Stina's Trip » North Carolina

Running through the void

admin — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 01:17:37 +0000

(Note: I wrote this hot off a breakup. I feel like, perhaps, it would be wiser and at least more political in this small town, to keep it to myself. But, oh well, here we go.)

I know it’s not attractive for someone to admit his or her hunger, but I’m not going to whitewash the fog of loneliness I was in Friday night. All I wanted to do was break through it. For some people, I think camping or heavy drinking or adopting a kitten is the attempted solution, but for me running has nearly always been the best thing. I’ve been doing it since I was 9, and nothing gives me a sense of accomplishment and perspective like a good run does.

I went online and found that the Rhododendron 10K (6.2 miles) was slated for the next day in Bakersville. Never mind that it was more than 90 minutes away and started at 8:30 a.m and that I hadn’t run more than 3 miles in a shot in the last three years. It sounded perfect.

The next morning, I escaped my Waynesville reality around 6 a.m. and headed east, then north, following winding back roads, thick with trees. Even while only driving and listening to terribly addictive pop music, I already felt accomplished, having stepped off the grid of my own patterns and expectations, and heading toward something that felt right. Growing up, running was a huge part of my life, and my father and I would run together five days a week, pretty much without fail. We also did somewhere around 20 or so races, from 5 milers to half marathons. When I moved away from home, however, my running became spotty, and my speed (which was never much to shout home about, anyway), went downhill.

The Rhododendron Run was going to be my first race in six years.

By the time I arrived in Bakersville, a tiny place by the Tennessee border, I was feeling blindly confident. I chatted happily with the folks at the check-in and walked around the starting line area as I soaked in the pre-race excitement and jitters. In the midst of all the people stretching and generally psyching themselves up, I met a nice man, originally from Liberia, who was about to watch the race with his three little children. His wife, he explained, was running. We talked for a couple of minutes, and as I left, he told me they’d cheer for me too.

Shortly after, I was one of about 100 people lining up, listening to the race master’s instructions and bowing their heads for a prayer. A bullhorn sounded, and we were off.

Breathing heavily and trying like crazy not to tucker myself out prematurely, I smiled as I realized that I’d forgotten how humbling it is to have a flood of racers pass you. That day, the group included a boy who looked around 9 and a hunched-over woman who must have been in her late 70s. Try as I might, I never could catch her.

As I ran, a strange new reality settled into me. I realized that I had gone from being a slow runner to being an extremely slow runner. I’m used to doing about 10-minute miles, but my first mile was just shy of 12 minutes, and none of the following ones were any better. Often, I could pretend I was running the race, which circled through the small town and its surrounding hills, alone, as there were only three or four people chugging along behind me. When I did encounter other souls, such as the extremely friendly volunteers handing out water and giving times, they were unfailingly supportive. I even had fellow runners cheering me on as they ran past after reaching the turn-around point. I must have looked in a bad way, because they kept telling me that I was doing really well and that I shouldn’t give up.

What they didn’t know was that there was no way I was letting this race get the best of me. I was going to cross that finish line — having not walked a step — no matter how long it took.

Though I never became faster, the race did get easier toward the end. After five miles, I was feeling upbeat, actually, and even fancied trying to catch up with some of the runners in front of me. I managed to stave off the guy behind me, as every time I heard the sound of his snot rockets being expelled and his shoes hitting the pavement, my pride made me pick up speed. This little game kept me distracted until finally I was at the 6-mile marker.

A few seconds later, I saw that friendly man from earlier with his young family. They had waited long after his wife had finished to root for me.

It was right about then, with less than a quarter of a mile to go, that I broke down and cried. I was still moving forward, gulping for air, and tears were trickling down my face. I think it was due to that man’s surprising support, but also because I was amazed that I was about to finish something that I realized was so important to me. I’m sure the loneliness had something to do with it, too. I was overtaken with conflicting emotion — so much so that I missed the final turn toward the finish line.

Within a few minutes, I reached the end of a blocked-off road, where an old man stood directing traffic. I asked him where the finish was, but he couldn’t hear me. I started crying harder and he just stood there, smiling awkwardly and not knowing what to do. I ran around in circles for a moment and finally flagged down someone who had long-since finished the race. She directed me to the end, and suddenly I started running faster than I had in the last hour and 15 minutes. Finally, I felt free to give it my all. With what must have looked like a great gust of aggression, I sprinted past a running woman who was probably 30 feet from the end. Gasping and dry heaving, I pushed myself across the finish. I then promptly puked and crumpled to the ground. I hadn’t felt that vulnerable or that powerful in a long time.

