Lucky star

I didn't know it could be like this. I had hoped that it didn't have to be a long, weary drudge, that there might be opportunities for a sparkle in there, but I had no idea that work could bring such a feeling of being impressed by others, of having walked a shared journey, and of pride in the people continuing when our involvement in the project came to a close. I just had the last session with a community group and I'm feeling a little teary-eyed. I know they will go on to build an amazing building (probably with their own and the community's bare hands!) and I can't wait to visit them in their shiny new building in a few years. It has been a remarkable journey from a meeting with two people who wanted to have a building, to seeing the involvement of the community and the engagement of tens of people over a period of months. They truly have impressed me with their aspirations and dreams, and with being willing to take the chance and challenge that this project is.

At the end of the workshop today they all chimed in, saying how the process of working with us had given them confidence that they can do this, that it seems manageable now, that they feel empowered, that they have learnt so much, and all just beamed with the knowledge that they are so on the right track.

This is the joy that my job gives me. I feel so extremely blessed and lucky to have the opportunity to work with people and within a field that can give me a feeling like this and such a sense of contentment. Few dare even dream of having it, and even fewer have the luck to live the experience.

I'll be looking at the stars this evening to see if I can suss the lucky alignment I'm living under.

Jack of all trades

I'm reading a book by Haruki Murakami called What I talk about when I talk about running. Although he's a prolific author and a well-known one, I have never managed to read any of his books before.

I used to read with the thirst for letters on a page like a lonely soul in the desert drinks after reaching a long desired oasis, but that slowly wound down to a drawn-out trickle. In my high school years, and indeed university years, my reading was almost entirely focused on curriculum and research texts. I was going to write 'factual literature', but perhaps due to the nature of my studies a lot the texts I read were manifestoes and creative interpretations of buildings, spaces, cities, and the lives of people. I did read for pleasure, and often much more than necessary, but only extremely rarely a literary piece of fiction.

These days my reading echoes my intake of fluids: I drink only when I need to, or am reminded to by a dull-feeling brain that needs input to clear it up and get it flowing again. I am much focused on doing these days, a capacity that I haven't really felt that I have had a grasp of (ever?), and which I have spent much energy in pursuing. I am succeeding in some ways.

His book is about running, and writing, and his life as a running novelist. He draws parallels between the physical training he needs to run and to run well and the mental training he puts in daily in his concentrated efforts at writing.

A very good friend gave me this book recently, I think as a sort of celebratory gift after I ran and completed my first marathon last month. I had seen the book researching literature whilst in the preparation phase for my race, but never got around to buying it. Symptomatic of me, really. And this brings me to title of this post. I have throughout my life been fairly good at a variety of things. Some have come fairly easily to me (like reading, maths, climbing trees), and others I have had to work very hard and intently at to reach a level that was acceptable to me (like basketball, designing). If I get involved in something I want to be at least decent at it.

I have recently been understanding a bit more of which tasks I am good at and those which I am merely adequate. I think I may have had some sort of subconscious awareness of it (because I am not utterly surprised, rather I am experiencing more and more calm clarity). It is more and more, although there is still a pretty intense ink cloud shrouding my skills from my consciousness, but floaty obstacles are disappearing and I get glimpses of strengths and, perhaps more importantly, areas which are not my forte. Who knew reading about running could help you think about life?

When I run I have time, calm clear time, to contemplate the challenges and contradictions I'm facing. I spend my running time with a certain freshness and clarity that tends to evaporate when I stop running. My runs give me space, a sense of achievement, and connect my otherwise un-noticed body to my over-thinking brain. I had no idea how important running would become for me when I started. I needed to do some exercise, I needed to create space for me, and that's just about it. Now it forms an important side of my mental health and of my self image and understanding in addition to those initial goals.

I wonder if I will continue to run always. Right now I think it'd be a good idea.

Autumn dreams

Great big mounds of sand, light and fine. We're underground. I clamber to the cusp of the dunes and see the finest grains start trickling down the other side. My link to history is there. She looks at me from below, near her vehicle. The trickle of sand start to increase in volume, soon the whole surface is moving, sliding slowly, slowly down towards her. I stand there, calling to her, as the sand starts to settle around her and the vehicle - I can't see her any more! The vehicle is engulfed, a deepening of the sand where it is. What's happening - is she ok?

I'm in an underground space, ceiling above me grey and darkening. Lockers like those in a high school, but no, not exactly like that, stand in a corner of the vast space. She is here with me. I open a creaky door by unhooking a basic lock device. Fine sand lays in small dunes along the edges of the space, covering the edges of a big portfolio. I reach in and lift it out, balancing the handwritten notes inside carefully to the table. As I start to leaf through it I hear sounds, it's war out there beyond the walls. I hear something - he's coming, and I am both excited and ashamed to be going through these memories. Suddenly she and I look at each other and I hastily try to replace the portfolio in the locker, shutting the door loudly, engaging the locking device - it's not working now - oh no! He's in the room, large and frail. It's ok. He looks at me with the deepest clarity in his eyes, and I see him for the man he once was. I disengage the lock on the locker again and replace the portfolio on the table.

Ode to Saga

The seasons are changing. I keep repeating that to everyone, but foremost myself. It's clear; the air nips at my chin if I don't keep it tucked into my scarf, and full days of rain remind me that my outerwear is not water proof. Clear skies shift and are replaced with a lucid cover of greys. Soft and mellow anticipation of blustering winds comes and goes with the arrival of gust lifting surprisingly long strands of hair into the air, like antennae.

Shifting into a space that is open and inviting, however challenging, maybe inviting because it is challenging, challenging because it is open. Engaging seems just ahead.

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Sometimes you meet people and they make an impression. Sometimes you meet people and they hardly register as a blip on your radar. Sometimes the briefest of encounters stay with you forever, and occasionally a seemingly meaningless meeting turns into something of longevity.

Out of two potential relations, what then makes one relationship last, and another falter? How can maintaining a relationship with someone on the other side of the world come so much more naturally than staying in touch with someone just up the street?

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It's all about movement, now. And daring. Moving, and daring.