Rainbow Chip is Classy

What is my obsession with cake lately? And what exactly is this 'log on the web' all about, anyway? (See that? I avoided that word which is most abhorrent.) I'm throwing such a barrage of disjointed concepts at you, it's a wonder there are still two people reading this (Hello, Dad and maybe Railee).
Back to cake. Today was Luke's belated birthday celebration:

Don't let looks deceive you. This little number is all rainbow-chip party on the inside, and classy chocolate business on the outside. Think of it as the mullet of cakes. Like this guy, but more attractive:

Happy Birthday to my favorite Brother-in-law. May your twenty-fifth year be filled with many more mullet metaphors.

Tea, Tall Socks, and Tree City

Each time the weather changes, I convince myself that this must be my most favorite of seasons. But the real truth is that I find the world so breathtakingly beautiful all year 'round, I can hardly pick a favorite time to look at it. That being said, something about the waning months of the year strikes me with a vigor for living. And it's time for that particular feeling to permeate the season.

It's time for the air to catch the sharp chill of winter and the warm scent of wood fireplaces.

It's time for tall socks and large sweaters.

It's time for hot tea from rosy cups and saucers --morning, noon, and night.

It's time for spiced candles and spiced soup and spiced everything else.

It's time for the trees lining each street to burst into a canopy of yellow, orange, red, and violet.

It's time for the sky to become a continuous dome of gilded marble.

It's time for torrential rain to fill the streams and gutters, and trace slow patterns across foggy windows.

I am enjoying the drawn-out process of Fall here in Oregon. Utah's deciduous trees tend to turn yellow, then brown, then stark naked in a matter of days. Here, the trees and shrubberies take their sweet, colorful time before taking leave. October in Oregon is different from October in Utah in more than a few ways. For one, it's not nearly so cold. In Oregon, you can't see vaporous plumes appear as breathing, laughing, and talking mingle with the air --something I've grown accustomed to over the past few years and am a little surprised to be missing.

That's not all I'm missing. I'm used to missing my family as the holidays approach. But since nearly all of my near and dear ones are either permanently stationed in Utah or have recently migrated away from 'Tree City', I'm beginning to miss the many good friends, pseudo-family, and familiarities of Utah Valley in the Fall.
It's a quieter season than in years past. But life is good. And cozy and spiced and rainy.
And until life brings me back on my merry way to Utah, I'm perfectly content to be sharing the rain and the holidays with my family here in Beaver-town.

Running for Risa

Please indulge me as I explore a very long tangent before arriving at the actual point of this post:
I've felt very strongly for some time that there's more to running than topping PRs and watching the pavement race by. And the more I think about it, the more it seems that anyone who spends a significant amount of time running must have also come to a similar conclusion. Running, I believe, is one of the greatest possible exercises in autonomy available to a person. Sprinting, jogging, Nike-clad or barefoot, one may choose, at any place and any time, to run.

Sometimes, I've found the sensation of running to be almost indistinguishable from dancing -just free and creative movement through open space. Running often has emotional significance similar to the release or expression of dance. Some days I run to relax and unwind, other days I run to cope with whatever life throws at me. Running helps me to stay centered, and I often do my best thinking while running. I also do some of my best thinking in the shower. But that is neither here, nor there. Still, I'm often struck by the simple freedom inherent in the action of running.

Some months ago, after an unfortunate incident at mile 2 of my evening run (involving me accidentally and simultaneously jerking both ear buds out of my head, at which point they flew to meet the pavement and exploded), I was left to finish the next 3 in semi-silence. I believe it was a Tuesday night. And, as it was rather late on a week night, and the air hadn't yet warmed up enough to coax the citizens of Provo out-of-doors for evening entertainment, I found myself rather alone on my route around town. What a lovely run it was! I have long been in the habit of plugging in before embarking on a run. But on this night, having found myself in this unusually music-less situation, I decided to embrace the opportunity. For half an hour or so, the only sounds accompanying me down the empty sidewalks were my footfalls, my breathing, and my thoughts. It was surprisingly and gloriously therapeutic.

Since that night, several runs have called for unplugging. Since I have a silly habit of chasing rainstorms, there have been many runs executed in torrential downpour -not the best place for an iPod. It stayed at home; the rain was my rhythm. Other times, there has been too much emotion coursing through my body to bother with putting my hair up or wearing the proper shoes, let alone donning headphones. Sometimes you simply need to run your heart out until your lungs are bursting, and your heart is pounding, and every muscle is aching. Moments like these are best lived without headphones.

I went through a period of a few months recently where running wasn't an option most days. It was a strange feeling. There was something surreal about not having the capacity to take off running whenever I fancied. As I mentioned before, one of the greatest things about running is the option to run when you could otherwise choose to skip or spin in circles or simply stand still. They all have their time and place (If you can skip for 3 miles, I will personally treat you to a steak dinner), but the novelty lies in the power to choose.

As of late, running and I have been rebuilding our relationship. The feeling of gratification is immense, and I have a new respect for the patience and contentment of people who have lost the capacity to move freely. I'm slowly working my way back into the groove. It feels good to run again. So, maybe an old man beat me down Oak street last week. But maybe I beat him up the hill on 170th... Maybe I'm not on top of my game yet, but I'm definitely a force to be reckoned with -if you're a senior citizen.

This finally brings us to my original point, which I didn't bother to mention, originally.

