seen the leaves change colors, and I’ve seen the flowers bloom. There were the first dates up Sanitas when I was single, and the weekly runs with my friends. I heard a symphony of insects the morning I ran it after I quit my corporate job and launched into a year of exploration and uncertainty. I imagined they were all applauding my daring.

I hiked it after 18” of snow fell, realizing simultaneously that Boulder is crazy (the trail was already beaten down) and that I was in love with this trail. I remember running it one March after an ice storm where I saw these amazing sparkling creations all over the tree branches and leaves and grass—images I had never seen before, and will never forget. I have been on Sanitas in fog, on ice, through snow, at night, and at the height of a summer afternoon.

And early one morning in the summer of 2008, I ran with Bracken to the summit to watch the sun rise. He proposed while a hummingbird hovered as witness. And a year later, just a few days before our wedding, we ran it again (and encountered another hummingbird while we were on the summit). The place is truly magical.

the magic of victory
Of course, I didn’t run to the summit that first year. Nor the next or the next. I’d let the goal lie dormant as I focused on other things. And then, four years after I’d set that original goal, I went out one morning for a run.

I started slow and steady. I ran the first steep section and was happy to arrive at a flatter portion to lower my heart rate. I lengthened my stride a bit and relaxed into the run. I got to the second steep section and shortened my steps, looking for efficient ways to get to the next step without working too hard. And then I was at the final third of the trail. My curiosity kicked in and I wondered, “can I really run the whole way?”

I could and I did. Slow, steady and strong. (I had some serious stoke at the summit.)

I sat down, looking out over Boulder—my home—and was flooded with so many memories of that trail; of my life since I’d first been on that trail; of the metamorphosis I’d undergone in those years. I was stronger, more confident, moving forward towards a life that felt good and right for me. The imperceptible shifts of life moving along were magnified for me that day at the summit. My journey to that moment when running up felt easy and doable, paralleled so many other areas of life that I was working toward.

I was excited that I’d finally done it—and humbled that it’d taken me four years. It was a powerful reminder that goals take time and when we push too hard, we risk losing sight of the steps in between.

such a place
Mt. Sanitas isn’t just a trail for me. It’s not a summit to snag, or a local haunt to claim. It represents a landmark—a place on the map of my life that has served me well. It’s been a constant barometer measuring the change and growth in my life. In each rock, and in every tree and flower along the trail, I see myself and my lives—past, present and future—melding together through the seasons of experience and transition.

I hold my memories of Sanitas and her lessons close to my heart now as I move into a new environment and new phase of my life. I am so incredibly grateful for the hours spent on that ridge, and for the lessons I have learned. I feel as though I have a solid foundation from which to leap, as I set my sights onto the vast ocean from the island of Kaua’i.

Running up Sanitas felt impossible for me a few short years ago. But now I not ony know the secret, I have experienced its magic: There are no dreams too big.

October 14, 2009

distilling fear

Posted by Amy C under life experiences, surfing | Tags: awareness, fear, kaua'i |
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There is a question that has been coming up more and more for me over the past several months. It’s a simple question, but one that provokes a lot of thought.

“Am I really afraid, or do I just think I should be afraid?

I wonder if what I’m feeling is a genuine reaction or, if somewhere along the line I’ve come to the conclusion that I am supposed to be afraid of that something and so therefore, I am.

heading out at Hanalei Bay

One of my goals here in Hawaii is to learn how to surf. I spent my summers on the beach in Southern California swimming in the waves. I have many wonderful memories of being in the ocean. I also have very vivid memories of getting pummeled by surprise sets. I remember feeling as though I was on the spin cycle in a washing machine with no sense of which way was up.

I’ve attempted to surf in Florida, California and Australia (without success). I remember feeling worked before I even got far enough out beyond the breaks to actually catch a wave.

I have taken a long board out only twice so far. At the instruction of my good friend, Adria (who has taken a number of lessons), we’re staying in the white water, working on understanding what the motion of the water feels like with the board, and balancing on the board. The sand is three feet or less below me. I can touch the ground. The waves are not large.

Yet I hesitate to approach a break. I have a large chunk of fiberglass in my arm. I do not want to get hit in the head, or cut, or bruised, or trapped.

Are these valid fears? Maybe. Especially if I was a mile out at sea, with no one watching out for me, in surf that was twice as tall as me. But alas, I am in a safe environment. The risks are minimal. Getting bruised and a little worked is part of the learning.