A few hours after, I found myself at nearby Roan Mountain State Park, with its famous rhododendron gardens. As I perused the thousands of flowers, it began to rain heavily. It was one of those unrelenting, cinematic downpours, and as I ran the half mile or so back to my car, I became completely soaked. Strangely, perfectly, I felt like I was being baptized. I felt no hint of the loneliness I had started my day with, though I knew it would come back, as loneliness loves to do.

I was in such a moment of euphoria that I even saw the beauty in being lonesome, as I knew that was what had brought me out to run that day. I sat still in my car for a few minutes and tried to hold on to that clarity. I still am.

North Carolina and her girlish charms

admin — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 00:10:21 +0000

(WAYNESVILLE, NC) — The longer I stay in Western North Carolina, the more its beauty tries to seduce me. Its small, country roads bat their eyelashes at me, and those pristine, babbling streams give me a come-hither look. On my ride to work, I see pastures and cornfields and lush mountainsides licked with fog. Constantly, I am lulled into a major sense of awe and a minor feeling of security.

It’s almost enough to make me forget that I’m pissed.

Of course, this isn’t a constant feeling. My anger hides in the back of my mind and waits until I see a Confederate flag or the newest lineup of terrible, popular movies at the local theater to spring into action. Then, the floodgates open. I retreat into my head. Maybe I call my dad or a friend. If I’m in the car, I turn up my music, sing along and pretend I’m somewhere else. The other day, this very feeling prompted me to buy a bumper sticker that reads “What Would Morrissey Do?” Even if I don’t say a word, in my mind I am complaining and complaining and complaining. In these moments, I do believe that I am an asshole.

I tell you all this because I’m trying to change it. People here are friendly and warm, and they deserve better. I can say my discontent is due to my low pay or my lack of understanding of the genteel South that surrounds me. But that might just be crap. I think I’m still simply having a hard time settling into normal life. I miss my trip. I miss being outside of everyday culture and being able to leave a town whenever I want. I know this sounds like complaining, and I sincerely invite anyone who wants to slap some sense into me to do just that. But my goal here is not to complain. I swear. It’s to ask a question.

How am I going to make my life work? How does anybody?

I want to commit to whatever that answer is. If it means staying here a long while, settling into the down-home atmosphere and writing stuff for the paper I can be proud of, OK. If it means going back to California and waiting tables until I figure out who I want to be, bring it on. If I let go of my fear and worry, I can actually get excited for a moment. Something is going to change soon. It has to. And it has to be new and invigorating enough to get my attention.

For now, here are some pictures of Austin, ones I took months ago. Maybe it seems random, but for some reason the segue works in my head. This is my favorite street in the city, a wooded, residential lane that runs parallel to South Congress Avenue. Even on the days I was terrible at my job, the beauty of this little area always woke me up. This street somehow made me feel like an artist.

OK, time once again to remind myself of the possibility in the world.

Can’t go over it, can’t go under it, must go through it

admin — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 00:34:20 +0000

(WAYNESVILLE, NC) — Is anyone still out there? I hope so. God, I feel pretty low about not writing in so long. I just feel like I haven’t had anything good to say. I’ve fallen into a bit of a holding pattern, and no one wants to hear about that. It’s like someone forcing pictures of his or her grandbabies on unreceptive friends. What makes it complicated is that I really I like the people I work with, and I have an editor who believes in me. I am a somebody in this small, mountain town, and I feel that most folks around me are open and friendly. Sure, this is an all-American, conservative area with not a lot of young singletons, but I do feel embraced to a point, and that feels good. Doesn’t it always, though?

It also helps that this area is pretty. The scenery isn’t gorgeous but is easy-on-the-eyes and approachable. When I drive around the county’s winding back roads, which I love, I’m always struck with how the kudzu vines blanket everything here. They cover tall trees and bushes and fences, making them all look like amorphous topiaries. I marvel at that.

If only I weren’t spectacularly unhappy.

I don’t blame anyone but me. I just have inserted myself into a job that doesn’t pay my bills at all, but that I love certain aspects of. I know this is the common story, but I haven’t had to do normal in so long that part of me is kicking and screaming here. I don’t know how you slay this dragon, but it’s not by hiding, and that is what I have done for the last few months. I know there is only so much beer I can drink, Netflix I can watch and friends I can call before I finally settle into what I can’t avoid:

I have to solve my own life. What a tall order.

