The Color Run

I am not a runner. But some how my friends convinced me to sign up for the Color Run this fall in DC. And I cannot tell you how glad I am they did.

Marketed as the Happiest 5K on the planet, they couldn't be more right. At the Color Run, it isn't about your time or where you place, it's about the experience of walking or running or skipping or dancing the 5 miles through checkpoints of color with your friends. All the while for a great local cause, or in this case, Washington's Children's Hospital.

The end of each K was marked, literally, with an explosion of a different color. Orange, topped red, which was covered by yellow and blue, till you literally love like you stepped out of a crayon box.

Triumphant participants grin across the finish line and are greeted with even more color as an after concert dance party of powdered people celebrate their endorphin high.

The sea of white tshirts, bandanas, knee socks, capes, tutus, and yes, even wedding dresses turned into a canvas of color highlighting a thousand smiles.

I am so glad I was able to experience such an event and, even though I was getting green and orange powder out of my ears for days to come after, I cannot wait till next year's chance to run again.

In My Grandmother's Hands

My Grandmother is a beautiful, loving woman to whom I owe much of who I am. My Grandfather is a strong, lively man who has set an example of hard work his entire life.

Some of my fondest memories are with my Grandma, walking out to her in the backyard. Her arms covered up to the elbow in dirt as she tended to her garden. Lilly of the valley, roses, irises, and violets. Garden statues, stepping stones, and bird baths. These were what she used to create her world.

With time and age, some things had to change though. She can no longer kneel to the earth and prune and trim to make her flowers grow. Some days she can barely remember what birds she used to love to watch hopping at the back window or chase from a patch of seed newly bedded. But it was easy to see that when we set this dirt in her hands she remembered the feel, even if for just a moment before it flitting away.

It was there. That comforting known touch of earth in her hands. That familiar, lingering brush with countless memories before letting it all fall slowly into the wind. That moment of clarity dissolved into a determination to brush of her clothes from the mess we caused her. Curious in what we were up to, my Grandfather walked over. Took her fretting hands in his as he bent to sit beside her. There was a flicker in that too. A steady, creeping smile in his hands around hers.

On her face was a kind of calm contentment. Though fading once again, to realize that even towards the end, there will always be a touch that can bring you back.

Eastern State Penitentary

One of the highlights of my recent trip to Philly was definitely the Eastern State Penitentiary. Not only was it yet another aspect of a new city to explore, but it was one of the coolest compounds I've ever been inside.

The prison, which has been falling further and further into disrepair since its closing in the mid-20th century was dark and eerie. Dust from the crumbling walls clouded the air and coated streaks of sun breaking through the cracked ceiling. My penitentiary wanderings, directed by a self-paced audio tour was chillingly and creepily fascinating. Not only did the tour provide facts spanning the space's entire history, but they added a soundtrack and personal testimonies. Bring the halls I was walking further to life.

There were many times when I paused and a cold wave washed over me. While I didn't have a supernatural encounter there, the stories of prisoners and guests alike were enough to keep me on my toes and the back of my neck tingling.

With the active imagination of a creative writer, I will proudly claim the title of World's Biggest Wimp when it comes to the horror, thriller, or supernatural genres. My mind does not need any help taking a haunted possibility and turning it into a "What's behind me?! Hello?"

I admit that there were a few moments when the tingles on my neck turned into involuntary jerks of the head. Luckily, whenever the spook was getting too much, I could retreat to behind my camera lens and view the buildings for the great photography backdrops they were.

The shadows, the textures, the sheer expanse of each row of solitary confinement cells was more than enough to keep my composing eye and trigger finger occupied.

If ever you visit Philly, make sure you stop by for an unforgettable afternoon of sights, sounds, and chills.

Mount Vernon

While my heart truly and forever belongs to Chicago and the Midwest, I love living in Washington, DC. The access to history alone is enough to keep me busy for the next 10 years. I want to visit every monument, every battlefield, and every museum the city (region, eastern seaboard) has to offer.

