“And this is where I get out and run.” I thanked the cab driver as I handed him some cash. It was 10:57 AM, and I had exactly three minutes to get to where I needed to be, otherwise my plans for the day would be ruined. I quickly exited the taxi and dashed across the street, running the rest of the way down 34th until it dead ended into the water. I gripped my cell phone tightly, monitoring its ever so slight, but significant changes in time. At 11:00 I stopped running, because I saw the boat that I was hoping to board – the one that departs daily at 11:00AM to take passengers to a remote beach in New Jersey. The boat, with the words Sea Streak on its side, was less than 100 yards away, yet I hadn’t even purchased a ticket.
But to my delight (and I hope to yours), the boat was still docked, and there were about a half dozen individuals lined up still waiting to board. I purchased my ticket at 11:01, got on board at 11:02, and at 11:03, we departed Manhattan’s shore.
I made my way to the upper deck to inhale the city view as we ventured down the East River. We sped by the city, making our way under the Williamsburg Bridge, the Manhattan Bridge, and then finally the Brooklyn Bridge. And of course, we passed the Statute of Liberty, standing prominently and proudly on Liberty Island, right beside Ellis Island.
Right around the Statue of Liberty, I got out my cell phone and texted one of my favorite people the message, “I’m on a boat!” To which, a man nearby questioned me, “Are you actually getting cell service out here?” I told him I was just sending a text and I wasn’t sure if it would go through. But being the darn extravert that I am, the conversation didn’t stop there. I had to explain that I was with All-tel, which essentially is Verizon, and then went on to rave about the great cell service that I get. And he continued the conversation by sharing with me the woes of his cell phone plan.
After our cell chat, he told me that his name is Eddie, and we shook hands. I informed him that I’ve met a couple of other Eddies this year - one when I was out rock climbing in Southern California and another one while I was in Chicago (who was actually my taxi driver who took me out for breakfast, which is another story for another day.) We conversed the rest of the way to Jersey, and by the time we got off the Sea Streak ferry, I sensed that he was inwardly and not so secretly hoping that we would spend the afternoon together. And I inwardly, and not so secretly, did my best to kindly blow him off, saying something along the lines of, “Well enjoy your day, perhaps I’ll see you on the Ferry on the way back.”
Even still, he lingered.
But thankfully as we neared the beach area, the women’s restroom came to my rescue. Conveniently I was able to excuse myself from his presence. It’s not that I minded having conversation with Eddie, but I took the day off of work for the very of purpose pulling away and having some alone time, and I really didn’t want him crashing my solo party.
From the restroom, just after 12 noon, I made my way out to the shoreline of Sandy Hook’s north beach, I settled in the sand on my beach towel with book The War of Art by Steven Pressfield in hand.
The author scolded me, exposed me, and encouraged me. He told me that I absolutely must start writing again. (Confession: it has been months.)
Later in the afternoon I decided to go for a jog down the beach, and so I changed into my much-needed sports bra, and started running barefoot down the shore, pondering the crisis of faith that one of my college students is facing. She is wrestling with a question that most everyone wrestles with at some point in their spiritual journey – how can God allow such awful things to happen in our world? Specifically, she wants to know how God can be so cruel. As I was running the Scripture that came to mind is John 11:35. A verse that states, “Jesus Wept.” Jesus wept. God wept. And I believe He still weeps. I don’t think God is playing the cruel card, but rather I think He is playing the compassion card and that the pain and suffering in this world disturbs him deeply.
My running thoughts were abruptly interrupted as found myself amidst a large group of people staked out on the beach. And for once, I could only wish for Speedos. Because the beach area I was running through, evidently didn’t believe in wearing any sort of swimwear.
Wow. Awkward. Weird. Gross. I was running through a nude beach. And suddenly I wondered just how Sea Streak Ferry Company got its middle name. I kept my eyes on the sand a few feet in front me trying to avoid the nakedness around me. I couldn’t help but to think back to University of Michigan’s naked mile that was still in existence my freshmen year of college. I had a paper that I had to write that night, and so I went to the computer lab, and occasionally someone would come in completely naked, sit down, and check their e-mail.
