Archives for the month of: September, 2009
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My Running Update

September 29, 2009 //
1

A week ago I ran to the end of the pier — the one around 70th in Riverside Park. I started at  75th on Riverside Drive.  

I was breathing very hard. Hayden, who ran lightly beside me, told me not to breathe so heavily. He said that, “It just makes you more tired.”

“It’s all in your mind.” That’s what people tell you about running. They say, “Trick yourself when you run. Say ‘I’ll just run to the lamp post’ and then you find you’ve run to the FAR  lamp post, not the NEAR lamp post.” 

So a day later, I ran again. This time by myself. And I ran to the end of the pier and back. I was trying not to breathe hard. I was trying not to let the exhaustion get to me. I felt I’d doubled my distance.

This last weekend, on Saturday, I ran to the end of the pier and then back. And then to my surprise, I kept running.

I followed a guy a dozen paces ahead of me. He was at least 10 years older than me and at least 50 pounds heavier. He was sweating. I let him set the slow pace. I felt good.

I made it all the way to the women’s restroom near the boat basin. I looked at my phone. I had run for 13 minutes without stopping. I felt proud. I felt maybe I could’ve kept going.

The only problem with this new pursuit of running is that the endorphins have not kicked in yet.

I think they did kick in when running in the Adirodacks. But then the air is fresher there. The view of the mountains beautiful.

I started this blog when I started running with Deirdre and the girls. We ran upthe private road and all the way on Camp Dudley Road to the school house.

I really just took up running in search of endorphins. I’m still searching.

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Categories Fitness, running

French Class – Vive La Vie!

September 28, 2009 //
1

On Friday, I finished a two-week immersion class at the French Institute, Alliance Francais (FIAF). On the last day of class, we took a test. It took about an hour – we watched une petite filme about a family returning from vacances. Then we answered questions. We discussed our answers. I got one wrong.

I still received my passport entitling me to move up to the next level from intermediate towards mastery. The passport said I was able to “understand sentences and frequently used expressions related to areas of most immediate relevance (e.g., very basic personal and family information….)”

Then we turned off the lights and watched a feature film. It was “Cote d’Azur.” Very silly and sexy. Every few minutes, someone was masturbating in the shower in a villa near the beach. It was Friday morning. I thought, “I paid $500 for this!” well worth it!

I was one of six people in the class. My classmates were all at least 15 years younger than me. My teacher, Michelle, was my age. Just about everyday Michelle wore polka dots.  She was from Haiti, Mexico City, France, and Queens (as far as I could understand).

The other kids (I always call people in my classes “kids,” whether I’m the student, teacher, oldest, or youngest) spoke French very well. They were from Colombia, Russia, England, Cuban descent, far flung places. I was the only one from the heartland. They were taking the class to communicate better with their husbands, boyfriends, jobs, lives. I took it to prepare for my trip to Geneva and Taize in a week and a half.

At some point during every class, Michelle would exclaim, “La vie est belle!” or “Vive La Vie!” I loved that!

We discussed deep topics — religion, crime, cancer.

I learned several things:

1. School is difficult. Concentrating on new words and unfamiliar grammatical patterns is exhausting. I give my kids credit. I applaud anyone who attempts to learn anything.

2. I have to forget what I think I know. Having studied a little Spanish, the Spanish word will pop in my head first and I just have to forget it. I have to listen for my second wave of thinking.

3. There are rules. Like when I took tennis at NYU, I loved it; because unlike studying literature, there are actually right answers. The ball bounces inside the line or not. There are absolutely correct and incorrect ways of doing things. In life, the rules are often amorphous. It’s nice to have clarity – to speak and read and think properly, not ambiguously.

4. That I have an aptitude for realms beyond work and family. When I first had kids, my whole wide circumference of life in NYC shrunk. I was lucky if I made it to Fairway or Riverside Park, forget a museum. If I took a class, it was on parenting. But now, taking a class in French, my world opens up again. And the world is wide.