Yet the fear is present. And this kind of fear—this fear born from past experiences—is the kind that can hinder progress.

I was probably 10, or maybe 14 when I felt out of control in the water. The waves were likely stronger than I’d anticipated, or became stronger while I was out. I remember being scared and not wanting to feel scared. I wanted to be stronger.

I was 18 and 20 when I was attempting to surf. I remember feeling intimidated by the strength of the water.

practicing balance

Yet now, at the age of 36, with a number of years of master’s swimming and triathlons under my belt; with way more core and upper body strength than I’ve ever had; and in perfectly manageable conditions, I feel the familiar anxiety set up shop in the pit of my stomach.

I’ve had similar experiences while climbing, running alone, navigating talus downhill and in unfamiliar situations I encounter. I realize that some experiences serve as good lessons for the future and I certainly don’t live my life in fear of fear. But I do notice fears arising that seem disproportionate to the current situation. And there are some times when the fears seem to stem from someone else’s fears from my past that are more prone to fear, but to whom I relate to in other ways.

I know I will not always (or ever) have an answer to the question of whether the fear I’m feeling is my own, or from some other source, but I do know that being aware of the possibility that I may not be as afraid as I think I am, is an intriguing notion.

“Am I truly afraid?” is a question I plan on asking myself whenever I feel the telltale drop in the pit of my stomach. Can I tap into a hidden reservoir of strength and confidence? There are times when I know without a doubt that that reservoir is there. And then there are other times when it seems merely a mirage.

I want to delve into this idea of fear further, pushing myself to ask the tough questions, seeking greater experiences in this world.

October 11, 2009

kaua’i: the beginning

Posted by Amy C under life experiences, setting goals, surfing, transitions, yoga | Tags: about me, career, kaua'i, transitions, writing |
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Yesterday, I arrived at Lihue airport on the Hawaiian island of Kaua’i.

This is my first visit to Hawaii, and I couldn’t be happier that instead of vacationing here for a week or so, it’s for a long stay. We plan to live here for six months to work, to live, to learn and to experience something new.

It’s so easy for me to stay where it’s comfortable. The familiar routine of morning coffee. Familiar trails. A community of good friends. When Bracken suggested we move here, I committed pretty immediately. It sounded so wonderful (I mean, duh… who wouldn’t want to live in Hawaii?). But more than wonderful and exotic and fortunate to have the means and time to do so, it seemed to fit. There was an aspect that just felt right to me.

So, after a couple of months packing up our stuff after our wedding, a hectic week moving it all into a storage unit, and a week of car trouble where we weren’t sure we were going to make our original flights and feeling pretty displaced and defeated before we’d begun, we made it.

For me, I want to experience something new. I want to slow down and find a way to simply be without my own expectations, interests and familiar routines getting in the way. I finally feel ready to move forward on a new career path (one I’ve been searching for and thinking about for over a year now). And I’m excited to begin that process of recognizing and realizing my (newly rediscovered) long-held dream to write and to work with others, helping them realize their own goals and dreams.

I don’t know how I know, but I know this is the place to do it. I imagine it’s similar to the feeling I had when I moved out to Colorado way back when. Somehow I knew I wouldn’t leave it for a long time, and I knew it was the right place for me. And today, I know Kaua’i has something planned for me. Maybe it’s something big. Or maybe it’s simply planting new seeds of growth for something far in my future.

I’ve learned to trust my intuition a little better lately, and although it’s not going to be without challenges and difficult moments, I feel a quiet calm in my presence here. A quiet and peace that feels good and right.

I’ve tried to keep my expectations and plans open as to what I want to do here and leave here with, but I do have a few things I know, and want to share them here, with you, my dear readers.

I plan on doing a LOT of yoga. I want to strengthen and heal my body and to meditate and find deeper peace and knowledge of myself.
I will be spending a lot of time working towards a certification as a life coach. This is the first step on my new career path and one that is amazingly exciting for me to think about and finally delve into.
I plan on spending a lot of time swimming in the ocean and learning how to surf. It’s a childhood dream to be a surfer and while I have no expectation on surfing large waves, I do want to be comfortable in the water, with a board, standing up.
I want to write. A lot. I have a vision of this blog with a lot more updates, observations and stories, as well as writing for a few bigger projects I have in mind. Stay tuned.
And finally, I want to slow down. I want to find a deeper sense of consciousness in my choices and an awareness in the world around me.

