Patience...

They were right (whoever "they" were) ... Patience is certainly a virtue. But if you've ever been knocked from your horse--in some cases, maybe more than once (wink), patience is one of the most difficult things to learn. That's just it, though! While patience is something that can be learned, it is more importantly, something that is necessary to believe in. We wouldn't be who we are today, or accomplish much of what we've already done in life if we hadn't believed in ourselves... and this is no different. By definition, [Virtue: (noun) behavior showing high moral standards] ... Therefore, it can be proven that "happy people aren't those with a certain set of circumstances; but rather people with a certain set of attitudes." - Anonymous.

"Patience," in my own mind, is a great mixture of hope and believing, atop of life's palate. And like a lot of things, it's hard to have one without the other.

A quote that goes well with the topic of patience and believing, is below... I somehow had to incorporate running into this... maybe it's because running has allowed my patience to grow... I mean, flourish!

"Racing teaches us to challenge ourselves. It teaches us to push beyond where we thought we could go. It helps us to find out what we are made of. This is what we do. This is what it's all about."

12:53

It's 12:53, and it's that time of day again. My 11 o'clock class is over with, and I'm sitting mindlessly at my computer, accomplishing next to nothing. But who could blame me!? It's that time of day where the only thing my mind wants to do, is wander. And I can't help but oblige.

I have several tasks at hand that are either due tomorrow, or sometime within the next few days. They are clearly noted in my daily planner. I'm pretty sure that I even highlighted them as well. To be clear, I'm hardly admitting to procrastination. I'm merely aware that my mind needs its down time around the hours of noon and 1 o'clock. And being that it's a Monday, I generally allow another hour or two of down time to my afternoon.

I just caught myself picking at the dry skin on my thumbs. I'm still not too sure why I still latch onto this pointless habit. I pick at the dryness until my thumbs are irritated--sometimes until blood emerges. Then, I wonder why my fingers are even bleeding, or why I even started picking at my fingers in the first place. Then, silently, I assure myself that there are far worse habits to have.

Speaking of habits, it's (supposedly) a scientifically proven fact that a habit can be made or broken over the course of 21 days. In turn, I've decided to challenge this "fact" by giving up sugar/sweets for a full 21 days. I'm eight days in, and I'm not afraid to admit that I'm going mad. I almost succumbed to a Hershey's kiss last night during "Sunday night family dinner," but I refrained. According to my calendar, I will remain abstinent until December 12th. Even though I've found myself questioning my reasoning behind taking on this 21-day challenge, I'm just going to stick to it. Who knows? Maybe it is possible to live a sugar/junk food-free life... but don't tell my grandpa that.

A Bikram Yoga Newbie

I propped the door open and walked in.  Noticing an array of shoes and sandals on the ground near the door, I followed suit and abandoned mine as well.  The first aspect of the room that came to my immediate attention was its smell.  Its raw odor filled every corner of the room.  It was distinct.  It was the stench of human sweat--that would soon be falling freely from my own body.  The lights were dim, and practically non-existent.  As I subtly acknowledged the few who were already inside the room, I calmly established my area on the firm, carpeted floor.  I then laid my maroon-colored yoga mat onto the floor, over which I gently draped a white towel.  In doing so, I noticed several humidifiers dispersed along the perimeter of the room--as if the room wasn't hot enough.  The combination of the spewing steam mixed with the room's sultry aroma kindly invited me to lie down on my back and face the ceiling.  

Not long after I laid down, the lights flickered and the room was suddenly bright.  And I'll admit... mindlessly gazing into the mirror in front of me for ninety minutes was quite odd.  It's definitely not something a whole lot of us would want to do, especially if we could avoid it... and especially not for an hour and a half.  But at the same time, examining how my own body reacted to each attempted contortion was somehow relaxing.  Instead of focusing on my appearance in the mirror, my focus was shifted (almost subconsciously) to how I felt during the various poses, breathing exercises, and energy that my body was exerting.  It was as if I was able to look past my own image, and instead, look deeper within myself and examine what I was striving to accomplish within each pose.  

Sweat takes on an entirely new meaning within Bikram yoga.  About five minutes into the session, I felt a single bead of sweat make its way down the small of my back.  I am quite aware of my body's capability to sweat profusely.  But little did I know that my body was capable of producing dense, flowing streams of moisture, that rushed down my legs faster than you can say Magic Mountain.  Before I knew it, my clothes were sopping. 

Further on into the session, I found myself in a stance known as the "warrior pose."  As my body curled over the front of my right knee and my left arm became elongated in the air above me, for some reason, I noticed my running watch on my wrist.  The presence of time hadn't occurred to me up until then.  It became apparent at this point that time itself was of no significant importance.  Rather, what was important, was the fact that I was there and that my whole being was invested in developing an ease with myself and my surroundings.  There was no need for time--only the need to be.  Throughout various events in my own life, including this very one, I've come to learn (for whatever reason) that living in the moment allows us to appreciate the outcome of noteworthy life events much more than living skeptically and pessimistically.  

On my back once more, with my arms beside me and my palms facing the ceiling, I remained still.  The final "savasana," concluded the yoga session.  "Namaste," the instructor uttered, as he made his way out of the room.  Accordingly, my fellow Yogis and I echoed back the Hindu phrase meaning "the divine in me recognizes the divine in you."  The lights flickered off, and the room was dark once again. -- Did I mention that the room's temperature was 110 degrees?  Whoops.  I suppose that small detail slipped my mind.  Sigh.      

Bungalow 411

I sit in here daily. Papers are written, and later enhanced. E-mails are recieved. To-do lists are checked off. An innumerable amount of Nature Valley granola bars are consumed. The sound of free paper traveling through the printer in the far right corner of the room echoes in one ear, and out the other. Sixteen Hewlett Packard L1908wm computer monitors line the perimeter of the small room--all of which are accompanied by blue fabricated office chairs. From what I've heard, they spin quite fast.
Silence can either be excruciating, or excruciatingly godly. When work is in need of being accomplished, catching a wave of silence in here can be as wonderful as that one dream that we all have, every so often. You know which dream I'm talking about. It's the one where you wake up in the morning, only to discover that you've won the Mega Millions Lottery, and are in the thrilling midst of relishing in all that you'd do with your winnings.

But there's always one individual who talks far too loud, and then eventually realizes that they are being incredibly disruptive of other students' attempts to be studious. They usually strut through the doorway on a phone call at full volume. Once their peripheral vision kicks in, and they allow their eyes to wander about the room, it is easy to notice their immediate awareness and modification of their voice's intensity.
Then you have the few yakking teammates who banter in with their band of cronies. On occasion, I can be found guilty of doing this. But only on occasion. I find that respect is a valuable peculiarity that is relatively hard to come by these days, and I do my best to live up to my own expectations of others. In order to concentrate in here, one must become immune to not only the variable changes in noise-levels, but to the variable changes in temperature. I can hardly get out of here without developing a severe case of the 'goosebumps.' And somehow, I have yet to develop the ability to remember a sweatshirt.
Still numb from the bungalow's arctic temperature, I continue my day... still unsure to why we call it 'the bungalow.'

Behind The Scenes

Eavesdropping is a true skill.  It may as well be an Olympic sport.  I love unknowingly walking into a room in which people are whispering, and hear just enough to discover that they are talking about me.  First and foremost, my ears attempt to delicately make contact with the intricate sound waves from around the corner.  If I hadn’t inherited a pair of the most bionic ears known to mankind, I certainly wouldn’t be writing this.  Now, for the honesty.  How do I respond?  Or rather, how should I respond?  Do I leave the premise completely, in order not to hear more?  Or do I stand behind the nearest door hinge, just far enough away to listen in on the remains of the conversation?  However, if I stand creepily behind the doorway, (much like I usually can be found doing), there is always the possibility that the conversation could abruptly end before I realize it, and I could be caught completely off guard by one of the alleged whisperers with ‘a hand in the cookie jar,’ as some may say.  

While able to comprehend the gist of the reticent conversation that was clearly not intended for my ears to hear, I can’t help but wonder if the whisperers were conspiring... Or if they were they merely secretly admiring some aspect about my poise or physical prowess.  Who knows.  Whether or not their conversation had positive or negative intentions, their discretion to congregate around the kitchen sink and gossip profusely about a clogged toilet was just ridiculous enough to steal a quick chuckle out of the situation.  But to be honest, who has time to waste standing over a kitchen sink, distraught over the mundaneness of a clogged toilet?  And furthermore, why would anybody get caught up in a tizzy over a hall bathroom, when the pipes in their master bathroom are running like clockwork?  I suppose some peoples’ days may not be as exciting or fulfilling as mine tend to be.  Or maybe it’s that they find creating unnecessary tension, enjoyable.  Whatever the explanation, I will forever continue to be the creep who has the tendency to eavesdrop. There, I admitted it.  Enough said.