5. Studying French means studying contemporary French culture too. France is not fixed in some ancient belle epoch. Because I modeled for a brochure, I was given tickets to see Bettina Atala, a French performance/film artist in the FIAF festival, “Crossing the Line.” So funny and creative, Bettina narrated her film, “Season 1, Episode 2,” a commentary on the unreal rules of filmmaking.

6. The fine art of listening? Not so facile! When you talk, you absolutely know the next thing you are going to say. But when you listen, wow! It’s almost always a surprise. Especially in French. Je prefere parler. Mais j’aime entendre francais.

Beaucoup!

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Categories New York Story

Central Park

September 23, 2009 //
0

I have ridden my bike every day since French class began a week and a half ago.  I ride through Central Park with my heavy text books (yes, they’re paperbacks, but they’re BIG paperbacks). Lately I take my laptop in my backpack too so that I can write in the library here at the French Institute.

I love riding my bike in New York City. I love when I forget my helmet and I feel the wind in my hair. I love the beauty of Central Park.

Everyday there is a spot where I have to brace myself for the beauty. That’s when I leave the road and travel briefly on the sidewalk to the exit at 59th. On my right is the pond and I ride over a bridge. Today there was a young Asian woman standing on the slight wall of the bridge. Her arms were outflung and her head was back. As if to say, I own this place. This place of beauty.

Almost every day I ride over that bridge some tourist is photographing a  friend on the bridge. It is the spot. And I get to see it every day.

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Categories New York Story

Citifield Lost & Found

September 22, 2009 //
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I took three 12-year old boys to Citifield on Sunday to watch the boys/men of September. The wonderful thing about baseball is that I will never be asked to perform.

The Mets willl never be missing a player and call over the PA system, “Will Mary Beth Coudal please come onto the field and help us out? We’re missing a player.”

It won’t happen. As if it could possibly – not likely - but possibly happen at a Broadway show, a national political rally, or a mega-church Sunday morning service. The times I’ve been in attendance at those events, I do sit and relax and enjoy the show. But there’s always a part of me that wonders, “Oh, maybe I should get up there and help them out. Maybe this team needs me. Maybe I’ll be asked to help out.”

That never happens at a sporting event. Unless we’re talking badmitton. But then no one ever talks badmitton. (And I have heard athletes can be in their 40s and be Olympic champions in archery. But then again, no one ever talks archery. Sadly.) But I digress. I was talking baseball.

Here’s the thing about going to Citifield. The boys just wander around the fabulous new Mets stadium. They hardly watch the game. They look at tee shirts in the shop. They go to the batting cage or dunk tank. They visit Shake Shack. Alone, I read the NYTimes Sunday Style Section, catch a few rays, people watch.

On our way out of the stadium on Sunday, Joey swung his navy sweatshirt over his shoulders. It was still hot and sunny. The Mets had won. Not that it matters. We almost made it to the subway stairwell when Joey realized he was missing his wallet. It must’ve fallen out when he swung his Yankees sweatshirt. I don’t know why Hayden’s buddy, Joey loves to wear Yankees attire to Mets games. But twelve-year olds are like that.

So we went back to the stairwell.

“Yes,” said the older gent in the green polo Staff shirt. “Someone found a wallet. It’s probably on its way to the lost and found now. Go to the Jackie Robinson Pavilion, sit there, and wait.” ‘

Under the huge black and white photo murals of Jackie Robinson you can ponder the courage of the man who broke the race barrier. Joey informs me that every team has retired Robinson’s number to honor him. (You can learn a lot at a game.)

When we ask the pimply kid at the Lost & Found desk about the wallet, he informs us that none have been turned in. But the gent had told us to wait. So we sat in the air conditioned tiny room on cushy black chairs and waited.

Joey wondered if maybe the money and the Metrocard would be taken. “The person will probably just leave me my library card.”

“How much money was in it?”

“Fifteen dollars.”

And guess what? A few minutes later the wallet was turned in, complete with Metrocard, fifteen dollars, and even the New York City public library card.