Over breakfast this morning, I looked around and got the feeling as though I’d been plucked out of my own life and dropped in on an entirely new world. It’s a good thing, it’s a scary thing and it’s an entirely unknown thing. And I’m ready.

October 1, 2009

finding home

Posted by Amy C under life experiences, transitions | Tags: awareness, taking risks, transitions |
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I remember when I moved out of my parents house, that figuring out where “home” was was something I thought about. Was I coming home from college for the summer, or visiting my parents for three months? Was I leaving home for four years, or moving to a new one?

It took me awhile to feel comfortable calling my college dorm room “home.” (And I’m not convinced I ever really did… I never felt that connected to Miami.)

The fall after I graduated, I moved to Colorado and finally felt like I’d landed. Maryland had been my home because my parents lived there and I grew up in the same house for 18 years. But I knew that house, and Maryland, wouldn’t be home forever.

Although I’d only driven through Colorado once or twice as a child on family road trips, being here and living here felt right. I moved around a lot at first, but as the years went by, I realized I identified myself as being “from” Colorado instead of Maryland. All my apartments and houses I’ve lived in over the past 14 years were homes for me. When I moved to Boulder, my connection to the state and to this particular town was stronger than ever. The air, the trails, the routes, the coffee shops… they fit.

And now, I’m leaving on a new adventure with my new husband. We’re leaving Colorado. We’re leaving Bolder. We’re leaving our apartment and putting all our material possessions in a 10′ x 15′ storage unit.

We’re moving to Hawaii for six months and then plan to travel through the US for a year when we return. We’ll have only clothes and a few essentials with us in Hawaii. A van for the road trip. Our possessions could be in storage for almost two years.

So where is home? It’s a question I have been pondering and mulling over recently. A good friend of mine has a great attitude about it: Wherever you are that day, is home.

Wherever we are.
Wherever we are. It’s a new perspective for me. One that intrigues and tantalizes. I want to explore it and feel it and notice it. I want to sit with it and say it to myself over and over. “I am home wherever I am.” Will it be challenging? Or will it feel natural right away? How will this new perspective effect other perspectives in my future? Will I find more or less meaning in tangible objects? Will I end up traveling nomad-style for longer? Or will I long to “nest”?

The concept of home has infinite variations. I love that about our world. Maybe Colorado was a stopping point in learning where my true home actually is. For me—today—it’s here. Right where I am. Wherever I am.

September 17, 2009

defining moments: no regrets

Posted by Amy C under defining moments, life experiences | Tags: awareness, friendships, gratitude, kindness |
1 Comment

This is my third essay in my defining moments series. My defining moments are those moments in our lives that have caused us to think in a new way. A moment when our perspective changed in how we see the world and/or others. I’ve had many of these such moments throughout my years, and will, in no particular order, share them here at amelia carolyn, in hopes of inspiring others to think about their own defining moments and how they effect our lives. (You can read the first essays here and here.)

no regrets
The particular moment I want to share today happened when I was about 8 years old. Earlier that year, I met my mom’s best friends father, Mr. Patten. He was a kind, elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. He was particularly kind to me, especially when he learned how much I liked clowns.

We chatted for awhile, and then he went upstairs brought down something his wife had made years ago. It was love at first sight.

It was a handmade clown. The body, arms and legs were small, hand-sewn circles of fabric from scraps of old quilts strung together (think candy necklaces), with small jingle bells at the ends of each arm and leg. The face, white, had the classic red markings of a pierrot clown, and a smile on his face that invited secrets to be shared.

Mr. Patten told me that his wife had made it with love, and he wanted me to have it. I instantly named him Clown Jingles. Mr. Patten and I became fast friends.

Back home, I wanted to find a way to let him know how Clown Jingles was doing. I wrote him a letter. He wrote back. His letters were written in print with big letters and on subjects that were interesting to my 8-year-old self. We exchanged letters over the next few months. And then, as happens when you’re eight, I got distracted by other things. School, friends, Strawberry Shortcake… I stopped writing to Mr. Patten.

But I didn’t stop thinking about him. I missed our correspondence and friendship. I hugged Clown Jingles close every night. Time just slipped away. I’d write to him soon.

And then one day at school I decided that “today was the day.” I resolved to go home and write Mr. Patten a letter. Lots had been happening and I had things to tell him. I skipped into the house and announced to my mom that I was going to go in my room and do that very thing. Her entire body language shifted and in that instant, I knew something was wrong. I knew I’d missed him.

Mr. Patten had passed away that morning.