I safely made it back to my beach area, and after a dip in the ocean, I headed back to the Ferry pick up point.
Eddie found me on the way back to Manhattan, and before we parted ways, he made sure to tell me, “I have to admit, I find you to be extremely attractive, but I’m also extremely intimidated by you.”
I responded, “I’ve gotten that before. Perhaps that’s why I’m still single.”
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Hollywood
Tonight I went to this club in Hollywood called The Highlands. It’s located on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue – just down the street from the Kodak Theater where red carpet is laid for the Oscars each year.
When I arrived at the club, I didn’t enter alone.
You see, we had spent the entire afternoon together playing at the beach and when I decided that I wasn’t ready to go back to Riverside, we headed up the 101 towards Hollywood.
It seemed like a good idea, but once we found parking, I started to wonder if I was making some sort of mistake that I’d later regret. I snuck in a quick phone conversation with my friend Lisa and she assured me that it would be okay.
To be honest, I wanted to leave “him” at the car. I didn’t want people to see us together on the streets of Hollywood, but it didn’t appear that I had much of a choice. If I left him at the car he wouldn’t be there when I returned.
So we walked the stars together. And everyone kept staring at us – especially men. It probably didn’t help that I was wearing high heels. I’m not one to get embarrassed, and I wasn’t, but I did feel awkward. Pretty much anything goes in Hollywood, but we were pushing even Hollywood's limits – especially when we hopped on the escalators to get the 4th floor.
I was relieved once we were inside the club because that’s when I was finally able to drop him. And really I did. I left him hanging at the coat room and joined my friends Joy and Erica out on the floor. Of course, I didn't leave him there; I made sure to pick him up on my way out. After all, it’s my surfboard that we’re talking about. :)
* I’m a part of a sweet community called Mosaic. Typically we meet at the Mayan Club in downtown LA, but tonight we met in Hollywood. For more information on Mosaic (and great podcasts!), go to Mosaic.org
When I arrived at the club, I didn’t enter alone.
You see, we had spent the entire afternoon together playing at the beach and when I decided that I wasn’t ready to go back to Riverside, we headed up the 101 towards Hollywood.
It seemed like a good idea, but once we found parking, I started to wonder if I was making some sort of mistake that I’d later regret. I snuck in a quick phone conversation with my friend Lisa and she assured me that it would be okay.
To be honest, I wanted to leave “him” at the car. I didn’t want people to see us together on the streets of Hollywood, but it didn’t appear that I had much of a choice. If I left him at the car he wouldn’t be there when I returned.
So we walked the stars together. And everyone kept staring at us – especially men. It probably didn’t help that I was wearing high heels. I’m not one to get embarrassed, and I wasn’t, but I did feel awkward. Pretty much anything goes in Hollywood, but we were pushing even Hollywood's limits – especially when we hopped on the escalators to get the 4th floor.
I was relieved once we were inside the club because that’s when I was finally able to drop him. And really I did. I left him hanging at the coat room and joined my friends Joy and Erica out on the floor. Of course, I didn't leave him there; I made sure to pick him up on my way out. After all, it’s my surfboard that we’re talking about. :)
* I’m a part of a sweet community called Mosaic. Typically we meet at the Mayan Club in downtown LA, but tonight we met in Hollywood. For more information on Mosaic (and great podcasts!), go to Mosaic.org
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
After Thoughts
Wrote a post...
Deleted a post...
I'll be back with something different.
Or perhaps I'll decide to repost the same.
Deleted a post...
I'll be back with something different.
Or perhaps I'll decide to repost the same.
Monday, March 31, 2008
When Tears Fall, He Listens
Last week I felt like my dog had died, I got a new puppy, and then that puppy pissed all over my apartment. I don’t have a dead dog or a pissing puppy, but practically every emotion surfaced last week as I faced the dreaded day of turning 30 - and then did.
