#Summer Is: Chasing Pavements (by Javacia Harris Bowser)

This week I posted about my writing goals. One of those this summer was to publish snippets of what summer is. Thirty-five to be exact. I've fallen short of that number, but that's OK, right? Point is, I tried. And summer is not entirely over. So let's try this again, no?

Today's #SummerIs entry is from my friend Javacia Harris Bowser. I've had the pleasure getting to know Javacia this year as she started See Jane Write Birmingham, a group dedicated to supporting women writers. She's done an amazing job growing See Jane Write, and I'm thrilled that she has joined the Alabama Social Media Assocition as a volunteer. But that's another story.

I love Javacia's contribution because it's about doing something that makes her feel good. It's inspring to me that even though she has a serious medical condition, she keeps moving. (In fact yesterday, I went to my first spin class with her, which I can't wait to write about.)

I'm publishing Javacia's entry today because it's "Be Body Positive Day." Started by a California organization, it's a day designed to celebrate your body where you are right now. You can click on the link to learn more about the day and the organization, whose goal is to create a "growing national movement of healthy, confident individuals contributing to positive change in the world." (I also posted a video beneath Javacia's entry).

She embodies the spirit of The Body Positive, and I love what she's written because it's all about moving forward. With that, here's her contribution to #Summer Is:

Summer Is: Chasing Pavements

I am not a runner. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no couch potato. I’ll out dance you in an aerobics classes like Body Jam any day. But I am not a runner. I don’t have a beautiful gazelle-like stride. I probably look like I’m being chased by Jason from Friday the 13^th when I run. My shoes are older than your toddler and I even have a doctor’s excuse for not running. I have serious medical condition that has given me the joints of an 80-year-old, so my doctor is constantly telling me to stick easy cycling and water aerobics.  

Then I met the Shades Creek Greenway or, as it is affectionately called by us Birmingham residents, the Lakeshore Running Trail. One day while walking beneath the beautiful canopy of trees that covers much of the path I simply decided to run. And I loved it.

This summer I’ve spent most mornings, before the Alabama heat becomes unbearable, pounding the pavement of that trail and learning a few life lessons along the way. Here are three things running the Lakeshore trail has taught me.  

1)      Stay in your lane. Most folks know the basic and most important rule of a running trail: stay to the right and pass on the left. But the phrase “stay in your lane” means much more to me. It reminds me to stop comparing myself to others, to not worry about the cute blonde in the cute sports bra with the perfect abs and perfect stride. Same goes for everyday life. As I run the path I’m on, one that I hope is leading me to the life I want to one day live, I must be careful not to get off track by coveting someone else’s pace.

2)      Breathe and keep going. When I started running I was convinced I needed walk breaks every 60 seconds. Then one day Madonna’s hit “4 Minutes” came on my iPod and I decided I’d try to run for the entire track (which is cleverly four minutes long.) I did it. And one day I ran for seven minutes without a walk break, and then nine minutes, and each week I’m working to run for longer stretches. When I’m running there’s usually a moment when I want to stop and walk, but then I tell myself to just breathe and keep going. And I do just that. Likewise, as I’m chasing my dreams I remind myself to do the same thing.

3)      Keep your head up. After I started running I realized that all those folks that used to zip by me when I stuck to walking didn’t have their heads held high because they were looking down their pretty little runner noses at me. I’ve realized it’s actually easier to run when you’re not watching your feet to make sure you don’t fall on your face. I’ve found it’s much easier to catch my so-called second wind when I’m running with my eyes steadily fixed straight ahead. In life, we must do the same. Keep your head held high, stay proud, regardless of mistakes you make, regardless of how old your running shoes may be, regardless of how long it may take you to complete a mile. Keep your head up, always.

Javacia Harris Bowser blogs at GeorgiaMae.com and is the founder of See Jane Write Birmingham.  

Related Links:

Summer Is: Neil Diamond 

Summer Is: About Turning Life's Lemons Into Sparkling Lemon Sangria

What I learned at Santa Rosa Beach/Back To The Gulf

We're back from the beach after a much needed break. Santa Rosa was our destination, a powdery white beach in Northwest Florida, on the Gulf.

