Ever since an epic motorcycle tour of western Canada and Northwest USA with my husband in July, I’ve experienced one interruption after another colliding with my running and writing. Ever notice how very few windows in life line up perfectly?
Today’s run: Great! I grabbed a jacket and hit the road, timing school zones perfectly. I enjoyed fall colors tinting leaves and returned before the sun rose. Best of all, I conquered all interruptions—including a whining knee—getting those windows of opportunity nicely lined up.
Writing: A few weeks ago I read something that made me pause and think, and it occurred to me that distractions change destiny. Not all changes are disastrous—some are improvements—but there is still some type of change. I took a look at some noisy distractions in my life and noticed they were derailing me completely—knocking me way off course. Unless I changed things fast I’d never reach my desired destination, or I’d end up at a second choice (possibly second-rate destination), pretending it's where I intended going, or trying to make the best of the outcome.
Since that revelation I've taken some time to evaluate where I really want to end up, and what kinds of roads I need to travel to get there. Here are my quotes—I made them up over the course of a few days—but of course, they’re nothing earth-shatteringly new or profound, just my way of stringing a few wise thoughts together with words:
Distractions change destiny.
Distractions create detours and delays.
Back to running in my happy little village: I've turned a few corners and found orange cones blocking my way. Sometimes it’s fun searching out an alternate route, but other times—not so much. Always as I run I chart a course that finishes on my doorstep, even if I try out a new path along the way. So far I've succeeded. If that’s a sampling of life, I can finish that final edit and query. Without distractions. Because publishing is my destiny.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Diluted vs. Full Strength
Warning: if you didn’t read my last post, then you’re reading the ending before the beginning. Go back a post for the full story, or move forward for the conclusion only.
He licked his fangs… continued.
Cornered, my knocking knees dug into a waist-high snow bank transformed into ice beneath the winter sun. There was no possible escape route. Killer pressed his snout against my tender, juicy backside and growled. Slowly, cautiously, hoping to cause no alarm, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I had no animal control or police phone number, and couldn’t jog the half mile to the police station, so I pushed 9-1-1. Each chime angered Killer. He pushed harder and growled deeper in his throat—the area a meaty chunk of my behind would soon encounter if help didn’t arrive.
Dispatch: “What is your emergency?” The very sound of the operator’s voice sent Killer into a rage, filling the neighborhood with deafening barks.
Me: (whispered): “Help. A huge dog has me cornered.” The dog is now nearly crazy with rage at the sound of my voice.
Dispatch: “Where are you?”
Me: “River Meadow Drive.” (Glad I knew!)
Dispatch: “Where?” (She couldn’t hear over barking and growls.)
Dispatch's final decision: Call in the closest officer, realizing I’d die a vicious death soon, and staying on the line, she’d be monitoring my demise. I endured torture until a black and white cruiser showed up.
An officer pulled up and Killer relinquished two feet of breathing space. Officer Buff—a big man dressed in black, boxy boots and weighted down with numerous weapons—grinned. Poor lady freezing to death with a dog glued to her buns, he thought. Better not laugh at her—I’ll have plenty of time later. He climbed from his car—tough and to the rescue. (Cushy job—this noble knight bit.)
I witnessed a dancing cop as Killer charged him. Office Buff bolted, bucked, hopped and skipped. His arms swung, snatching for his gun, his tazer, his car door handle—the handle was the only thing he pulled because that brought immediate escape. He revved his engine. Killer threatened to shred his tires. He hollered at me to circle the car and get in the back seat. Killer staked his claim on me, pinning me to the snow bank, each growl vibrating through my dog-chow behind.
Office Buff, seeing my danger and knowing his, bravely ventured from his metal and glass protection, yelling at me to race around the car as he occupied Killer’s attention. He danced before a snapping audience and I ran! Officer Buff escaped unscathed, smugness and humor wiped from his expression. And thus, I have lived to run again.
And what became of Killer, you ask? I assume an officer hunted down his address and offered an ultimatum, as promised. He hasn’t prowled the streets alone since, and only recently have I dared pass through River Meadow Drive.
He licked his fangs… continued.
Cornered, my knocking knees dug into a waist-high snow bank transformed into ice beneath the winter sun. There was no possible escape route. Killer pressed his snout against my tender, juicy backside and growled. Slowly, cautiously, hoping to cause no alarm, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I had no animal control or police phone number, and couldn’t jog the half mile to the police station, so I pushed 9-1-1. Each chime angered Killer. He pushed harder and growled deeper in his throat—the area a meaty chunk of my behind would soon encounter if help didn’t arrive.
Dispatch: “What is your emergency?” The very sound of the operator’s voice sent Killer into a rage, filling the neighborhood with deafening barks.
Me: (whispered): “Help. A huge dog has me cornered.” The dog is now nearly crazy with rage at the sound of my voice.
Dispatch: “Where are you?”
Me: “River Meadow Drive.” (Glad I knew!)
Dispatch: “Where?” (She couldn’t hear over barking and growls.)
Dispatch's final decision: Call in the closest officer, realizing I’d die a vicious death soon, and staying on the line, she’d be monitoring my demise. I endured torture until a black and white cruiser showed up.
An officer pulled up and Killer relinquished two feet of breathing space. Officer Buff—a big man dressed in black, boxy boots and weighted down with numerous weapons—grinned. Poor lady freezing to death with a dog glued to her buns, he thought. Better not laugh at her—I’ll have plenty of time later. He climbed from his car—tough and to the rescue. (Cushy job—this noble knight bit.)
I witnessed a dancing cop as Killer charged him. Office Buff bolted, bucked, hopped and skipped. His arms swung, snatching for his gun, his tazer, his car door handle—the handle was the only thing he pulled because that brought immediate escape. He revved his engine. Killer threatened to shred his tires. He hollered at me to circle the car and get in the back seat. Killer staked his claim on me, pinning me to the snow bank, each growl vibrating through my dog-chow behind.
Office Buff, seeing my danger and knowing his, bravely ventured from his metal and glass protection, yelling at me to race around the car as he occupied Killer’s attention. He danced before a snapping audience and I ran! Officer Buff escaped unscathed, smugness and humor wiped from his expression. And thus, I have lived to run again.
And what became of Killer, you ask? I assume an officer hunted down his address and offered an ultimatum, as promised. He hasn’t prowled the streets alone since, and only recently have I dared pass through River Meadow Drive.
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