August 19, 2005

Love never made a fool of me

I always was one, as you can see

That's part of a verse of a great song by Greg Brown, one of my all-time favorites.  Comes into my head a lot, that one does.  I no longer think of feeling foolish as a negative thing.  There's freedom in it.  Or, at least, humor.

I recall the first time I took Al off of my truck and tried to figure out how to get myself and this huge hunk of plastic onto the wild waters of Edinboro Lake without looking foolish.  Kayaking -- such a lovely sport.  So graceful, so elegant. 

Except the part when you get in and out.  And you're flailing.  And where do you put the paddle?  And how does your body fit into that little cockpit?  And what if you roll over?  And what if someone sees you roll over?  And what, oh horror of horrors, if you look foolish?

I worried so much about buying this kayak.  What if I spent all of that money and never used it?  What if I couldn't find anywhere to keep it?  What if kayaking is too hard on my scoliotic back?  What if the kayak itself was nothing like the style I should be buying?  Shouldn't I start with a smaller, less outfitted model?  I what-iffed myself into a frenzy.  

At the same time, I couldn't sleep at night because I was worried that someone else was going to buy my boat.  But I bought Al.  And I put him on the water just two hours later.  And I almost rolled.  And my obliques grew sore.  And I flailed. 

And I looked foolish. 

And people saw me. 

And it was one of the most freeing events of my life.

Because so what? I look foolish all of the time.  I go places alone, and I find things funny, and I laugh at them.  Sometimes out loud.  Okay, usually out loud.  Or something moves me (like seeing Emmylou Harris play Hickory Wind in Alaska), and I get a little teary-eyed.  Or I trip over saguaro cactus roots on the trail in Tucson.  Or I can't get the straps over Al on my roof rack.  Or I forget someone's name.  Or I'm the last one out of the water in a triathlon. (I just love the water so much that I swim very, very slowly.  I am a Pisces, after all.)  Or I miss a note when I'm singing.   

So what? 

Accepting the fact that I'm bound to look silly is a lesson I wouldn't trade for anything.  And it's really a lesson that kayaking taught me.  But one reason I'm thrilled to be partnering with The Ophelia Project on this venture is that they seek (among many other things) to eradicate the sort of environment in schools that can foster that fear of looking foolish in the first place; and, consequently, limit the positive risks a young person will take.  Because taking those risks, quite often, is the way we all get to know what makes us . . . well . . . us.  

I'm bound to look ridiculous a few times (or constantly) when I cross Lake Erie in just over a week.  But so what?  I'm doing something I wouldn't have had the guts to do just a couple of years ago.  And I'm not talking about the kayaking part.  I'm talking about looking foolish. 

Another favorite line of mine is from a story by Ann Beattie: 

What will happen can't be stopped.

Aim for grace. 

Still aiming,

Katie

August 16, 2005

I didn't feel like paddling yesterday.  I didn't feel like much, as it turns out.  We all have days like that.  We're tired, we've been busy, we miss our apartments or homes or chair or carpet or bed.  The weather isn't asking anything of us, no blue sky to make us feel guilty about staying inside.  It happens. 

But I knew, somehow, that I had to get out there.  That I would not be able to spend time with Al for the next couple of days, and that I ran the risk of having one of those all-too-familiar bouts of overthinking if I didn't get moving.  So, I made myself a deal:  as soon as This American Life was over, I had to hit the water.

And, as usual, it turned out to be the best thing I could have done.

I was looking back on a day in May, on which I recorded a similar sentiment:

I debated for a bit, then threw Al on the truck and headed down to the peninsula.

Sunny.  Cold and windy; but gorgeous.

And, even with a tired wrist and shoulder, it was immediately obvious that I'd done the right thing.  A few strokes in and the air felt different.  The colors changed.  My breathing slowed and deepened.  My face muscles relaxed (I had been frowning without even knowing it). 

A sore shoulder, I can deal with.  A sore mind, I cannot.

So, as usual, I went longer than I'd intended to -- I always do.  I let the sun do its thing to my brain; I focused on sounds and balance and my incredible hands.

It isn't always easy to be motivated to do the things we need to do in life, regardless of how much we love them.  Regardless of how much coffee we ingest.  I, for one, tend to think and debate and ponder and ruminate (and, drink coffee, for that matter) far more than I'd like. 

Almost without fail, however, just doing the thing is the best thing to do.  And the rest of the day was better, since I spent a couple of hours of it with Al. 

More to come,

Katie

August 5, 2005

Al and I are crossing Lake Erie in three weeks.  How does that saying go?  'God willing and the creek don't rise', or something like that.  Creek, lake . . . what's the difference, right?   I've had some folks ask me, especially as I get closer to THE BIG DAY, what I'm doing to train.  Truth be told, I'm just doing what I always do, only with a greater sense of purpose.  I love sports.  Love to move.  Love to lift and jump and paddle and climb and run and ride and play.   