You gotta love it. Maybe the Mets aren’t in contention for the World Series. Maybe I won’t ever play professional sports. But basic human kindness wins big time. Taking a few 12-year olds to a baseball game on a waning day of summer is bound to teach you that.

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Categories New York Story

# 7 Embrace Uncertainty

September 22, 2009 //
0

In less than three weeks, I will go to Switzerland and France for a week and a half. I feel a sense of hope mixed with worry. I don’t know how well my husband can care for the kids without me.

I also feel guilty. Yes, as a mom of three school-age children, what gives me the right to such happiness? such liberty? Once we’re parents, we’re are no longer free. We must be responsible-type people. We must not traipse around Europe with a backpack (I do intend to take a backpack and a fanny pack!) I feel guilty I will miss the girls’ 10th birthday.

But for survival reasons, I MUST take this journey. In order to fulfill my proposed sabbatical, I must go. To jumpstart my lagging spirit, I must go. To gain the language fluency I dream about, I must go.

Yet, yet, yet. I still feel worried and compelled to downplay my excitement. I wonder why. I wonder if there is some soap scum residual ring of dread around my psychic bathtub. If in my childhood, I was told not to look forward with hope. I must scrub that psychic tub.

Here are some reasons NOT to worry. Chris has said he’s adequate to the task. I have a cadre of friends, neighbors, babysitters, family who can help.

I must embrace my uncertainty. I must embody those stupid cliches – like, Jump and the net will appear.

It’s human nature to want to know if the house will increase in value before you buy it. Or to want to know if the kid’s soccer team will at least have one victory before you sign them up.

I have tons of swagger and humor, yet also carry oodles of self-doubt.

Yet, yet, yet. I am going to embrace my liminal state. I do not know the outcome; I am fearful. I am going to take Goethe’s advice to the young poet and (paraphrasing here) “Love the questions themselves, like books written in a very foreign tongue. You are not given the answers because you are not yet ready to live them. But you must live the question now. And that is the point. To live the questions now and someday you will find you are living in the answers.”

Live the uncertainty. Embrace the unknown.

Categories 1, Rules To Live By

Too Much Hot Cocoa

September 21, 2009 //
0

My husband started cleaning the kitchen cabinets yesterday. Oh, I should be happy. See, we were plagued by these little nasty spice bugs.

But he is unable to complete a task (either due to his Parkinson’s Disease or his maleness) so he left the entire contents of the kitchen cabinet spread out on the kitchen table. “Okay,” I thought, “no problem, I’ll put things back or throw them out.”

And then, I noticed something about the contents on the table. We have a heck of a lot of hot cocoa. We have it from William Sonoma and from Swiss Miss. We have the fancy chocolate sprinkles from Neuhaus.

We have it no longer. We had it. I threw it all out. All six kinds of hot cocoa and four kinds of chocolate sprinkle-stuff. It was just too much. And I’m afraid that my accruing so much hot cocoa might say something about me and my parenting style. I indulge my kids too much.

I mean, does everyone find a ton of hot cocoa when they clean out their kitchen cabinets?

I casually know an older woman whose husband had Parkinson’s Disease and she said her one failing as a parent – when her children were little and her husband was declining – was that she spoiled them. When they were adults, her children did not thank her for indulging them. In fact, they reprimanded her. They wanted boundaries and limits, she waffled and was permissive.

She probably gave them lots and lots of hot cocoa.

As a parent of kids whose dad is ill, I admit I feel sorry for my kids. I want them to be warm and not cold. Hot cocoa is delicious after a day of sledding. But I try too hard. I buy them too much. There have got to be ways of warming the soul and keeping the cabinet free from clutter – ways that might not include chocolate.

Categories Fitness

Sent a letter to the New York Times

September 10, 2009 //
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I rewrote my blog about health care coverage for caregivers and sent it to letters at the NYTimes. I doubt it will get published. It is too long and not specific enough to one of today’s articles.

I  just keep sending things out there. It’s all I can do. Send one thing a day. One day at a time.