It started on the plane ride home from JFK in New York, to LAX. I watched some sappy movie, and by the end I was in tears. I’m not sure if it was the movie or my monthly hormonal imbalance that set me in motion, but suddenly I was a wreck and I feared returning to LA. I didn’t want to have to face a certain someone, but I knew there was no way around it.
The plane landed, and I prepared for conversation, anticipating that it would happen that night.
It didn’t.
Monday I tried again.
Still, nothing.
Hurt, I attempted to abort the friendship and forego the conversation altogether. I sent the text and suddenly I was homesick. I started searching for flights to the Midwest, wanting so badly to be with family on my birthday, but the dollar amounts didn’t sit right with me, so rather than booking a flight I cried myself to sleep.
Tuesday the conversation happened over my lunch break. It was good, and bad, and difficult, and beautiful – it was honest.
I placed my tears on hold until the evening.
They started dripping as I drove up to Forest Home to spend time in the prayer chapel. I talked to my sister on the way, sharing with her my struggle of turning 30 and still being all alone.
I arrived at the prayer chapel expecting to write a long prayer in the notebook that is set out for visitors, but instead of writing, I listened. The journal was open to a page filled with Scripture – Scripture that I needed to hear.
The eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous
And His ears are open to their cry.
The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth,
And delivereth them out of all their troubles.
The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart;
And saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.
Many are the afflictions of the righteous
But the Lord delivereth him out of them all.
The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants
And none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate.
Psalm 34:15, 17-19, 22
To be continued... maybe.
It started on the plane ride home from JFK in New York, to LAX. I watched some sappy movie, and by the end I was in tears. I’m not sure if it was the movie or my monthly hormonal imbalance that set me in motion, but suddenly I was a wreck and I feared returning to LA. I didn’t want to have to face a certain someone, but I knew there was no way around it.
The plane landed, and I prepared for conversation, anticipating that it would happen that night.
It didn’t.
Monday I tried again.
Still, nothing.
Hurt, I attempted to abort the friendship and forego the conversation altogether. I sent the text and suddenly I was homesick. I started searching for flights to the Midwest, wanting so badly to be with family on my birthday, but the dollar amounts didn’t sit right with me, so rather than booking a flight I cried myself to sleep.
Tuesday the conversation happened over my lunch break. It was good, and bad, and difficult, and beautiful – it was honest.
I placed my tears on hold until the evening.
They started dripping as I drove up to Forest Home to spend time in the prayer chapel. I talked to my sister on the way, sharing with her my struggle of turning 30 and still being all alone.
I arrived at the prayer chapel expecting to write a long prayer in the notebook that is set out for visitors, but instead of writing, I listened. The journal was open to a page filled with Scripture – Scripture that I needed to hear.
The eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous
And His ears are open to their cry.
The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth,
And delivereth them out of all their troubles.
The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart;
And saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.
Many are the afflictions of the righteous
But the Lord delivereth him out of them all.
The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants
And none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate.
Psalm 34:15, 17-19, 22
To be continued... maybe.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
One Month Reality
One Month
One Month
One Month
The Reality sets in. In one month I will be something different than I am today – something that I knew would eventually hit me, but never thought would bother me when it did. But lets be honest here, I’m kind of freaking out that in one month I’ll be turning 30.
I told a friend the other day that Jesus might as well come back. I was joking of course, but I’m not joking about my not-looking forwardness to entering my 30s. Maybe it would be different if I was a guy, but for women, turning 30 means the beginning of turning ugly. And it certainly doesn’t help that I’m still single and my ovaries are rotting away.
I’m suddenly reconsidering the nice tan that I’ve had all my life, fearing the sun’s long term effects on my skin, wondering if I should ask my parents for anti-aging wrinkle cream for my birthday. My mom has already offered a subscription to e-harmony. I passed - mainly because I have braces right now and am feeling relatively dorky and unattractive, but I also seriously hate the idea of meeting anyone through an online dating site. I’d rather post my cell# in the back window of my car and meet someone while stuck in traffic on one of LA’s freeways.
