on Saturday. The entire thing was on the beach. Literally. It was fun. It took a very. long. time. 26.2 miles is a long way. I will do another one. Probably.
The thing is, running on the sand uses muscles you never knew you had, and whoa did that hurt. The first thing I said, to everyone's amusement, was, "That was hard." I have been known to say clever, witty things every so often, and you'd have thought that running for as many hours as I did, not to mention all the months I spent training and knowing that at one point I would cross the finish line, I could have come up with something more quotable.
I've decided that all the things people say about marathons are true. At some point it stops being physical and becomes mental. Positive thinking is everything. You can transcend physical pain and exhaustion and do the improbable—it just takes lots and lots of built-up willpower.
It doesn't hurt that at the end, I got a free mango orange smoothie and a nice, warm bath. And this time, I had an entourage of five people to cheer for me when I crossed the finish line! Thanks, family. You're wonderful. :)
Monday, February 28, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The Five Thousand Year Leap, by W. Cleon Skousen
I can't remember what I was reading—some sort of political commentary—that recommended this book. It has been sitting on my nightstand for several months, and I finally made it a priority. This, as with previous book reviews I have posted on this blog, is less a book review than a disorganized and arbitrary expression of thoughts that have occurred to me as a result of reading the book.
The political climate of today, as in most previous days, is turbulent. Most people I know are uncomfortable and/or unwilling to discuss political issues. I don't necessarily fault them for that, but I do find it lamentable. I wish we could engage in open and friendly discussion of what is best for our nation, and that the dialogue could be based on reason rather than juvenile name-calling and finger-pointing. It seems to me that too many people are confused by the words tolerance and agreement and can't really seem to emotionally distinguish the two.
I myself am not exactly sure where I fall in the mess of political opinion. There are several people whose opinions and judgment in general I trust implicitly but whose political views I find myself continually reluctant to espouse. I've made a concerted effort over the past several years to become informed, and to avoid jumping to ignorant and simplistic conclusions based on brief and shoddy news coverage. I attended a political rally just to see what it was all about.
After reading Skousen's work, I decided that my loyalty is to the Constitution. I was under the impression that the validity of the Constitution is under attack. Then I began my daily reading one of the online newspapers I subscribe to, and the very first article I came across rendered my decision obsolete, because everyone has his/her own definition of what the Constitution actually says, and I am not really seeing the proponents of either sides of controversial issues claiming that the Constitution has lost its value and authority. Just about everyone would, if asked, claim loyalty to the Constitution. Or maybe they wouldn't.
Regardless of all that, I do know that if we are ignorant of the political issues that surround us (and it seems to me we are generally heading in a direction to become less so), we are destined to be ruled by a less than savory government.
By examining the thinkers and writers who influenced the Founding Fathers, Skousen attempts to re-clarify many misunderstood or misrepresented ideas and principles set forth in the Constitution. I wouldn't say, like Glenn Beck has (by the way, I have neutral thoughts about Glenn Beck; I neither like nor dislike him), that every American citizen should read this particular book, but every American citizen should, somehow, become knowledgeable about the creation and history of the American government.
One person's take, no matter how well-researched and unmotivated by political agenda, is not enough to be content with. Therefore, I will be reading more. Me, read? What a novel concept.
And finally, I firmly believe that a nation of people who do not, individually and collectively, take responsibility for themselves and their families is never going to have a healthy political scene.
So let's all be responsible, okay?
The political climate of today, as in most previous days, is turbulent. Most people I know are uncomfortable and/or unwilling to discuss political issues. I don't necessarily fault them for that, but I do find it lamentable. I wish we could engage in open and friendly discussion of what is best for our nation, and that the dialogue could be based on reason rather than juvenile name-calling and finger-pointing. It seems to me that too many people are confused by the words tolerance and agreement and can't really seem to emotionally distinguish the two.
I myself am not exactly sure where I fall in the mess of political opinion. There are several people whose opinions and judgment in general I trust implicitly but whose political views I find myself continually reluctant to espouse. I've made a concerted effort over the past several years to become informed, and to avoid jumping to ignorant and simplistic conclusions based on brief and shoddy news coverage. I attended a political rally just to see what it was all about.
After reading Skousen's work, I decided that my loyalty is to the Constitution. I was under the impression that the validity of the Constitution is under attack. Then I began my daily reading one of the online newspapers I subscribe to, and the very first article I came across rendered my decision obsolete, because everyone has his/her own definition of what the Constitution actually says, and I am not really seeing the proponents of either sides of controversial issues claiming that the Constitution has lost its value and authority. Just about everyone would, if asked, claim loyalty to the Constitution. Or maybe they wouldn't.
Regardless of all that, I do know that if we are ignorant of the political issues that surround us (and it seems to me we are generally heading in a direction to become less so), we are destined to be ruled by a less than savory government.
By examining the thinkers and writers who influenced the Founding Fathers, Skousen attempts to re-clarify many misunderstood or misrepresented ideas and principles set forth in the Constitution. I wouldn't say, like Glenn Beck has (by the way, I have neutral thoughts about Glenn Beck; I neither like nor dislike him), that every American citizen should read this particular book, but every American citizen should, somehow, become knowledgeable about the creation and history of the American government.
