The Longish Run

This morning I went for a longer run than usual. But context first. Last night I took one of my two older kids to their baseball practice. The oldest stayed behind at home giving me the “I have too much homework” as his excuse.

After arriving to practice, I stayed in the car listening to Emeli Sande, my new love (sorry Mariah Carey). When I turned the engine off the car headlights remained on. I assumed they’d turn themselves off automatically in a few minutes as it usually happens, but after a while that seemed a bit long I decided to turn them off myself.

A song or two later I went out of the car to the ball park where my son was having practice. When it was over we went back to the car to head home, but it didn’t start. Dead battery, I assumed. I asked a couple of dads from the team who were still at the parking lot if they had jumpstart cables to which the second one said yes. We gave it a try to no avail. The battery had lost its charge so badly that the car was completely dead. No lights of any kind were on, inside or out. Not even a faint sound came out of it at the turn of the key. Another car’s battery was not going to cut to jumpstart mine. We left the car in the parking lot and went home with a fellow baseball dad. God bless him!

I told my wife I’d run to her work in the morning to pick up our other car and head down to rescue the dead one via a tow truck because I thought it must have been something worse than a dead battery. However, I said to myself “why not run to where the car is?”

I got on google maps and from point A to point B it was almost seven miles. Certainly a longer run than the five milers I’ve been doing twice a week lately, but not technically a long run. Long runs usually go up to and beyond the 8 mile mark or such I read somewhere.

So this morning I ran almost 7 miles, 6.9 to be exact. Not a bad jump from five. Progress has been slow since I decided that I needed to get back in shape during the summer and running was the “easiest” thing that came to mind. Was I in for a run!

I started running from north Fairfax City to Burke crossing through FHS where our other car was parked. The first temptation hit me immediately after I spotted the car, “This is a longish run, Carlos. Why not go on the car? Just stop and get in! You’ll get there faster!” What makes this temptation more difficult to withstand is that after thinking about leaving the keys of this other car behind, I ended up bringing them with me.

As I approach the car, I notice that it is looking at me dead in the eye. The moment I pass it by it whispers my name, but I pretended not to listen. I decide once the car is behind me that there’s no turning back. The run must go on.

I used to run a lot a long time ago, but it was a different kind of running... on the basketball court. Basketball is my default sport. Nothing gives me more pleasure (or at least used to) than duking it out down in the post and grabbing some rebounds or shooting some lay ups. I remember fondly my HS days of basketball every single day. Those days are long gone. While I still love basketball I don’t play a decent game anymore. It’s a pretty rough and fast sport so going in you need to know the high risk for injury the game affords. You may leave an ankle on the court or a knee or a something worse. And I’m mindful of that. Just remembering the pain of a good ankle twist is deterrent enough for me at this point in life. I know the same thing applies to running although not necessarily for the same reasons as it would in basketball. So again, the “easiest” thing I could think of to get back in shape was running.

If I’m doing a short run not too many things creep into my mind, but during and after my longish run this morning several thoughts did come to mind. I’ll state them here as a matter of reflection for my own sake.

The first one is that running alone sucks. Very much. When you run alone you have to push yourself harder to finish the run no matter how long or short the distance happens to be. It also becomes harder to keep the same pace. You run faster at some points especially on downhill slopes. While they may be tricky, every runner loves them. At other points you hit the uphill slopes. I’m not thrilled about them. They are a whole lot easier to run when in company.

Running in groups creates a synergy where each runner feeds off the other. The pack helps everyone to maintain a fairly decent and constant pace so that the group as a unit has its own pace. In a group, runners can take turns as pace setters whereas runners by themselves alone will not accomplish that. This is easy to see in long distance runs like marathons, for example, or cycling events. The pack has a life of its own and all in it know how that feels. While breaking away from the pack is for the one who wants the win the most and definitely not for the faint of heart, it comes at the cost of great exertion and risk.

Secondly, a longish run will make you aware of how big a battle you’re waging against yourself, a battle that in the end is more emotional than physical. At times your knees feel the grind of the run. At times your feet. At times your toes. At times your lungs want to explode. Other times your head. Pray this doesn’t happen all at once! More often than not you’re having a conversation with yourself. Visually, you're looking for markers on the road that let you know you’re getting closer to wherever your finish line is. You’re telling yourself “you’re getting closer, don’t let up.”