I actually met a guy on the 91 a few years ago. It was on my 28th birthday and I was on my way to the beach to go surfing - but that’s a story for another day, another time…
*Author Comment: Returning to this read this piece at age 35... that part I said about turning 30 being the beginning of turning ugly - soooooo not true! I'm claiming beautiful for every woman until the very day they step foot into eternity.
One Month
One Month
The Reality sets in. In one month I will be something different than I am today – something that I knew would eventually hit me, but never thought would bother me when it did. But lets be honest here, I’m kind of freaking out that in one month I’ll be turning 30.
I told a friend the other day that Jesus might as well come back. I was joking of course, but I’m not joking about my not-looking forwardness to entering my 30s. Maybe it would be different if I was a guy, but for women, turning 30 means the beginning of turning ugly. And it certainly doesn’t help that I’m still single and my ovaries are rotting away.
I’m suddenly reconsidering the nice tan that I’ve had all my life, fearing the sun’s long term effects on my skin, wondering if I should ask my parents for anti-aging wrinkle cream for my birthday. My mom has already offered a subscription to e-harmony. I passed - mainly because I have braces right now and am feeling relatively dorky and unattractive, but I also seriously hate the idea of meeting anyone through an online dating site. I’d rather post my cell# in the back window of my car and meet someone while stuck in traffic on one of LA’s freeways.
I actually met a guy on the 91 a few years ago. It was on my 28th birthday and I was on my way to the beach to go surfing - but that’s a story for another day, another time…
*Author Comment: Returning to this read this piece at age 35... that part I said about turning 30 being the beginning of turning ugly - soooooo not true! I'm claiming beautiful for every woman until the very day they step foot into eternity.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
I'm Just Pretending
A couple of years ago Donald Miller (i.e. author of Blue Like Jazz) and I were e-mailing back and forth for a bit. Concluding one of his e-mails he wrote...
>also, if you've any articles you'd like us to look at for burnside,
>let me know....later.>
>don
And I responded...
hmmm... articles? you're funny. i didn't officially become a writer until this week. i always thought my sister was the writer in our family, so it never crossed my mind that i could be one too. she was the one who was writing articles for local newspapers before she was even out of high school. and she even got paid for them.
i think she began writing her first book when she was in junior high. it was called camp caviar and she read chapters of it to us on our educational family vacation to washington d.c. my brother and i had no choice but to listen, but her writing was good so we didn't complain. my parents were just thankful that we weren't killing each other.
but sometimes on family road trips we'd pretend to hit each other and whine just to see my dad get worked up. we'd make fake slapping noises and yell, "mom, mike's hitting me. make him stop." my dad would pull the mini-van over to the side of the road, and stay there until we started behaving. we quickly behaved and he would start driving again. and the three of us would giggle quietly for having successfully fooled our parents. but then my siblings would start calling me names - like merge and other street signs they would see on the side of the road. not knowing what a merge was, i would get upset and whine to my parents for real, but my mom and dad thought it was funny, so they just laughed.
with all that said, unfortunately i don't have any articles right now, but i may in the near future....
That was the last of e-mails that Don and I exchanged. We met in person at a conference this past spring. I went up to him, held out my hand for a shake, and said, "Hey I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm Katrina Blank." He politely shook my hand, paused, and then after some deep thought responded, "You're the writer - right?"
In my family it is my sister who thinks she's the writer, me who pretends to be the writer, but it's my brother who actually is. My parents recently celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary and for it, my brother composed several anecdotes in their honor. Here's my favorite.