One person's take, no matter how well-researched and unmotivated by political agenda, is not enough to be content with. Therefore, I will be reading more. Me, read? What a novel concept.
And finally, I firmly believe that a nation of people who do not, individually and collectively, take responsibility for themselves and their families is never going to have a healthy political scene.
So let's all be responsible, okay?
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Can You Hear It?
It is a fact that my nephews are the cutest and smartest little boys on the planet. This has been proven.
Anyway, my sister-in-law was telling me about a book that she read to the oldest nephew (he's four). She forgot the title of it and had to go back and look it up, but it is called Can You Hear It? and is published by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I had the local library system send it to me, and it is so great!
This book is arranged around thirteen pieces of classical music that come on a CD inserted in the front cover of the book; the text is questions and prompts about the music and the accompanying art prints. It is didactic in nature, designed to invite small children to listen carefully to the music and make connections between music and art.
Generally, books like this get on my nerves—I mean the ones that are specifically designed to be used as a lesson. Not only are they usually inane and patronizing, they are also badly written and boring.
Not so with Can You Hear It? The music choices were both sophisticated and kid-friendly, and the art was, well, from the Met. I wasn't overly impressed with the Met when I was actually there, with the exception of the Modern exhibit (I really like Marc Chagall!), but it must have been because I was tired from sleeping in a crooked bed and walking all over Manhattan in the snow. That, and I had some lingering annoyance from the pigeons who kept trying to steal my hot dog on the steps of the museum.
All that aside, the art was good. Much like the music, it was sophisticated but still accessible to children.
Some people have expressed the opinion that people who like children's books lack maturity. I find the opposite to be true.
It is my opinion that most of the greatest stuff (art, music, universal truth) is accessible to children. Some of it is created specifically for them. I feel very strongly against watering things down for the little ones, and the book just confirmed my opinion. Expose them to great stuff in its simplicity, and they will appreciate it.
Proof? My four-year-old nephew loved it. But like I said before, he's pretty great himself.
Anyway, my sister-in-law was telling me about a book that she read to the oldest nephew (he's four). She forgot the title of it and had to go back and look it up, but it is called Can You Hear It? and is published by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I had the local library system send it to me, and it is so great!
This book is arranged around thirteen pieces of classical music that come on a CD inserted in the front cover of the book; the text is questions and prompts about the music and the accompanying art prints. It is didactic in nature, designed to invite small children to listen carefully to the music and make connections between music and art.
Generally, books like this get on my nerves—I mean the ones that are specifically designed to be used as a lesson. Not only are they usually inane and patronizing, they are also badly written and boring.
Not so with Can You Hear It? The music choices were both sophisticated and kid-friendly, and the art was, well, from the Met. I wasn't overly impressed with the Met when I was actually there, with the exception of the Modern exhibit (I really like Marc Chagall!), but it must have been because I was tired from sleeping in a crooked bed and walking all over Manhattan in the snow. That, and I had some lingering annoyance from the pigeons who kept trying to steal my hot dog on the steps of the museum.
All that aside, the art was good. Much like the music, it was sophisticated but still accessible to children.
Some people have expressed the opinion that people who like children's books lack maturity. I find the opposite to be true.
It is my opinion that most of the greatest stuff (art, music, universal truth) is accessible to children. Some of it is created specifically for them. I feel very strongly against watering things down for the little ones, and the book just confirmed my opinion. Expose them to great stuff in its simplicity, and they will appreciate it.
Proof? My four-year-old nephew loved it. But like I said before, he's pretty great himself.
Civilization
I just finished reading How the Irish Saved Civilization. Remember when this book was the trendy thing, back in 1995? I do. Well, there's a reason for that—it's a great book.
History isn't exactly my strong point. I'm rather conceptual, and I have trouble remembering specifics with any precision. This is why I delve into the fluffier, more popular history books. You know, the ones that read like a novel.
I have probably read more nonfiction over the past six months than I have the rest of my life put together (not including mandatory reading in college). What I've noticed is that repetition and multiple perspectives are the key to understanding. The lights keep coming on brighter and brighter for me, at least regarding the Ancient World.
Thomas Cahill's work is so lyrically written it ought to be read out loud. He writes a nice, pretty, short little book full of summarization and generality, and most people regard the premise to be, while not outright incorrect, at least skewed.
That's fair enough, I guess. A major portion of the book is focused on Saint Patrick, whose life and work I was under the impression had been rather unreliably documented. Cahill either knows more than most historians, or he makes more assumptions. But either way, I found Patrick, or Patricius, fascinating to read about, from his Romanized Celtic childhood, to his enslavement in Ireland, his subsequent miraculous escape and return home, and finally his sincere and heartfelt mission to bring Christianity to the foreign, disorganized people who had stunted his education and ruined his youth.
And this compact history of Ireland helped me form a much clearer picture of what happened in Western Europe during both the Classical Age and the Middle Ages, because he didn't just focus on Ireland. Before even mentioning Ireland, he described the events that led to the Fall of Rome, and followed that up with the type of culture the Romans had created before they fell—succinctly described through the life and works of Augustine of Hippo.