On the longish lone run, you’re your only and worst enemy, but if you’re in good physical shape it will help you emotionally also. Somebody said somewhere that running is 90% mental so by having good physical conditioning your mind won’t play games with you as much, but if you’re in poor shape your mind will hammer down your will to run from every angle imaginable. If you set out to try a longish run with a subpar physical condition you’ll have a recipe for a very shortish run. Just take a walk and avoid the embarrassment.

Thirdly, unless you have some sort of G.I. complex (nothing wrong with that btw) don’t run with a backpack on! It’s dead weight you don’t need. The rule of thumb is the longer the run the lighter run. After a few miles, your own weight alone will take care of slowing you down enough.

Fourth, the more you run the more you’ll want to run. It is what it is. In some kind of weird way, your own system demands that you feed the need to run consistently and continue what you started to get in shape. It maybe compared to a hunger that is more extreme in some than in others. The psychological effect running will have on you, if taken on seriously, will be fascinating. A run here and there will not do. You will be compelled to feed “the beast”.

At this point in my decision to get back in shape I’m not letting more than a couple days go by before a run, usually a five miler. This isn’t hardcore running by any means, just what I can handle right now and I’m enjoying it.

Lastly, get your run groove on with a loaded mp3 player. Music makes a whole lot of difference while working out. The right song at that particular moment will get you up the hump in such a way that you won’t notice how truly difficult finishing the run was. Thank God for good music on longish (or shortish) runs!

El Padre Arsenio, 1893-1973: Sacerdote, Prisionero, Padre Espiritual

Padre Arsenio, 1893-1973: Sacerdote, Prisionero, Padre Espiritual por Alexander
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

La lectura de Padre Arsenio, 1893-1973 fue mi primera inmersión en la iglesia rusa bajo el régimen estalinista de la primera mitad del siglo 20 a través del relato biográfico de un hombre excepcional.

Padre Arsenio, cuyo nombre antes de ser ordenado sacerdote fue Piotr Andreyevich Streltzov, ejerció su vocación religiosa como pocos ante la horrible realidad de la persecución religiosa y política que caracterizó a la Rusia de Stalin. Antes de ser sacerdote, Padre Arsenio fue un conocido académico e historiador del arte y la cultura rusos. Nadie en su sano juicio hubiese podido acusarlo de traidor de su patria o de tener tendencias "contra-revolucionarias". Por el contrario, en sus muchas discusiones sobre Rusia, su amor por su país era innegable y su conocimiento de las raíces del arte y la iglesia rusos arrojaba luz sobre la maravillosa cultura de un país cuya gente fue robada de una rica herencia eclesiástica milenaria bajo la represión comunista.

Padre Arsenio, el hombre, sorprende por su valentia ante la adversidad, por sus dotes como pastor, por su alto grado de justicia y por su fe inquebrantable. Su instinto pastoral producto de años de dedicarse al cuidado espiritual de personas bajo su encargo ministerial sorprende por lo acertado de su discernimiento y la sabiduría con la que lo aplica. No había visto de cerca un toque pastoral tan fuerte e impactante como el de Padre Arsenio.

Padre Arsenio sorprende por la innumerable cantidad de hijos espirituales que dejó e impactó a través de su ministerio. Sin importar la situación del penitente, la gracia extendida por Padre Arsenio a todos era como si Dios mismo estuviera tratando directamente con la persona. La vida de Padre Arsenio se distinguió por su dedicación a la oración constante cuya eficacia lo ayudó a sobrevivir repetidamente las circunstancias del campo de prisioneros bajo Stalin y luego bajo la continua vigilancia de los agentes del estado. Sin la oración, el relato biográfico que hoy podemos disfrutar de Padre Arsenio no existiría.

Mi lectura de Padre Arsenio me ayudó a apreciar y conocer mucho más a fondo a la iglesia ortodoxa rusa que a pesar de una persecución increíble por parte de las fuerzas opresoras del poder político soviético se levantó y permanece hoy como una iglesia fuerte y orgullosa de su herencia y tradiciones cristianas mucho más antiguas que las de muchas otras iglesias.