A tall task, especially since my heart truly and forever belongs to Chicago and the Midwest. But I checked off another historical site on my ever expanding nerd list today with a visit to Mount Vernon.

Sitting a stone's throw from the Capitol and on the banks of the Potomac, Mount Vernon really is stepping back in time and pace. One foot in the gate and you can feel the second hand of the clock lag.

Armed with the Visitor Center's map and a full afternoon, my Dad and I laid out a plan. Wander down across the front lawns of the house, visit the blacksmith shop and the stables, hike to the grain storage bins and the far fields where the house grew everything from wheat to berries.

I am also just that brand of history geek where I love when the sites are living history sites. Volunteers from the area, eager to share all they know, dress up in period costume and roam the grounds. The blacksmith made nail after nail and answered question after question about the techniques used in that time. And the poor house maid had to deal with a million questions from my overly-time-period-committed father. Somebody get that made a three pointed hat, a walking stick, and call him James Madison.

The timing of this trip was also opportune for me personally. Aside from it being a beautiful, sunny summer day, I had just finished reading a biography about Martha Washington. The life, drive, and senses of her story can to life in front of me. Different facts from the book popped into my head as I collided my present with her past. This was her study where she managed the house during her husband's long absences.

George and Martha Washington were an extraordinary couple for their time and yet they were just the same as couples when we think of them today. It was truly a pleasure to be able to "step into their shoes" for an afternoon and wander the trails they knew so well.

A Graduation

Those of you who are oldest siblings will understand the need for this post entirely. Those of you who have a younger sibling will understand the need for this post mostly. Those of you who are proud of your sibling no matter their age in relation to you will understand. That hits the majority of us, doesn't it? To put it plainly, my oldest, younger sister graduated from college this weekend and I am glowing.
 
My family has always been a huge part of my life. And just like every family, we've gone through our own tests, difficulties, and moments why the roof comes crashing down. But the older I get, the more I understand that those trails not only show you the extent and depth of your strength but to make those moments of joy and celebration, like a graduation, that much more potent. A reminder of why we keep fighting, what the payoff can be, and how in this case, even though you are not the one striding confidently across the stage to take a piece of paper, tears of elation are running down cheeks that hurt from smiling.


In a family as close as mine, and with sisters as passionate as we three, every accomplishment is reflected and magnified by the others. We are the happiness with which we surround ourselves, the strength with which we fight, and the accomplishments we reach whether together or individually, but never alone.

Congratulations to my dearest oldest, younger, middle.

These are for you.

The Broad Way

New York City, center of the universe.

In this town, you never know what you're going to find.

And that's part of what I love.

It's up to you New York, New York

Playoff Hockey Fever

Hockey is my favorite sport. I love it, could talk for hours, could watch for days. Everything about it, good, bad, fights, bogus calls, breakaways, all of it.

 Admittedly, my love started late in life, in college where it was the school obsession...I mean sport...nah, I really mean obsession. Then moving to a new city with a new job with both access and means to attend NHL games, made it grow stronger. And now, attending my first playoff game has sealed my fate. There is no cure, not even cowbell. And even if there were, I wouldn't take it. The energy, the speed, the physicality, the skill, the tradition, all are elements that fascinate me to the core.

It speaks volumes that this pivotal game of deepening hockey love wasn't even one for my team (though the Hawks were playing halfway across the country and I was wearing my colors with pride), but the thrill was infectious and I was on the edge of my seat, or off it as the case may be, the entire game. You could feel the desire and the desperation of every single Caps fan in attendance. Bruins too, though they were out numbered 10 to 1 at least. The game had every high and low of a regular season battle, only intensified by the opportunity to tie the series or to start to run away with it.

Each team had their heart stopping moments, each goaltender sacrificed it all, and each of us held our breath for what seemed like hours, watching that puck fly. That is hockey. That is honor. That is my love.