This was our family's first real beach trip. I'd taken Nate to Clearwater, where I grew up, and we'd spent time on its sands in between visiting relatives and doing other things, and we'd been to Pensacola Beach, where Shane spent part of his childhood. But we'd never done the "we're going to the beach" thing as a vacation.

So, when Shane's brother Mark and sister-in-law Terry were kind to invite us to stay with them at their beach house, we were thrilled to take them up on it. Once there, we realized why all our friends and the rest of the world who lives anywhere near The Emerald Coast chooses it for their vacation.

 

I guess I took the power of a beach vacation for granted. Having grown up ten minutes from the beach, the Gulf's waves and powder white sands are part of my DNA. But, jus as my New York parents never went to the Statue of Liberty until we were children, the real allure of the beach didn't crystallize in me until now, at nearly 35, as I return with my child.

Sure, I've loved visiting in bursts, and on those trips to Clearwater I loved to be reminded of how floating in the Gulf washes away the stress and confusion that I didn't have when I was a small child doing the same thing. Redemptive power of being wrapped in its rhythms. But, since we take for granted what we know, so did I.

In vacations I've gone on a mad dash to pack in in the sights of places far away -- eating suckling pig in the Castilian countryside, drinking bitter ouzo on the island of Corfu. The more the better of journeys packed with checking items off the list -- museum seeing, check, bargain hunting, check. (Even when in decidedly more domestic locations, it's always been about packing it in.)

And though I still love cramming all that in on a vacation, this time I realized why people go the other route -- staking an umbrella in the sand, staring at the Gulf for hours on end, and breathing in its heady salt air.

Not to say that I wasn't tempted to get off the beach chair and go check out everything in town and in every town nearby. It's also the reporter's itch. But I wasn't working (in fact, this was the first time I did not check my work email for nearly a week). So I sat back, read an actual book ("The Paris Wife") and judged what to do next by the position of the sun, not by Google calendar alerts. (I did send a few Tweets and Instagram photos and Facebook messages, but not nearly to the extend that I usually do.)

I did get to hang out with my sister and brother in law, which we rarely do, even though we're just two and a half hours away. And commune with tiny fishes that brushed my feet while I drifted in the water. And eat fresh Gulf shrimp, sending up a silent prayer for their existence a year after the massive oil spill that threatened this way of life. My sister in law cooked these, and we ate them with Andouille sausage brought over that day from New Orleans by their good friends Kevin and Aline.

Later we sat on the roof overlooking the water and Shane pointed out the constellations. We shared secrets.

Nate swam hard, alternating between the beach and pool. Here he is with his new friend Tyler.

And, on the last day of the trip, Nate swam in the Gulf unassisted -- the first time ever. Glad that this milestone happened in its waters, where I once and continue to learn things myself.

I am hooked. I'll be back.

For the complete set of photos from our trip, click here. 

Related Links:

Postcards From Florida

Summer Is ... About Turning Life's Lemons Into Sparkling Sangria

Summer Is ... Changes

This installment of "Summer Is" comes from Coryanne Ettiene of www.housewifebliss.com. I met Coryanne through Twitter (where so many good things begin). I love her piece because it includes thoughts of summers in two distinct places.

Thanks for sharing, Coryanne. And if you'd like to submit your "Summer Is," send me a message. To date they've been posts/essays, but I would also love to see photos and videos highlighting your diverse summer experiences -- past and present.

Four down, 31 to go to help me meet my goal of publishing 35 this summer. Who is next? 

Summer is….

By Coryanne Ettiene

www.housewifebliss.com

Summer is a season of relaxed memories, longer days and where the joy of childhood seeps into every activity.  We all share the delights of bright summer mornings that promise the arrival of laughter, and lingering evenings that allow for relaxed entertaining under a canopy of stars.  However, the meaning of summer changes with our geography, making our experiences unique, and our memories of summer varied. 

For the last 12 years, summer was a break from the cold dark days of London winter.  Every summer morning we opened the curtains and hoped for sunshine and donned our summer finest at the faintest hint of it. Doors were opened, flowers were blooming and long summer walks were numerous.  Summer was a picnic in full sun when the weather allowed, a road trip with the windows down, cool evening breezes where cardigans were essential and a joyful dash through the sprinklers on the hottest of days. Summer was flying off to distant lands in search of a tan, only to return beet red to overcast skies that hinted at the rain to follow.  Summer was the hunt for sunshine and the cherished grasp of it when you found it. 