It’s funny, though, because at least my recent downer has snapped awake a certain part of me. I do appreciate that. It reminds me of what I want. Even more than the teddy bear-like husband, the little plot of land somewhere in the desert and the kiddos, I want myself. I want to feel this completely and come out better on the other side. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I really don’t care what I do for a living or where I do it, just as long as I’m happy. I know this sounds massively unoriginal, but it somehow feels new to me, and I’m tingling with knowledge that’s eternal but seems strangely fresh. I can do anything. The only caveat is that I have to feel alive while doing it.

Man, if only these life lessons weren’t as painful as they are cathartic.

One year

admin — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 02:56:01 +0000

(WAYNESVILLE, N.C.) — Oh my God. It has been a year. I don’t know what to write, not at all. But I just want to mark tonight as special, because it is. I left Moab, Utah on my trip one year ago today.

I’ve spent half an hour writing and deleting words here, which tells me I don’t really have any right now. I guess that’s fine. I will soon, surely, and I’ll fill up this blog once again with recollections of that year and stories of my new life. The only thing I need to say now is simple, anyway.

I am so happy I took that trip.

End of the line, start of a new one

admin — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 02:55:46 +0000

(NOTE: I am sorry to everyone who reads this blog that I simply dropped off away for so many months. I was stuck in some sort of quagmire that was Austin, and I was too embarrassed or perhaps too lazy to work it out in words. In case you’re curious, in case you’d like to know more about me and my trip, I am going to spend the next few months re-creating the last little bit of it. Please stay tuned for more stories as well as some pictures. And thanks. )

(WAYNESVILLE, N.C.) — Last weekend, as I sat in an artsy movie theater in Asheville, I had this random thought that actually scared me for a split second. Perhaps it was due to my sleepiness, or maybe it was that beer I was drinking, but I imagined waking up one morning and being right back in Austin. I felt an immediate sense of loss.

Right now, I honestly can’t tell you what feels more like a dream, the fact that I live in North Carolina or that I lived in Austin for five months. They both seem equally improbable and foreign to me. I think I know what suits me better, though. It’s here.

OK, let me explain. I am now a writer and photographer at The Mountaineer, a thrice-weekly newspaper in the small town of Waynesville, one of the many little places tucked into North Carolina’s swath of the Smoky Mountains. I’ve officially been on the job three weeks, and it already feels like my life. For the first time in so long, I feel like digging my heels into what’s around me. I want to do everything here. I want to hike and explore and take photos and do long drives on the Blue Ridge Parkway. I want to learn to do my job well. Of course I’m still thinking peripherally about my next big adventure — New Zealand is always my favorite fantasy — but I don’t feel a need to leave this place any time soon.

I haven’t felt that in so long.

If this all sounds random and sudden, that’s because it is. Two months ago, I was still deep in Magnolia Land, and I was still coming to work every day at that restaurant without any real dream for my future. Most everyone there was so generous with me, and I loved the human interaction and the money. I was so lucky to have that job, but I always felt like it wasn’t my real life. That’s why I was able to volunteer for so many doubles and extra shifts, because no matter what happened, that person who was so desperately trying to do that job well wasn’t really me. That person was the part of me that wants to apologize for everything. That person knew that she was not in her element, and I think everyone around me knew it too, though most at Magnolia were unfailingly nice about it. I tried really hard, I promise, and I think I did get better at the end. But I’ll tell you, the mixture of trying to be socially adept, confident and coordinated for eight to nine hours a shift very often kicked my ass.

All of this is why, when I stumbled upon the listing for this job in Waynesville, I went for it. I had actually flown out here to try out for a job once, back when I was 23 and in another life. I didn’t get the job then, which of course was perfect in its own way. But the editor remembered me, and this time, when I showed her my clips and references, she chose me. I still can’t really believe it.

Now I’m doing a job I want and know, and so I care so much that everything feels difficult. I spent most of the other day writing and re-writing the first few sentences of an 800-word article about a man and his gluten-free business. It was so painful and frustrating that I felt practically worthless during the process. But then I broke through something, and the story took shape, and I remembered how damn lucky I am to be here.

This is my first job in a year-and-a-half with strict hours and expectations. Part of me wants to run away, but the bigger part of me wants to embrace it. I guess, in all practical ways, this means my trip is over. I think that’s why I have been putting off writing this posting for so long. I didn’t really want to internalize that. Even writing it now feels like the death of something small and precious. At the same time, I am yearning for the this life. I want the structure. I want the difficulty and the pressure. I want to have to perform. Tame me, please, I find myself thinking.

I kind of feel like screaming. I also feel like I’m exactly where I should be.