Recomiendo este libro a todo el que desee conocer más de la persecución de la iglesia en la Rusia de Stalin. También se beneficiarán mucho los que quieran apreciar mejor la gran  herencia cultural rusa. Pero quienes más disfrutarán y se beneficiarán de este libro son aquellos que comparten con el Padre Arsenio la vocación de ser pastores y guías espirituales de otros. Padre Arsenio es un estándar de la vocación sacerdotal muy alto y es por eso mismo que es un modelo seguro a seguir.


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Boyspeak

The following is a record of a conversation between a father and his boys and the means whereby, contrary to popular opinion, they intelligibly speak.

This father by virtue of having only boys is well-versed in boyspeak and only those who love boys, have them or happen to be fluent in their language will be able to understand it. Others not so versed, at times will be tempted to think that boyspeak is just TMI, gross manners or sheer stupidity, but that would be the wrong conclusion... Boyspeak is truly not so much a language as it is an art form. It is as much what you say in the lines as between them. Sometimes it’s all there in the lines. Sometimes not.

The origin of boyspeak dates back to the dawn of boys. That’s a pretty long time ago. In fact, no one really knows how old boyspeak really is. It’s a mystery. Boys happened and then they started talking. There has been boyspeak ever since.

Boyspeak requires the exercise of discernment and, depending on the case, the reader or listener should be advised that when found between a rock and hard place the best option is neither to read nor to listen. You be the judge of whether to keep reading or not. Boys will always be compelled to exercise their right to boyspeak. It’s a law of nature.

So one day the father in question was driving in his car with all his boys, who sometimes are not even aware of how skilled they happen to be at boyspeak, and hears the following question,

"Papá, do you prefer to use it folded or crumpled?"

If you laughed at this question or were merely disgusted by it, I must tell you, my dear reader, that you should never attempt to speak or understand boyspeak. Your frustrations will be many and I just want to spare you.

People, especially fathers, well-versed in boyspeak process instinctively the sound of boyspeak and when boyspeak hits them they will either stand their ground or fall. I have seen it happen many times. The harder they come... I’m sad to say that boyspeak is not for everyone.

Seriously, those versed in boyspeak usually have the ability to turn their boyspeak mode on and off at will. Some don’t know their boyspeak mode is on all the time. They don’t have a switch and for these there’s no hope of turning boyspeak off. Boyspeak is the modus vivendi, the prima and only lingua. Boyspeak any day and every day. Such is the case of the father of this story.

Immediately after hearing the boyspeak question above from one his boyspeaking boys, the father took a second or two to ponder on his answer, which as you might have guessed was in eloquent boyspeak. Truth be told, boyspeak like this has seldom been spoken. His hands remained on the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the road, his mind in full (always invariably) boyspeak mode, he answered very matter-of-factly,

“Folded. Neatly folded.”

Now here’s where, if you’re really well-versed in boyspeak, a chuckle or two might be appropriate. But this father’s boys aren’t the single or dual chuckling type. They plain burst out laughing. Please don’t laugh, my dear reader. You see, there are times when boyspeak requires you to take it on the chin. You fight boyspeak with boyspeak as some fight fire with fire, although in this case there’s not really a fight. This is just how this particular father and his boys roll... or boyspeak. It happens, you know.

De mi colonia pa' la tuya... A San Juan Minute

Gracias a mi compa Nebula! Representando!

We have seen the Lord!

"We have seen the Lord!" John 20:25

We have seen the Sun
like a blanket over cold.
We have seen the Rain
quenching the parched wilderness
of the world.
We have breathed the Air.
"Shalom!"
Under the Sun, the Rain, the Air.
We have seen the Lord!
His power and his wounds.
His presence and his words.
Peace in his voice.
We heard the comforting words!
We have seen the Lord!
Alleluia!

cspellot 2013

Nos vamos

Nos vamos tú y yo
como el cielo se va cada noche
para arroparse con las estrellas.

Nos vamos cuando tu pecho sudoroso
late sobre el mío en paz es
cuando nos vamos.

Nos vamos al mañana del presente
y al ayer del futuro donde está fundido
el ahora y el después de nuestras vidas
porque vinimos desde siempre
para morir cuando nacimos. Nos vamos.

Y serán siempre nuestras vidas grandes, negras, una.