My fondest London summer was our last.  Hyde park became our stomping-ground, we devoured every corner, soaked up every ray of sunshine and lived like tourists for 3 months.  The wind shimmying through the trees, the buzz of excitement when we stumbled across a hidden path, and the eagerness we paid for overpriced ice cream will remain with me forever. 

This year, as we find ourselves newly relocated in Arizona, our experience of summer could not be more different.  Our search for the sun has been replaced by the hunt for shade, our doors are closed, our blinds drawn, and our long afternoons are now spent cooling off in the pool. Summer in Arizona is filled with the sound of early morning laughter by the play-ground, afternoon splashes in the pool and evening entertaining under the dark skies above.  Summer is now an endless quest for shade and the treasured moment spent cool and refreshed. 

I see the summer days before me and smile at the consistency of them: playing in the morning, swimming in the afternoon and entertaining in the evening.  I have not doubt that others will be able to set a watch by our routine, which marks a drastic change from our previous summers where every day brought new weather and a new adventure. 

For me, summer has always been and continues to be the sound of laughter, the joys of relaxing and the pure happiness that arrives when you find what you are searching for to make the perfect summer memory.  I looked for sun, and now I am looking for shade, my experience of summer has changed, but not the contented feeling that comes from hearing my children enjoy the perfect summer day.  

Related Links:

Summer Is: Neil Diamond 

Summer Is: Carvel

Summer Is ... Carvel

Growing up in Clearwater, there was really only one ice cream shop: The Dairy Kurl. It was (and is) on Gulf-To-Bay, the long stretch of road that connects Tampa (Bay) to Clearwater (Beach). The Dairy Kurl sells ice cream that, for a few cents more, you can have dipped in chocolate shell. You eat this sitting on metal picnic tables and never enough napkins, so ice cream drips onto your sunburned skin.

But my uncle didn't own the Dairy Kurl.

He owned Carvel. OK, so there were two ice cream shops in town. And my uncle owned the one down the road. They were different enterprises entirely. Dairy Kurl had two flavors, Carvel had dozens, all of which could be eaten in air conditioned comfort. I worked there the summer that I turned 16.

Other than babysitting, it was my first gig, and I was determined to make the best Cookipuss in town.

Yes, I made the ice cream cakes that Tom Carvel made famous. "I'm Cookiepuss; take me home and eat me."

A little known secret is that Cookiepuss, and all the other ice cream cakes, were made from the thwarted attempts of soft serve perfection. While trying to twirl the perfectly topped cone, the one, two, three swirl often tipped over. Spread a little cookie crumble on top of it and voila: the beginnings of an ice cream cake.

That summer I ate as much blackberry ice cream as I wanted, staring out across Gulf-To-Bay at the record store on the other side of the road. Ah, the vinyl that awaited when I got my cash paycheck.

My manager was all of 17. His name was Hector and he was first generation Cuban. In the cooler, he pressed a piece of paper into my hand. It had his number and the words: "Hector The Collector."

Now I laugh. Then, I actually laughed too. Hector was clean cut, clocked in on time, tucked in his shirt and offered to show me how to make a three point turn, essential in getting one's driver's license. I cleaned off the ice cream scoop with hot water, wiped down the table tops.

I told him that I liked a boy, an older boy from public school who played the guitar and had original Cure albums. So Hector asked me to dinner, my choice.

I chose Denny's -- cheese sticks and marinara sauce. We drove to St. Peterburg, to a teen club. "A what?" I said, rolling my eyes. He drove me home, stopping to get orange Bubalicious.

And, when he dropped me off, we talked about ice cream saucers, standing next to my grandmother's Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra. It was my first kiss.

Later that summer I boarded a plane on a "highly chaperoned" trip to Europe, 20 soon-to-be-16 year old girls walking arm in arm on Spanish beaches and French country sides. I boarded a train and went to Pere Lachaise, to see Jim Morrison's grave. (This is what you do when you are 16 an unchaperoned.) The night before we returned, my friend Jessica helped me dye my hair red in a Paris tub.

Hector brought a teddy bear to the airport, reminded me about the offer to work on that three point turn. But something had changed. Something had changed long before that. This is what happens in the summer. Things melting, shifting, small drips, and then a rush of air from the cooler.