I realized in that moment that time doesn’t stop for us. Things happen that we don’t always expect or want.

I resolved that day to not let time get away from me again; to do the things I’d planned on doing without procrastinating or missing them. I didn’t ever want to experience that feeling of regret again.

As with most resolutions, this one isn’t easy. I haven’t nailed down the secret to taking advantage of each and every moment. And I still procrastinate and let time slip by every now and again. But the message is constantly in my mind and in my heart. My intention toward the resolution stays strong, and I’d like to think that I’m more successful than not, in letting my loved ones know how much I love them and how much they mean to me.

It was a tough lesson for an 8-year-old, but one I cherish and appreciate.

September 10, 2009

taking in the moment

Posted by Amy C under integration, life experiences, observations, setting goals, transitions | Tags: awareness, balance, gratitude, transitions |
[3] Comments

being.

Sometimes I find it hard to simply (and consciously and deliberately) “be” without thinking about where I just was, or where I’d like my life to be tomorrow, or in a week or maybe in five years from now. It’s hard not to think about what might make it (whatever my present reality is) better—even if I’m currently really happy with it.

Over coffee in the back garden of Espressoria the other morning, my good friend and I were talking about my upcoming plans to move to Hawaii for six months this winter. It’ll be the first time in my life I’ve moved somewhere without a set plan on where I’m staying or exactly how long I’ll be there. I think about the adjustment. I think about the challenges and the newness of it all. I think about the adventure and about experiencing this together with my (new, yay!) husband.

Our conversation began to center around a conundrum we all seem to face (similar to “the grass is always greener” and “you always want what you can’t have”) of wanting what we used to have or what we see as “better” or “easier.” There’s the flexibility vs. structure continuum. Those with 8-5 jobs yearn for the freedom to set their own schedules and go play when they want to; those with flexible jobs yearn for more structure so they know when to stop working and can go play without a sense of guilt for not working.

Sick vs. healthy (or more often in my world, the injured vs. healthy) is another one I’m often faced with. Healthy but unmotivated or tired, I think about the rest one gets from being sick or injured (the kind that forces your body to slow down). And when I’m sick or hurt, all I want to do is get out of the house and go running, or clean or do something.

It’s hard to find a balance, and sometimes I wonder if it’s really balance I’m after. Maybe it’s simply the ability to accept what is. I appreciate the ups and downs of my life. I love the feeling when things are going well; when the energy is flowing and things feel good. And when they’re not, I find a renewed appreciation and gratitude for those good times and try to take advantage of the extra down time to rest the body and the mind.

So here’s my Thursday morning musing and thought … I am happy to be. Right now. Today. At 9:17am. And in each moment, I will remember that whereever I am, I am good. Life is good. And by wishing and dreaming too much about what isn’t, I’m missing what is.

I have a feeling that I will need to remember this over and over again… but over time, I know it’ll get easier. With more experience and with more wisdom, I can be a little more often each day.

September 2, 2009

a toast from the sunroom

Posted by Amy C under defining moments, life experiences | Tags: gratitude, memories |
[2] Comments

sunset on the beach

Three years ago today, members of my extended family, from all corners of the world, gathered in the sunroom for cocktail hour. For years this had been an evening ritual for my grandmother. Manhattans at 5:00 with cheese and crackers. It didn’t matter if there was company, but it sure made her energy shine when there was a roomful of family and friends around her.

She was 95, with an alertness and level of engagement that I aspire to match in myself. She and my grandfather were fortunate enough to have found a wonderful house on the beach in the 50s—with the foresight to retire there in the 60s. Myself, my cousins and extended family spent many summers at the beach house coming of age, becoming friends with our families and growing up (into adolescence; into adulthood; into middle age).

It was fitting that Grandma was surrounded by so much of her family that evening. None of us lived close… some had come for the week or weekend from as far away as the Czech Republic. We were there, as we always were: to relax and hang out at the beach with family and drink a few manhattans along the way.

So it came as a complete surprise and shock that the next morning would be my Grandmother’s last. She woke with some pain, went into the hospital and left this world, with her family surrounding her, that night.

Tonight, as I’ve done for the past two years, I gather those close to me, mix a round of manhattans, and raise a glass in honor of a woman full of elegance, spirit and grace; a woman who stayed young and active throughout her 95 years; and for whom the door to her home was always open and an ear was always available for debate, conversation and advice. Grandma, you continue to inspire me, support me and encourage me to expand and live my life to my fullest potential. I love you and I miss you.

Cheers.

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