Categories Blogging

Health Care for Caregivers

September 10, 2009 //
4

Just checked out the www.1010challenge.org

Everyone has a health care story. This is the first one I read.

As a United Methodist Minister and Health care worker I affirm the church’s position and pledge my support on this issue. As a small membership pastor I do not have health insurance because the congregation I serve cannot afford the rates of the church sponsored plan. Since my health care job is on a “as needed” basis (prn) I do not qualify for health insurance. – Allen Noah Converse, TX

I do not know Allen Noah. But I believe he should have health care. I do not know a lot of people, but I believe we should all have health care. 

I have a place in my heart for people who care for other people – pastors, parents, caregivers, teachers, and doctors. I believe they especially need care. Just because someone does not have a traditional job that offers health care, that person should not be penalized or denied.

Is a small-town pastor less important than a big-time CEO? I don’t think so. As a follower of Jesus, I want to love, care for the least, the lost, the lonely. I want the above-mentioned pastor to have health care. I want the parent who opted out of the workforce to care for her infant to have health care.

I believe a country pastor or a stay-at-home parent is as valuable to our nation – even more so – than a corporate mogul who carries health insurance for his or her family.

I know several parents at my girls’ NYC public school, who have health care for their children, but not for themselves. They cannot afford it. They are parents who have jobs, but those jobs do not offer health care. And even if they did not have jobs, they should still have health care. I worry about them, I worry what would happen if they required major medical care.

God know, my family has needed major medical coverage over the last several years. My 12-year old has had three heart procedures. My husband had radiation for cancer and care for his Parkinson’s Disease. I have absolutely no doubt these procedures, treatments and doctors’ visits would have bankrupted us, had we no health insurance. Surely, we would be a million dollars in debt.

As we in the United States debate how to provide universal health care, I suggest we remember parents and pastors. Let’s not forget people who care for other people. Their work is priceless and too many of them are not insured.

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Categories Fitness

The Most Wonderful Day of the Year

September 9, 2009 //
1

The summer days dwindled. Like the entire Upper West Side cabal of parents, I spent Labor Day at Harry’s Shoes and Staples.

At Staples, I muttered, “Sorry” to at least half a dozen people after I rammed their heels with one of my two carts.

Let traditionalists bemoan the loss of family rituals, I hold fast to a favorite — back to school shopping. Nowadays, internet-savvy, organized parents may order their school supplies on-line. Not me. I prefer the real-life bashing of plastic shopping carts and grabs for that last protractor.

I feel my year starts anew at the beginning of every fresh school year. I make resolutions — blog everyday; get the kids involved in chores; allow no TV until homework’s done; lay out clothes the night before.

The back to school outfit matters. Hayden wore a mint green collared shirt and blue checked shorts. He fussed with his hair, nearly breaking into tears over an unruly collick. Charlotte had a puffy white polka-dotted top and cut-offs. Catherine a teal, hand-me-down blouse from Deirdre and long jean shorts.

These are my fifth graders and my seventh grader. Hayden is as tall as me; the girls a perfect height for slinging an arm over their shoulders and pulling them in tight.

I wanted to hold each child’s hand as I walked Hayden to the 7:38 am bus and the girls to school. But they saw their friends and jibber jabbered the whole way.

Quickly they let me grab their cheeks and smooch them goodbye. They only rolled their eyes for a moment. Then they turned and went towards school. Their light backpacks bouced on their backs, full of empty three-ring binders and unwritten-on spiral notebooks.

I hung back and marvelled.

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Categories New York Story

Met the Publishers

September 5, 2009 //
1

Of Adirondack Explorer. A lovely cocktail party Thursday night overlooking Lake Champlain from a white house perched on a hill.

Really charming magazine about hiking, nature, promotion of the Adirondacks. Yesterday, I leafed through the magazine from poolside at Camp Normandie. It looked like my Rattlesnake hike story would fit in. I doubt they pay much. But both Ben and I took photos from the top of the mountain. I’d like to rework my story over the next day or so, then send it in.

Even if they pass on that story, maybe there’s another that would work!

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Categories Blogging, Publishing
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