I knew there were several parallels between our own society and that of Ancient Rome, but I didn't realize how many parallels. This was apparent in reading the introductory chapter, before any of the author's concluding commentary. The other thing that occurred to me, though I don't think for the first time, is that throughout history, it is interesting what happens when a society is materially and politically stable enough to become literate. After a while, it grows stagnant, and most of the art becomes mere cheap, shadowy imitation of the former great work. Cahill uses Ausonius and Virgil as examples. And I was reminded of how much I prefer Virgil over Homer, as odd as that may sound. Note to self: if I ever decide to publish anything, I will need to make sure I'm not copying Twain or Hawthorne. Or Jonathan Edwards (hehe). Virgil was, according to Cahill, the only person to successfully write a national epic. Or something along that line. Greece had its Homer, and England Shakespeare—but apparently they just sort of happened. Virgil's Aeneid was more contrived, and by all tradition should not have been successful. But it was. Maybe this is why we always talk about the elusive "Great American Novel."
At any rate, the book was both entertaining and enlightening, as long as the reader understands that the big picture is focused on Ireland and its people as the heroes. I don't see anything wrong with that, as Cahill never claims to be giving a clinical and objective examination of such an interesting era of our past.
It's like the book I read a few months ago, Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World. The author was obviously in love with Genghis Khan, even though he has gone down in history books for centuries as one of the cruelest, barbaric of villains. It isn't fair to expect someone to write a book about a person or group of people in history without having an intense love and favoritism for them. That much was obvious when I contrasted that book with one I came across about Attila the Hun. Attila's author felt no passion for him, and the parts I managed to get through were singularly boring.
I'd be happy to read many other works that glorify specific cultures and people, and look forward to the rest of my reading life being peppered with other such colorful histories.
History isn't exactly my strong point. I'm rather conceptual, and I have trouble remembering specifics with any precision. This is why I delve into the fluffier, more popular history books. You know, the ones that read like a novel.
I have probably read more nonfiction over the past six months than I have the rest of my life put together (not including mandatory reading in college). What I've noticed is that repetition and multiple perspectives are the key to understanding. The lights keep coming on brighter and brighter for me, at least regarding the Ancient World.
Thomas Cahill's work is so lyrically written it ought to be read out loud. He writes a nice, pretty, short little book full of summarization and generality, and most people regard the premise to be, while not outright incorrect, at least skewed.
That's fair enough, I guess. A major portion of the book is focused on Saint Patrick, whose life and work I was under the impression had been rather unreliably documented. Cahill either knows more than most historians, or he makes more assumptions. But either way, I found Patrick, or Patricius, fascinating to read about, from his Romanized Celtic childhood, to his enslavement in Ireland, his subsequent miraculous escape and return home, and finally his sincere and heartfelt mission to bring Christianity to the foreign, disorganized people who had stunted his education and ruined his youth.
And this compact history of Ireland helped me form a much clearer picture of what happened in Western Europe during both the Classical Age and the Middle Ages, because he didn't just focus on Ireland. Before even mentioning Ireland, he described the events that led to the Fall of Rome, and followed that up with the type of culture the Romans had created before they fell—succinctly described through the life and works of Augustine of Hippo.
I knew there were several parallels between our own society and that of Ancient Rome, but I didn't realize how many parallels. This was apparent in reading the introductory chapter, before any of the author's concluding commentary. The other thing that occurred to me, though I don't think for the first time, is that throughout history, it is interesting what happens when a society is materially and politically stable enough to become literate. After a while, it grows stagnant, and most of the art becomes mere cheap, shadowy imitation of the former great work. Cahill uses Ausonius and Virgil as examples. And I was reminded of how much I prefer Virgil over Homer, as odd as that may sound. Note to self: if I ever decide to publish anything, I will need to make sure I'm not copying Twain or Hawthorne. Or Jonathan Edwards (hehe). Virgil was, according to Cahill, the only person to successfully write a national epic. Or something along that line. Greece had its Homer, and England Shakespeare—but apparently they just sort of happened. Virgil's Aeneid was more contrived, and by all tradition should not have been successful. But it was. Maybe this is why we always talk about the elusive "Great American Novel."
At any rate, the book was both entertaining and enlightening, as long as the reader understands that the big picture is focused on Ireland and its people as the heroes. I don't see anything wrong with that, as Cahill never claims to be giving a clinical and objective examination of such an interesting era of our past.
It's like the book I read a few months ago, Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World. The author was obviously in love with Genghis Khan, even though he has gone down in history books for centuries as one of the cruelest, barbaric of villains. It isn't fair to expect someone to write a book about a person or group of people in history without having an intense love and favoritism for them. That much was obvious when I contrasted that book with one I came across about Attila the Hun. Attila's author felt no passion for him, and the parts I managed to get through were singularly boring.
I'd be happy to read many other works that glorify specific cultures and people, and look forward to the rest of my reading life being peppered with other such colorful histories.
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