For me, the year is split up into four different “seasons.”

Fall is running.
Winter is gym.
Spring is walking.
Summer is hiking.

When it comes to exercise, these are my natural inclinations – during that particular season, the corresponding activity just feels RIGHT. They’re not mutually exclusive – I’ll still go on walks in the fall, or to the gym in the summer, or hike in the spring – but by and large, the weather and the air dictate my workout, and this spring, I’ve found myself a 9-mile walking loop.

I start at home, and head south through the Sunnyside and Highlands neighborhoods until I hit Lohi. Then, I cross the pedestrian bridge to downtown, and wind down Platte Street past REI. With the rollercoasters of Elitch Gardens off to my left, I walk underneath the Speer Bridge and past the Denver Aquarium, cross back over I-25, and through Jefferson Park. It’s a mile to Sloan’s Lake, which I circle, and then make the long trek north back to the house where I drink a gigantic glass of water.

Last night, my friend and former co-worker Anna joined me on this walk. If you know Anna, you know that she is something special: kind and generous and authentic, an insanely hard worker, and uniquely talented. Also, if you know Anna, you know that she will probably be embarrassed that I wrote those things.

Sorry, Anna. I would say you’re lame, but that would be a lie – and I’d rather go to heaven.

Anyway, Anna has been in Denver since last September, and has done such an amazing job of embracing this current season of life. She, like many of us, finds herself in some unexpected circumstances – but has marched forward and done the things that feel right – for right now. Her current season is helping to determine the direction that she goes, and she is rolling through with such grace and aplomb. For a girl like me – often hell-bent on bulldozing my own path, come hell or high water, with nothing but The Future in mind – it’s so inspiring to see Anna live in the moment, enjoy the simple things, and take each day as it comes.

There are seasons to life, and adaptation is key. Like my exercise-of-choice, different seasons call for different routines, different practices, different processes. Little by little, and with friends like Anna, I’m learning to embrace my current season, shelving my expectations for the future, and experiencing the Now.

Except I’m really excited that it’s almost hiking season. You understand.

[Quote by Gabrielle Blair. Who made it into art? I don't know, because sometimes Pinterest fails us. If this is your picture, let me know so I can credit you (and tell you that you're great).]

When I moved to Denver a year ago, it was on an open-ended basis – I moved to be close to my family as my mom underwent cancer treatment, but had no idea what the future would hold. I decided to live it up and soak in every bit of Colorado that I could, since I didn’t know how long I would be here. I ran hundreds of miles all over the city, and went to concerts, and climbed mountains, and got involved in a church, and made some friends, and felt grateful every single day to work for a company that made it possible for me to live close to my family during this time.

And now, it’s been a year, Mom is doing awesome (cue the confetti, for real), and nothing is “officially” holding me here in Colorado.

But I’m going to stay anyway.

I’m going to staaaaaayy exclamation point!

I’m going to dig in here, and see what Denver might have to offer me, and what I might have to offer it. I’m going to move forward into the unknown, even when it’s tempting to go back to what’s familiar and comfortable.

Because trust me, both Nashville and Seattle are tempting, wonderful, good options. I have people who love me, and people that I love, and opportunities and connections and community and a heart that bursts at the thought of any number of amazing memories. I wonder if I’m crazy to make a life for myself in yet another city, when I already have ready-made lives in other states.  In a way, it’s scary to think that I’m deciding against these wonderful places that I love so much, because, as Tom Petty says, “Well, the good ol’ days may not return / And the rocks might melt, and the sea may burn.”

But, you know – I’m learning to fly.

And I can honestly, wholeheartedly say that I love my job, I love the mountains, I love my family, and I love a good adventure. Why NOT stay?

This is a good decision.

But friends?  Please come visit me.

Well, what can I say. There you are, chugging up the hill, successfully pulling the heavy load – and then in one brief moment, the balance shifts, and the load is pulling you.

Life is a cosmic tug of war.

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So, tug.

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Laughing Cow now makes blue cheese wedges.

If you don’t like blue cheese, you won’t like them. Then again, if you don’t like blue cheese, it’s time to accept the fact that you just don’t have good taste. Then AGAIN again, Laughing Cow is made of “cheese product” – so why do I admit to loving it anyway?

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Tug.

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Do you know Holly and Meagan? If you don’t, you should. I (finally) met them in person on Sunday night, and they are the deep sigh of relief you breathe when you realize your soul is safe.

It’s a rare thing for me to fall head-over-heels in love with people so instantly. We’re already scheming ways to see each other again.

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Tug.

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I am not in control – even when I think I am, I’m not.  I cannot force the world to spin a certain way, nor can I force anyone else to act or think or feel any way other than the way they are going to act or think or feel.

But I always have a choice for me.

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Tug.

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“Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

- Christopher Robin to Pooh

September 2008:

January 2010:

My ponytail is making a spectacular comeback.  It’s almost a full-blown mane of glory.

Also, please take a moment to note the difference in my work environments.  Thank you, Emma, for saving me from Sir Allen Stanford.

Hearken back to Monday’s post.  What was meant to be a shoulder shrug, a lark, a lighthearted jab at my pal Andy, actually sparked quite the response.  While I got a lot of “You go, girl!” comments from women, I have been much more impacted by what I have heard from the men – whether in comment, email, or response via their own blog post.  And while there is no way that I will be able to say everything that there is to say today (yeah, or ever), here is what has been rattling around in my brain this week.

If there is anything that I want to be, it is humble – humble, and teachable.  So THANK YOU to the brave dudes (especially Joey – the catalyst for many of these thoughts today) who had the guts – spine – balls – to challenge my thinking.

Which brings me to my first point: it was wrong of me to emasculate men – denying them of the very thing that makes them male (um… balls… sheesh, I can’t wait to see what keywords bring people to this post) – for not being able to communicate in the way that most women would like them to.  I am not a man-hater – I LOVE men! – and in no way desire to make eunuchs out of a bunch of surely well-meaning guys.  I’m sorry for sounding – snip, snip – harsh and judgmental.

Here’s the deal: in an ideal world, men would communicate clearly.  In an ideal world, women would communicate clearly.  In an ideal world, both sexes would have eyes to see and ears to hear the other person loud and clear.

That is obviously not the world that we live in – due to culture and socialization and upbringing and experiences.  So things get a little bit muddy, a little bit complicated, and sometimes, a little bit… hostile.  Men aren’t up front with their feelings.  Women send mixed signals – a “come hither” straight into a stiff arm.  One person doesn’t know who he is, the other doesn’t know what she wants – or vice versa.  Television only adds to the confusion, portraying men as bumbling idiots, and women as capable-yet-snarky ice queens (think “Everybody Loves Raymond,” or “Home Improvement”).

Who are we?  Who should we be?  Men and women alike are confuzzled.

I so wish that was a real word.

When it comes to love, we’ve all been hurt.  We’ve all been disappointed.  We’ve all got skeletons in the closet, and wounds that haven’t quite healed.  And for as much as we want them, it’s easy to make the opposite sex into the “enemy.”  I have my own stories – things that have happened that have made me a bit gun-shy when it comes to putting myself out there – and when I think of these disgraces, even years later, I still want to bury my head in the sand.

I think it’s safe to say that on a very fundamental level, women want to feel “worth it” to a guy – worth the risk, worth whatever it takes.  But hello – this is 2009.  A man can’t exactly prove his devotion by riding into battle with her hanky in his pocket.  So some of us feel like the least he could do is say, “Hey, you seem great.  I’d love to take you out sometime?”

Then again, the feminist movement sort of threw a wrench in that plan.  We women-folk sure asserted our independence, didn’t we?  Dang it.  We’ve stabbed ourselves in the back.  But that’s another post entirely…

Bottom line: I am backing off from the stance I took on Monday, however playfully I meant it when I first wrote it.  I don’t expect for a guy to take the reins, run the show, ask me out, sweep me off my feet, order me the lamb chop at some swanky restaurant while I sit mute and adoring.  Can you imagine?  Me?  Being conquered?  I do hope for a partnership, with honest and frank communication, equal parts respect and affection – and prior to a relationship, I think that means that both parties are going to need to communicate our interest in whatever way makes sense.

Sigh.  This just zapped every ounce of brain power I possess.

We all just want to matter to someone.

I wish it was easy.  And I hope that one day, it will be.

I would love to continue the conversation started yesterday, and unpack the question, “Why do some women have the expectation that men should be the initiators?” (I don’t use the word “pursue” – to me, it connotes primal images of a hunter, ear to the ground, tracking a herd of elk.) I would love to talk about any double-standards that brings up. I would love to tell you why I have made the decision to not ask guys out. I would love to explain that I am not a man-hater, man-basher, cynic, OR idealist.

But that post is for another day. Today, I bring to you another subject that I, um, don’t really expect men to resonate with, either…

Yesterday, I threw away my scale.

Just like that. Trashed. Into the dumpster.

I am a compulsive weight-checker, always keeping tabs on my poundage, and consequently tempted to feel either good or bad, happy or sad, proud or ashamed, jubilant or angry. It’s amazing how a great day can be ruined by a number – a NUMBER – like an ever-shifting scorecard for whatever level of healthful diligence I have demonstrated.

In the last few months, I’ve found myself increasingly frustrated at the number on the scale RISING – despite my ability to run further than I could ever run before, despite my capacity to carry on a conversation throughout a 60 minute jog, despite my clothes fitting the same, despite my energy and improved attitude. In the face of all of these accomplishments, the scale says that I weigh 10 lbs. more than I did before I started running last fall.

And for a girl who has been a dieter since age 11, this is traumatizing news.

Miranda has been telling me for years to just throw the damn thing out. She would get outwardly angry when she would see it in the corner of my bathroom, and, knowing the emotional stranglehold the scale has on me, would order me to get rid of it. But for me, to get rid of the scale would be to give up control – and then, maybe, to expand, expand, expand like bread dough.

At first, I thought that I would just take the scale and stash it beneath my bathroom sink – out of sight, out of mind, right? Wrong. For me, keeping my scale would be like staying friends with an ex-boyfriend on Facebook – an unhelpful temptation “just to check.” Sorry boys.

And sorry scale.

It’s time for a new chapter in my life – one in which I have no idea what I weigh.

Who knew that tossing out my scale would be one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done?

When I moved to Nashville, I had two goals: to play at the Bluebird Café, and to run a half-marathon. Let me say it again: SQUEEEEEEE! But the running thing is still… how should I say… in process.

I hate to run. The other night, I tried to go running, but called it quits after a mile and a half. I am not “Chariots of Fire” material; however, should they ever make a movie called “Lazy Lass,” I will be the leading lady. I think that God created me with the spiritual gift of lying in bed watching “Oprah” and drinking wine – it’s in my genes. Every ounce of energy that I expend is a battle – one that I am willing to fight, but not something that comes easily.

But my friend Hunter tells me that anyone can be a runner.

A few weeks ago, I heard about a running group that meets on Wednesday evenings in East Nashville, and runs a 3-4 mile route. That’s farther than I’m used to running, but thinking that I might find more motivation by joining a pack of people than doing it on my own, I showed up last night.

The route was 4.32 miles. I need to say it: GOOD LORD. I had never run that far in my life. But when I looked at the clock, and then did the math, I realized that I was going to HAVE to run the entire thing – no walking, no resting – because I had the Handy Graham coming over at 7:30. And if I was going to make it home in time, I had to RUN.

As one who doesn’t have many opportunities to “achieve” or “accomplish” in her everyday work-life, it was a HUGE satisfaction to run, and finish, and do something that I didn’t think I could do. I ran – I ran slowly, but I ran. I was home in time. And I felt proud.

By the way, if you live in Nashville, hire Handy Graham. He’s great. AND, he was voted “Best Handyman” in the Nashville Scene – see? I know. I have impressive friends.

Plastic bags
I have a confession: I’ve forgotten my canvas bag TWICE. Both times, I slunk out of Harris Teeter (oh yeah, did I tell you that the grocery here is called Harris Teeter? Ironically, it was the site of this smudge on my dignity), stealthily surveying the parking lot for any blog readers who might catch me with the plastic bag contraband in my hands. Once safe in my car, I leaned my head against the steering wheel, counted my lucky stars, and then prayed that God would heal the earth of global warming.

Otherwise, it’s steady on with my mission to save the planet.

The weather
Oh my word. I am in heaven. I am Miss Congeniality. I am Maria Von Trapp. I am a Disney princess whose hair is braided every morning by cartoon birds. October has always been my favorite month, and I am happy to report that there is no geographic chauvinism involved when it comes to autumn: October comes through in Nashville just as it comes through in Seattle. Praise be.

Dan Evans
What can I say? The man is totally redeeming his name!

After contacting him via MySpace with a quick note saying, “Hey, I’m the girl whose TINY car was clobbered by your GIGANTIC bus,” I received the sweetest, most apologetic message in response. He graciously offered to cover any damage, and even had some very kind words about my songs. I wrote him back saying, “It ain’t no thang,” asked for a free CD, and said that when he’s back in Nashville we’ll go for a beer.

And so, in about two weeks, we will be real-life friends.

Thus ends any Dan Evans smack-talk. I won’t have it. He’s won me over!

This weekend
This afternoon, I am rushing off to fly to Kansas City for the weekend. I have 3 Southwest drink tickets, and will be sharing with two friends of mine who are booked on the same flight. I will probably not have the chance to blog tomorrow, since the three of us will be otherwise occupied doing something that is currently non-bloggable. But should a day come when it IS bloggable: oh sweet mercy, it’s going to be good.

But maybe… just maybe… tune in over the weekend. I’m hanging out with my nephews, which typically instigates some sort of hilarity.

I woke up late again. Therefore, it is a “lick my palms and smooth my hair in my reflection in the microwave door” kind of morning. I suspect that whenever I think back and remember working an 8-5 desk job in Nashville, the words “not” and “cute” will be associated with my appearance. It’s just too early.

I’m taking a wee break from playing writer’s nights in order to work on my guitar skills. Being self-taught up to this point, I decided that lessons would be a worthy investment, so I had my first guitar lesson last night. I had visions of walking in, telling my teacher exactly what I wanted to learn, and walking out Slash – but of course, it doesn’t work that way. I have been doing music long enough to know that you have to start with the basics in order to have the capacity to improvise or extemporize or appear effortlessly versatile – and never having gotten the basics in the beginning, I have a lot of back-tracking to do.

But mixed in with the C-scales and proper posture and music theory, there is a bright and shining light. At some point in the hopefully not-too-distant future, I will be flawlessly playing the opening lick to “Pretty Woman.”

Can you say party trick?

I spent two hours practicing last night, reminded of the hopeful, burgeoning feeling that used to occur for me at the beginning of each school year. A fresh start! A new resolve! The possibilities! I’m going to master this! Nothing can stop me! I am disciplined! I am capable! “This is my nooooooow…!”

I wish that I could bottle that feeling. Eventually, it always fades, and I fall back into the darkness of passivity and lethargy. It’s why I have never yet run a half-marathon – a long-time goal of mine – it just seems too hard. Too far. Too much. I honestly do not believe that I can do it.

Which is why I have to do it.

Consider this my formal announcement that on April 25, 2009, I will be running the Country Music Half-Marathon. If I say it on the blog, then I have to do it, right? And this gives me plenty of time to, you know, become a runner.

And hopefully before that, a “Pretty Woman” guitar player.

I said that I moved to Nashville to learn. So last night, in light of yesterday’s lament, I steered my little Honda toward 3rd & Lindsley to listen to music and see who I might meet. It’s always intimidating to walk into a bar alone, but as long as you have good posture, no one questions you.

I met several writers and musicians who have been here 10, 20, 30 times longer than I have. And through meandering conversation with each of them, I took away these gems:

• When it comes to creativity, there is no such thing as a dry spell. The dull, uneventful, uninspiring times are always the preparation and the cultivation of something good. In other words, get ready.
• Write when you feel like it. Write when you don’t.
• In what is becoming a resounding lesson and theme for my life, “you never really arrive.” Any goal that I set for myself will eventually be met – and then there will just be another goal beyond that. Learn to see the creative process not as a destination, but as a journey.
• Don’t be surprised if the road you’re on leads you somewhere entirely other than where you think you’re headed.
• Some people wait years before getting out there and “doing it.” Having written what I’ve written, recorded what I’ve recorded, met who I’ve met, played where I’ve played, and experienced what I’ve experienced, in a lot of ways I am ahead of the curve. Who knew?
• When faced with a blank mind and no good ideas, read. Absorb. Learn. And having read 4 books in the last 2 weeks, I AM TOTALLY DOING SOMETHING RIGHT!

I also met a woman who teaches guitar lessons, which is exciting since I have definitely reached a plateau in my skills – if we can even call them “skills.” I met another woman from Seattle – I could have kissed her on the lips. And I was once again reminded that Nashville musicians are some of the nicest people in the entire world. It’s good that I’m here.

And just like that, Annie pulled herself up by her bootstraps. Talk about emotional whiplash. I haven’t been doing this – this pursuing a dream come hell or high-water – long enough to know the patterns, the rhythms, the tricks, the necessary tenacity. But I’m a work in progress… as well as a persnickety nut case.

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One last thing: I was told to diversify the music that I am listening to. Sometimes it’s helpful to immerse yourself in the craft that you want to learn, but there comes a point where you need to get OUT. In the past, you, my loyal blog readers, have provided me with some awesome music suggestions; Michelle who suggested Obadiah Parker’s cover of “Hey Ya,” you are my Person of the Year. People, I need your help again.

Please let me know a song or two that you think I need to hear. Criteria: 1) it must have a good melody, 2) it must have great words, and 3) it must make you feel something. I’m counting on you, Guilford, CT. And you, Frisco, TX. And you, Cherry Hill, NJ. And even you, Yukon Territory. Make me proud.