Riding in the back seat of my Dad's 5 speed Schwinn (I think), I remember my Dad repeating unfamiliar words. We were living in Owosso at the time (to be honest I have no memories of my 2 years in Minnesota). Most likely I was around the age of 3. The words from my father elicited a feeling of calm bliss. Though he was not speaking to me, his concentration and intent focused on something higher. I think that was the first time I heard my Dad praying in tongues. Needless to say it would not be the last time I heard him speak the ancient language.
In my twenties, one of my band mates met my father briefly. Now this band mate was very well read on all major religions. Soon after meeting Dad, my friend confessed to me how impressed he was by my father. He told that if we were in another country my dad would be widely recognized for the saint he is. My friend then went on a rant on how Western commercialism has destroyed our spiritual connection to God and that, like maybe in country like India, Dad's integrity, humbleness, and obvious love for God would be appreciated by all who met him. I thanked my friend for the words. A few months later, while hanging out on the dock after a late afternoon swim, I told Dad that story. He laughed and jokingly said, "Well, I praise the Lord I don't live in India." I responded with something like "... but Dad your love of God is so great that even the poverty of India wouldn't bother you." He paused for a second and replied, "Well, maybe you're right." ~ Michael Langdon Blank
>also, if you've any articles you'd like us to look at for burnside,
>let me know....later.>
>don
And I responded...
hmmm... articles? you're funny. i didn't officially become a writer until this week. i always thought my sister was the writer in our family, so it never crossed my mind that i could be one too. she was the one who was writing articles for local newspapers before she was even out of high school. and she even got paid for them.
i think she began writing her first book when she was in junior high. it was called camp caviar and she read chapters of it to us on our educational family vacation to washington d.c. my brother and i had no choice but to listen, but her writing was good so we didn't complain. my parents were just thankful that we weren't killing each other.
but sometimes on family road trips we'd pretend to hit each other and whine just to see my dad get worked up. we'd make fake slapping noises and yell, "mom, mike's hitting me. make him stop." my dad would pull the mini-van over to the side of the road, and stay there until we started behaving. we quickly behaved and he would start driving again. and the three of us would giggle quietly for having successfully fooled our parents. but then my siblings would start calling me names - like merge and other street signs they would see on the side of the road. not knowing what a merge was, i would get upset and whine to my parents for real, but my mom and dad thought it was funny, so they just laughed.
with all that said, unfortunately i don't have any articles right now, but i may in the near future....
That was the last of e-mails that Don and I exchanged. We met in person at a conference this past spring. I went up to him, held out my hand for a shake, and said, "Hey I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm Katrina Blank." He politely shook my hand, paused, and then after some deep thought responded, "You're the writer - right?"
_________________
In my family it is my sister who thinks she's the writer, me who pretends to be the writer, but it's my brother who actually is. My parents recently celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary and for it, my brother composed several anecdotes in their honor. Here's my favorite.
Riding in the back seat of my Dad's 5 speed Schwinn (I think), I remember my Dad repeating unfamiliar words. We were living in Owosso at the time (to be honest I have no memories of my 2 years in Minnesota). Most likely I was around the age of 3. The words from my father elicited a feeling of calm bliss. Though he was not speaking to me, his concentration and intent focused on something higher. I think that was the first time I heard my Dad praying in tongues. Needless to say it would not be the last time I heard him speak the ancient language.
In my twenties, one of my band mates met my father briefly. Now this band mate was very well read on all major religions. Soon after meeting Dad, my friend confessed to me how impressed he was by my father. He told that if we were in another country my dad would be widely recognized for the saint he is. My friend then went on a rant on how Western commercialism has destroyed our spiritual connection to God and that, like maybe in country like India, Dad's integrity, humbleness, and obvious love for God would be appreciated by all who met him. I thanked my friend for the words. A few months later, while hanging out on the dock after a late afternoon swim, I told Dad that story. He laughed and jokingly said, "Well, I praise the Lord I don't live in India." I responded with something like "... but Dad your love of God is so great that even the poverty of India wouldn't bother you." He paused for a second and replied, "Well, maybe you're right." ~ Michael Langdon Blank
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