Wednesday, December 8, 2010


(*Note: this post is part of a writing project by Reverb 10. Reverb 10 is an annual event and online initiative to reflect on your year and manifest what’s next. Use the end of your year as an opportunity to reflect on what's happened, and to send out reverberations for the year ahead.)

Prompt: Beautifully Different. Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful. (Author: Karen Walrond)

I have a scar on my right hand: a tiny grayish tattoo, courtesy of a troubled six-year-old who bit me in a fit of rage while I was on duty as a Psychiatric Treatment Counselor in Anchorage, Alaska.

My “wedding dress” was a pair of white shorts and a white polyester hiking shirt. I walked down the aisle on Flattop Mountain.

I trained as a doula and had the privilege of attending two amazing women as they labored and gave birth, aided by nothing but the strength of their will.

I used to regularly wake up outside, in a sleeping bag, with icicles in my hair.

I am adamant about throwing "green" birthday parties. (This has sometimes backfired, as guests, baffled by the basket of cloth napkins, will resort to using tissues.)

At any given moment, I might bust out a tune from “West Side Story,” “Cabaret,” “Hedwig,” “Annie,” “The Sound of Music,” “Jesus Christ Superstar,” or “A Chorus Line,” to name a few. (If I’m alone in my car, it might be Pearl Jam’s “Rearview Mirror.” If I’m baking cookies with my sister, it might be a stunning acapella rendition of “Closer to Fine” by the Indigo Girls.)

Six a.m. often finds me on a trail, exchanging barbs and gossip with three or four other runners, all of sporting headlamps.

My college career spanned four states and, ahem, “several” years.

As a kid, I ached to play ice hockey, like my brothers. Playing on the pond with Dylan allows me to retroactively live the dream.

I find that exercise--strenuous or otherwise--is best concluded with hearty food and good beer.

I have an uncanny ability to find running and hiking partners who share this philosophy.

One of my favorite decompression activities is stacking wood ( I usually do this wearing Dad’s old flannel jacket).

I have driven the Trans-Canada and Alaska Highways twice: once with the man I thought I wanted to marry (who, soon afterward, left me for a remote Alaskan village), and once with the man I married (who seems to want to stick around).

All I want for Christmas is a new mountain bike.

I stay up way, way too late. In my post-dinner, post-bedtime story, post-lunch making exhaustion, I occasionally find that the words and images just won’t come.

Which reminds me: I am quite often overly self-critical.

And lastly, I know when it’s time to sign off and enjoy a glass of wine with my husband.

No comments: