Architectural Escapism

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I think it started when I was a kid. My dad and I used to go on adventures to nearby neighborhoods that were under construction where we would spend hours exploring the partially completed homes. With my mom, I would enjoy touring completed and decorated homes during organized events.

I learned love the feel of different spaces, the interplay of materials and the use of light in the structures. I would picture myself in the homes, imagining how I would live in the space. I would arrange furniture in my mind or debate potential renovations and alterations to improve the structure to fit my tastes.

I have carried that passion into adulthood; I gravitate towards architectural escapism, especially when stressed. In my former life, when I worked too much and was stretched too thin, I would spend a couple hours on occasional weekends flipping through books of floorplans, checked out from the library. I visit home tours when possible, but always love to go on long walks or runs through a variety of neighborhoods, from typical suburban to funky older areas to high end (where I sometimes have to sneak in the gates:) ). My head is turned to the side as I run, surveying the homes as I move past. Even now, my TV is turned to House Hunters International where I can be an overseas architectural voyeur.

As far as escapism methods go, this is pretty benign. It is legal, it won’t destroy my liver or my waistband and it leaves my wallet intact.

It’s still something I need to be careful about; however, as it can indicate that there is something in my life that I feel the need to escape from. It is almost as though I am picturing myself in another life.  It has been interesting recently. I started watching HGTV during the two weeks of standardized testing at the beginning of April. I went from turning the TV on a couple times a month to watching a few times a week. I’m running more through neighborhoods and less through parks. I’d probably be reading floorplan books, but the library doesn’t have them available for the Kindle. Is it work stress that I am trying to escape from or something else? Or, maybe I just have houses on the brain as I look forward to buying one again? At this point, I’m just acknowledging the increase in my consumption of architecture. Noting it without analyzing it. If the drive continues, I’ll try to figure out why I’m pulled to houses. Meanwhile, I’ll just continue to enjoy or critique the styles and tastes of others:)

I can’t be the only one with this form of escapism. The sheer number of home shows speaks to this. How about you? Do you ever practice architectural escapism? When does it pull you?

 

Beneath the Uniform

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Last Sunday found me curled up on the sofa next to Brock, my trusty laptop in my hands, watching the Braves lose to Detroit while I Googled, “Naked baseball players.”

Perhaps an explanation is needed here. I didn’t really want to see naked baseball players; I was looking for baseball players in their underwear.

Stay with me:)

I am relatively new to world of sports; I only started watching when Brock and I began dating three years ago. Since I have an interest in health and fitness, I was immediately drawn to learn about the training programs for the various sports and teams. I was already familiar with football training, thanks to my teenage subscription to Muscle and Fitness. I also knew the effect of that training on their bodies – not only did M&F prominently feature these men, but their nearly bare bodies can be seen in national ads.

But not so with baseball players. They are much more secretive.

My search began with curiosity about  their butts. At my first Braves game, I immediately noticed that the read ends of the players were quite prominent. I wondered if that was a result of selection bias or training. Not surprisingly, it is a bit of both. Scouts look for big butts and thighs because that is where the power comes from. Then, training focuses on developing that explosive force which leads to greater muscular development.

But I still wasn’t satisfied. I was curious about what lay beneath the uniforms, as many of these men appeared to be rather chunky, especially for pro athletes. I made an assumption based upon their thick lower bodies and blousy tucked-in shirts.

Eventually, my curiosity got the best of me and I turned to the all-knowing Google for answers. My first queries were tamer – “baseball player physiques”, “baseball players shirtless” and “baseball players in underwear”. No luck. Apparently, baseball players like to hide their bodies as much as football players like to display theirs.

I summoned my courage and typed, “Naked baseball players.”

Not a search I would necessarily recommend. But it was enlightening.

Not surprisingly, my assumptions were wrong. Some of the players are certainly carrying some extra weight but many others hide six-pack abs under their voluminous shirts. The uniforms may be identical yet the players they cover are unique and resist stereotypes.

It was a reminder about the uniforms that we all wear in our lives. The outward presentation that does not always match the inside.

It takes courage to remove your uniform and reveal the vulnerable self beneath. To show the world who you are without the socially-approved costume disguising your form.

People make assumptions based upon what we show them. Those labels can persist, even though they may not be accurate or inclusive. We can feel comfortable behind the uniform, fearing that to remove it would be to stand out too much from the crowd, perhaps painting us as the weak gazelle at the back of the pack.

The trick to being comfortable revealing what hides behind your outward attire is to accept our naked, authentic selves. To understand that that the seemingly perfect facades worn by others are hiding their own vulnerable  selves.

I learned a parallel lesson as a child who frequented campgrounds with their not-so-private showers and hippie-friendly festivals. I grew up observing all types of bodies – young and old, fat and thin, smooth and wrinkled with age. Those experiences did more for me developing a healthy self-image and attitude about my body than any after school special could ever have achieved. I saw the “perfect” bodies marred by scars that were only visible out of clothes. I grew to appreciate the tales of children born upon the abdomens of the women and the sagging skin over once-filled biceps on the men. Under the clothes, people were at once more unique and more similar than they could ever be when shielded by their attire.

Our internal selves are no different. We shield them from public view.  The men I met while dating who appeared to be the toughest were wearing their tattoos, leather and muscles to hide their insecurities. The women I know who are super polished and put together are often afraid of losing control. I, myself, can hide behind my analytical attire, hiding my more emotional self with the fear that it will not be accepted.

I’m trying to use my lessons from childhood to shed this uniform, this comfortable shield.

It’s scary at first, revealing who you are, but the freedom that comes from shedding the uniform is unbelievable. We are more alike underneath than we often realize and yet we each have our own unique beauty. Don’t hide yourself – you have much to offer as you are.

But I still caution you against Googling “Naked baseball players.”

The Garden

Posted on by stilllearning2b
English: Rhododendron in The Roughs These purp...
Image via Wikipedia

In my old life I had a garden.

When we first moved into our home, the 1 acre yard was a motley medley of scraggly grass and tenacious weeds; too wet to mow and too shady for grass to thrive.  It was a blank canvas.  Slowly, I began to paint, using the medium of small starter plants, tree seedlings obtained from the forestry department, and cuttings and divisions nurtured from friends and neighbors.

I had a vision of a magical woodland retreat, filled with the soft haze of ferns and the subtle flowers of the understory.  For years, this image existed only in my head, the reality of small, young plants planted in a vast, weed-strewn yard looked nothing like a garden.  I spent hours on the weekends and after work attacking weeds and planting replacements.  On days when the weather was prohibitive, I would research plants and growing conditions.  I made annual treks to a budget nursery in a nearby town, filling my car to the bursting points with dreams held in the bright green folds of new growth.

But slowly, it emerged.  I watched 2 foot bald cypress saplings grow to 30 foot trees.  Ferns and hostas spread their roots far and wide under the protective shade of the understory.  Hydrangea proudly held their blooms high, as though no longer ashamed of their companions.  Colors would come and go throughout the weeks: daylilies, Lenten rose, iris, geraniums, azaleas.  Their spectacular shows provided endless variety and interest.

From February through November, I would begin most every day with a walk along the stone path, through the pergolas, and over the boardwalk.  Examining the new growth,watching the wildlife, reveling in the beauty of the plants.  On the weekends, I would bring my papers to grade out to one of the hammocks to enjoy the breezes through the leaves and the interplay of light and shadow.

In my old life I had a garden.

It was painful to walk away from my plants, nurtured for so many years.  I found myself staring at plants around town wistfully, thinking of their counterparts in my yard.  As with much of my transition, it was painful, but also freeing.  I no longer had to worry about the assaults of deer, the dangers of a last freeze, or the effects of a flood.  My weekends were not filled with weeding.  My hands no longer frozen from the cold February soil.

But still, I mourned my plants.  I purchased a pass to the botanical gardens and promised myself a monthly visit.  Now, I walk their perfectly manicured paths and appreciate the beauty created by teams of professionals.  The gardens are stunning, but it’s not the same as one created by my own labor.  My own dreams.

In my old life I had a garden.

The last few years, my nurturing energies have been turned inwards, helping myself to grow and thrive.  I have tried to eliminate the weeds, start new plantings, and encourage growth.  I have become my own garden.

And, now, with home ownership again on the horizon, I look forward to creating a new garden, filled with both familiar and untried plants. A testament to the persistence of life and the beauty of growth.

American Eastern Redbud Tree (Cercis canadensis)
Image via Wikipedia

The Marshmallow Test

Posted on by stilllearning2b

In the Stanford marshmallow experiment, young children were placed alone in a room with a single marshmallow. They were told that if they left the marshmallow alone until the experimenter returned, they would receive two marshmallows. Further studies indicated that children that could delay gratification had better life outcomes in terms of educational attainment and other life measurements.

If I had been administered the marshmallow test as a child by an absent-minded researcher, I would probably still be sitting in that 70s-themed room waiting for the return of the person in the white lab coat.

But is that a good thing?

Are there times when we are better off enjoying the single marshmallow rather than waiting for the promise of two?

I don’t know how I would label this trait in myself. I’m not sure if it is willpower, stubbornness or a fear of not playing by the rules. Probably a bit of all three. Regardless of its origin, I have never had trouble slogging through the muck to get to a goal. I might detour and I’ll certainly complain at times, but I will get there.

In my former life, this trait was put to the test many times. I drug myself through grad school for the promise of an increased salary that would benefit us both (or so I thought). I lived with a decaying deck for over 8 years until we had saved (or so I thought) to build our dream deck. I put off trips so that we could save money (or so I thought). I worked extra jobs, often tutoring 20 hours a week, to help save money for our future (or so I thought). I made sacrifices for the betterment of the marriage (or so I thought).

I was okay ignoring the single marshmallows on the table, confident that the promised two would soon be coming.

Except they never did.

While I was waiting, my ex, who I thought was waiting with me, was raiding the marshmallow stores. When I discovered his multiple betrayals and deceptions, part of my anger was that he was doing those things while I was making sacrifices. I gave and he stole.

As a result of all of this, I’ve changed my approach a bit. I am much more likely to balance decisions between the future and the present. I have learned how to spend money instead of squirreling it all away. I have learned how to enjoy the present instead of always waiting for the future. But I also haven’t really been tested. I’ve been able to live more for today, since my tomorrows have been so unknown.

I’m being tested right now.

I know part of it is that I’m a bit grumpy and frustrated over recent events. We usually go camping over spring break, but Brock had to be out of town for business. Then, strep throat cut short my Asheville trip. We were supposed to be camping this weekend, but this time weather foiled our plans. Hell, even the festival last weekend was impacted by my ex’s unexpected appearance. I’m whiny. I’m pouty. I feel like a kid proclaiming that it’s not fair. All I want is a trip. A break. It doesn’t have to be extravagant or prolonged. Just time away.

So, coming from that place and looking forward to the approaching summer, I brought up the idea of summer getaways with Brock over breakfast yesterday.

It was not the conversation I expected.

He kind of snapped.

He told me that he didn’t have time for trips. That just because I was off work, it didn’t mean that he was. He started talking about the house we intend to buy this fall and the need to save. Underlying these words is the pressure he feels as the primary provider and soon-to-be first time husband to support his family. In his job, unlike mine, more hours and more travel usually equate to a larger paycheck. He is currently choosing to sacrifice time for money for our future.

But he also said he understood my past and my fear of waiting for a future that never occurs.

It ended up being a really good conversation, even though I hate it when I realize how much my past still impacts me. So much of this comes down to trust. I have to trust that he isn’t stealing the marshmallows from behind my back. I have to trust that the promised time and trips will occur after the house has been purchased. I have to trust that we’re in this together.

Damn.

Why is this so hard?

How do I find that balance between waiting and living? Learning from my past and being limited by my past? Trusting and being?

I am ready for a home. I have tired of my nomadic existence over the past four years. I yearn for a place to put down roots and a garden for them to spread. I have only recently allowed myself to get excited about the prospect, however.  Even as I have directed funds towards a down payment, the future home seems like a mirage that will disappear before it becomes reality.

I need to trust.

I can wait for the promised two marshmallows, trusting that they will be there. Trusting that Brock will be there.

life is not a waiting room

Nourishment

Posted on by stilllearning2b

In my former life, I viewed eating as a purely functional act.  I was not concerned with the quality of food that entered my mouth, as long as it contained the proper macronutrients at the proper time. For almost ten years, my lunch consisted of a premixed protein shake because it was high in protein, low in calories, and could be sucked down in 15 minutes while I tutored struggling students in the school cafeteria.  For ten years, I was content with that lunch.

Then something changed.  I realized that not only did I not look forward to lunch, but that I had even begun to dread it.  The shakes met my nourishment in the most basic sense, but that was all.  At this point, I had already begun to visit my kitchen for more than a chat with the microwave, so I decided to restructure my lunches to incorporate what I was learning in the kitchen.

I had to start with the practical: my hours as a teacher are long and my lunch times are short.  I needed to be able to find foods that could be cooked and prepped on Sunday and reheated quickly at school. I started by collecting recipes and cookbooks (about the only kind of book that didn’t fill the shelves in my old life).  I found I enjoyed seeking out ideas and combinations, always seeking to maximize my veggie intake and ensure that I would get substantial protein and fiber with each meal.  I learned that raw veggies have to be limited; there simply is not enough time to eat them all.  Likewise, finger foods are a no-go in the germ laden land of a middle school.  Even with those limitations, the options seemed endless.

An amazing metamorphosis occurs in my fridge every weekend.  Mounds of greens and veggies are chopped and cooked into submission and divided into color-coded containers ready for the week ahead. The house fills with the aromas of a variety of spices, as the sounds of the food processor echo through the house.  The island is the scene of assembly line style food preparation.

The consequences of the change in my lunch menu were astounding.  My health improved; I no longer caught every cold that came through the school.  My attitude improved, as I had a lunch I looked forward to (this is especially a motivator on Monday mornings).  My afternoon workouts improved, now that I had enough fuel in my system to support the training.  I became a de facto educator about plant-based diets as teachers and students began to inquire about my lunch.

But, most of all, I found nourishment.  For my body.  And for my soul.

I send the message to myself every weekend that I am worth the effort. That I matter. That feeding my needs is just as important as feeding the needs of those around me.

I kept the menu for this week simple; it is a short week and I don’t want to dedicate much of my time off to cook.  I decided to make Hottie Black-Eyed Peas & Greens from Appetite for Reduction, one of my go-to cookbooks for healthy, easy, vegetarian meals. I always try to incorporate fruits and veggies of different colors in every meal, so I’m adding sweet potatoes mashed with almond milk and vanilla rice protein along with some blackberries, since they were on sale;)

Here’s the food ready to cook.

And here, after 45 minutes of preparation (barring the work the ol’ trusty slow cooker did overnight on the beans), is the final product.

I’m waiting to pack the blackberries until Wednesday morning, so that is why they are absent.  Now, I can enjoy the rest of my time off knowing that I have healthy, nourishing food to get me through the week.