I remember a day back in February of this year, when I had completed a Pilates class at my gym, and was finishing up a workout on the elliptical trainer.  A man on the next machine turned to me and said, "I always see you working so hard here.  What is it you're training for?"  

"Life," I said with a laugh.  I was only kidding somewhat.  

The problem I find with most of the calls for physical activity with which we Americans are bombarded on a daily basis is how little emphasis is routinely placed on fun.  We don't hear enough about how great it feels to be strong and energetic and ready for anything.  Instead, we're inundated with scare tactics about warding off fat and disease.  Fun takes a back seat, when, ideally, the fun should be the primary reason for an active life, and the increased health should be the extra benefit.  

I worked for awhile at YMCA Camp Fitch, in North Springfield, PA.  What a job.  Playing with kids in the woods, with access to tons of fun athletic equipment.  Tough to beat that one.  But I remember, even then, being very careful to stress the play factor in sports over the, "Hey, street hockey will help you burn off that s'more" factor.  And if I heard one of those 13-year-old girls talking about how she was going to get fat on all that camp food, I'd toss a volleyball at her and tell her to think fast.  (Okay, not really . . . but you tell me a better way to get someone to stop thoughts of self-loathing than good old physical activity.)  

Staying active keeps us ready.  It keeps us strong.  It makes us believe that we can handle what's next -- that great unknown:  whether it's starting a new job or going somewhere new alone or getting through our commute or finding love or meeting a deadline or paddling a kayak across a lake (or creek).  Fitness equals perspective.   

Have fun and heads up,  

Katie

August 2, 2005

So, yes, I talk an awful lot about kayaking.  Okay, maybe too much.  Okay, maybe I'm as bad as a Duke fan during March Madness, only without the laundry list of player statistics with which to pepper my speech.   

Quite often, people say to me, "Oh, kayaking!"  (And, in my head, I begin to compose something to the tune of Oh, Canada . . . )  "I've always wanted to try that!  Do you think maybe you could teach me sometime?"   

Truthfully, I'd love to teach people how to kayak.  I would love to be responsible, even in the most miniscule way, for getting more people into kayaks and onto the water.  Really, though, I wouldn't have much to teach.   

"Well," I'd have to say, "I can teach you to use a paddle as a support when you're getting into the boat, so that you won't roll over before you even leave the shore.  But the rest, you already know."  

Kayaking is movement at its most elemental.  It's naked.  It's pure.  It's simple.  (It's beginning to sound like an advertisement for soap.)  

Really, though, kayaking is just a body and a boat.  It is walking while sitting.  Arms instead of legs.  Water instead of earth.  Paddle blades instead of feet.  One in front of the other, and on like that.  On and on and on.  

You already know how to kayak.  We all do.   

I love to see people try kayaking for the first time.  Almost without fail, their defense mechanisms kick in, and they make some sort of comment like, "I'm probably going to tip over," or, "I won't be able to get back out again."  But, after about ten minutes, most people  look like naturals.  Like they're doing what they were born to do.  Because they are.  Walking while sitting.  Water instead of earth.   

More to come,  

Katie 

July 21, 2005

I talk about kayaking a lot.  I find ways to work it into conversations.  I mention it, I smile, I hope people will ask me more. 

It's what we do, when we're in love.  We keep that which we love close to us, alive to us, by talking about our beloved.

So.  My beloved's name is Al.  He's a rasta-colored hunk of plastic, over 17 feet long.  We've been together for three years now.  July 16th was our anniversary.  Al didn't remember; but I've forgiven him, just as he's forgiven me for paddling another kayak on my recent trip to Alaska.  Love is understanding, after all.  And a kayak doesn't fit into those overhead compartments.  The airlines really ought to look into this.  

Al has changed my life in all of the ways a good love can.  He's made me stronger, calmer, more definite, more alive, more peaceful.  Al has made me believe in myself.  He's taken me to breathtaking natural places and given me the quiet to really sink into them (perhaps I shouldn't use the verb "sink" when discussing kayaking; but it seems to fit). 

Good love sets us free by making us want to be great, giving us the confidence to believe that we can be great, and -- all the while -- letting us know we're fine right now. 

That's what kayaking does for me.  It sets me free. 

It's been difficult to know where to begin this online journal.  Never has an activity inspired in me such metaphorical thinking as kayaking does; and, therefore, I've recorded pages and pages of dreamy, post-paddle reveries.  When I come off of the water, it's all I can do not to run through the streets, bellowing, "EVERYBODY!  GO BUY A KAYAK!"

Who needs Coke?  I'd like to buy the world a kayak. 

For now, I think I'll just drive around a bit downtown, with Al on top of my pickup, and hope someone asks me about him. 

More to come,

Katie