No vamos cuando besaste mis labios
y los tuyos los hizo temblar mi corazón
sin razón sin medida con pasión.

Nos vamos porque existe tu caricia eterna en mi rostro
y la mía en tu tierra fértil se entierra
porque la haces nacer vigorosa.

Como siempre nos pasó que nos vamos.
¡Y nos vamos porque te amo!

cspellot, 2013

A beating heart

A beating heart drives the center of the earth
Involuntary and unstoppable
So she breaths at peace
Secure
rocking the waves of the sea
and washing the sand of the shore
circling the wind
that kisses the clouds
beating the darkness
to caress the sun
Alive with green and pulsing joy
Although hungry overcoming.
The constant drumming of its soul
lifts her every ounce of layered skin
And our hearts with her rejoice

cspellot, 2013

El pez que se tragó a la ballena: una reseña

The Fish That Ate the Whale: The Life and Times of America's Banana King by Rich Cohen
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Those of us familiar with the biblical story of the Jewish patriarch Jacob won't get too far into The Fish That Ate the Whale before recognizing the similarities between him and Sam Zemuray, the subject of Rich Cohen's outstanding biography. The constant scheming, striving and conniving is evident in them both. Both were exiles. Both worked tirelessly beyond the limits of human expectations. Both lost a son (kind of). Both achieved their goals even when it cost them dearly. One is a descendant of the other although both didn't have the same end or regrets. The Fish that Ate the Whale is in a way the ancestral story of the Jewish people through the lifespan of a single man.

Inevitably, as the story unfolds, you ask yourself 'How could God not be with a man like this?' And at the same time you're also confronted with its opposite corolary, 'How could He be?' Sam Zemuray's life is a puzzle. By all external measures of success in the marketplace, few lives parallel his. He had it all and when he couldn't have it all he literally would resort to whatever means necessary to achieve having it all.

Sam the Banana Man's story is an unforgettable story. It is too good to be true and yet it is true, all of it. The story of this one man's life is so powerful and wrenching and disgusting and powerful and wrenching again that you will not be able to forget it even if you wanted to.

Not only are we introduced to "El Gringo" (he was actually Russian) since his penniless arrival to the USA. In The Fish that ate the Whale, the author takes the reader by the hand on an excursion with historical, military and political turns that leave you dumbfounded.

From Alabama to New Orleans, to Central America to the Caribbean basin to the world, Sam Zemurray left no land unturned as the ultimate crusader of the perfect crop that is the banana. Irony of ironies to find out that the banana is the most widely consumed fruit in the United States, but cannot grow anywhere in it!

Obviously, Zemuray was a man of his times, a true believer in progress. It was just that the only progress that mattered most was his own and that of his company. Those countries that grow the bananas for us? They are our means to our ends - "El Pulpo's" (United Fruit Co.'s namesake) objective was to increase value for its shareholders. This was done methodically and unscrupulously for years and decades at the expense of real people and real countries. So this is as well the story of an era and a country, the USA, busting its doors open to modernity and swallowing up without flinching everything a modern capitalist world had to offer.

But every too-good-to-be-true story must come to end and Sam Zemuray's story was no different. In reality, it could have been a different story, a much better, grander story, but that's unfair. He knew no better. He was the north star so he followed it faithfully until there was no more following to do.

The scope of Zemuray's life is impressive. Unquenchable ambition and greed, wit, will, grit, determination, in one word, balls. Some these things are bad in themselves. It's the combination with the other ones that will take you to places you didn't foresee and situations you thought you were insulated from. Well, think again.

I want to thank Rich Cohen for giving us such a biographical gem, an incredible but true life story for all of us to enjoy and learn from, both the good and the bad. It touches close to my heart because as a Latino you're able to see upclose (as never before in my case) the remorseless plunder of our countries by people whose only guiding value is making money. This does not mean lives like Zemuray's aren't valuable or to be appreciated. Quite the contrary. In the land of the living you're boudn to learn a whole lot by lives like his insofar as they serve as cautionary tales.

It is not up to me to pass judgement upon a man's soul's ultimate destiny, but Jesus Christ's question in the gospel of Matthew - And what do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul? - comes to mind. I do hope Sam Zemuray didn't lose his.


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