The first thought that went through my head upon waking this morning was, 'I'd like to run a half marathon today'. Six months ago, I Ran for Risa. And today, on her birthday, I wanted to do the same.
That first thought was quickly bulldozed by all kinds of rational thoughts like, 'That's a terrible idea. You haven't trained at all', 'Just because you had a good run yesterday, doesn't make you awesome', and 'But what about YOGA?! (Which, by the way, does make me awesome)'. I wrestled for a while between the options of participating in yogi coolness or running to my death, and at some point went outside to check the weather. I heard the door latch behind me. Locked outside --car keys inside. I checked my iPod, which I had luckily thought to bring with me, but it was completely out of juice. So I stashed the good 'ol 'Pod in the mail box, stopped thinking, and took off running.

Mile 1- I'm not really sure if I'm actually able or willing to go though with my original goal. The thought is daunting, but almost too attractive to resist. I don't let myself think about it too much. I just run.

Mile 2- I sing 'Happy Birthday' to Risa a few times and excitedly make some final decisions about the cake I'll be baking later today.

Mile 3- I could do this forever.

Mile 4- I wave with a cheerful "'morning!" to all the people walking their dogs and waiting at bus stops. Some people wave back and some don't. But I'm feeling pretty cool in my Running for Risa shirt, and I'm just trying to spread the love.

Mile 5- My feet hurt a bit, which isn't surprising, since I haven't run this far but twice in the last few months. What does surprise me is how much energy I still have.

Mile 6- Last chance to chicken out and make it a 10K. I see the turn-off for my street approach and then pass me by, and I just keep running.

Mile 7- At this point, and about every half mile up to this point, a different man knocks on the side of his landscaping truck and shouts something at me en español, which I can only assume is kind and encouraging. I smile and wave and keep running.

Mile 8- My feet hurt a lot now. Again, I understand. They haven't seen this kind of mileage since I ran the last Half. I push it from my mind and keep running.

Mile 9- Oh crap! I forgot about dowels and a cake board! More cake planning...

Mile 10- It's raining now, and it feels good. I think about how silly the pain in my feet is. If Risa fought cancer for a year, all the while smiling, then certainly I can run a few miles. Suddenly, my run feels like a cake walk. My pain is insignificant in comparison, so I keep running.

Mile 11- The feet are in agony and my lungs are starting to sting from the cool air. But the wind picks up and so does my pace. I keep running.

Mile 12- Thank heaven Hwy 10 has sidewalks. I shuffle along. My feet succeed in distracting me from anything else that might hurt, which keeps my energy high and my legs pumping.

Mile 13- My pace has slowed to what feels like an enthusiastic march. I sing 'Happy Birthday' a few more times, as my arches tear in half.

To be completely honest, that was terribly unwise and probably one of the least-thought-out things I've ever done. But I don't regret it for a second. Spontaneity is the spice of running, right? After lots of ice, followed by a scalding bubble bath and some ibuprofen, I'm feeling chipper and ready to start baking a big, orange birthday cake.

For Risa. September 31st.

It doesn't exist.

There's no such thing as the 31st of September.
So when I say that it's been six months since Risa left, I feel a little disappointed with September for not giving her that extra day, which I think she deserves. Was it six months yesterday? Or is it today, the first of October? If we're being specific, it's been one hundred and eighty-four days, which is more than half of three hundred and sixty-five. Was it six months on Thursday, then?
Somehow, one hundred and eighty-four days seems to be a more accurate measurement than six months.
I'm not the only one who's missed her, Laughter, for one hundred and eighty-four days,
Nor am I the only one to ache, for one hundred and eighty-four days, for her infectious smile and bright eyes, her poise, and her kindness.

How do you express the infinite expanse of a life in just a few words? May I be so bold as to assert that it's an impossible feat? The more language I use to describe Risa, the less adequate the words feel. And, unfortunately, the more people I meet who haven't known Risa, the harder it becomes to capture her essence with mere linguistic description. The best I can do is to borrow a passage from Lucy Maud Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables:

     "Have you ever imagined what it must feel like to be divinely beautiful?"

     "Well now, no, I haven't," confessed Matthew ingenuously.

      "I have, often.  Which would you rather be if you had the choice--divinely beautiful or dazzlingly         clever or angelically good?"

     "Well now, I--I don't know exactly."

     "Neither do I.  I can never decide."

I've lost track of the number of times Railee and I discussed our respective approaches to this conundrum. We still haven't exhausted the subject, but whenever it comes around again, I think of Risa. Risa was a complete portrait of beauty, wisdom, and goodness, and if I may add, integrity, faith, virtue, courage, charity, and so much more.
I am grateful to count myself among the few and infinitely blessed to have known and befriended Risa Whitaker before she quickly finished her work among us. To know her was to be changed by her. And the truest way I've found to express her influence and legacy is to reflect back to others the light I gleaned from her over the years. 'Risa' means 'laughter', and Risa means 'light'. Of all the lives she's touched, there isn't a single one that Risa hasn't changed.

Not one of those one hundred and eighty-four days has passed that I haven't thought of Risa and remembered silly and important things like how she used to dot her 'i's with circles, how she literally couldn't hurt a fly, and how we used to tease her for crossing her eyes when she ate with a fork.

Oh, how I miss her.
And oh, how I marvel at the joy she continues to spread.

This is my tribute to Risa -wholly inadequate and the best I can do.