Chocolate SOY ice cream doesn’t taste like real ice cream. It doesn’t even taste like frozen yogurt. I even tried putting walnuts on it in the hopes it might taste like a brownie.

Nope.

It just tasted like frozen chocolate-ish bowl of airy, soy-something with a nutty aftertaste.

I tried. When I put down the quart of premium ice cream back into the freezer case the other night at Trader Joes and replaced it with the soy oddity that ended up going home with me, it was because the premium ice cream had 320 calories per 1/2 cup. This one had 130 for the same serving. The creamy, perfectly balanced (I’m only guessing) mint chip chunk ice cream had almost three times the amount of calories as the soy stuff.

I’m not knocking soy. Not at all.

But no one will argue that the taste isn’t vastly different. The funny thing is, I imagine that one serving of the creamy, mint chip chunk quart might have satisfied my sweet tooth just fine. Scooping the chocolate impostor into the bowl earlier tonight, I probably ate at least twice the recommended serving, nearing the same calorie mark as the premium ice cream.

It took more of the airy, soy-dessert to appease my sugar craving.

I think when as a society we begin to scoop meaningless, airy information into our mouths, filling our bowls higher and higher with tidbits that don’t have depth or substance, we are really just trying to fill a craving for real truth.

Even if I let twitter go dark, close my laptop, and turn my cell phone on silent, and retreat from facebook requests, I am still bombarded by information. And most of it is meaningless trivia with a sugary aftertaste.

I’m not saying I don’t laugh at the Youtube videos or wonder in amazment when it’s -26 degrees in Novosibirsk, but sometimes I just want to do the digital eqivalent of curling up with a good book and breathing in the words: savoring a thoughtful blog post or article or be inspired by someone elses journey or creativity.

And more often than that, the “truth” I am seeking can’t be found in the digital world. It is only in seeing real joy on a real face across the breakfast table from me. It is in hearing the real sorrow in a real voice on a phone call. The substance is in making contact with a close friend in a hospital room, and laughing quietly despite worry and fear.

I don’t want a soy aftertaste from meaningless information rushes. I want to eat mint chocolate chunk with substance and experience the laughter, grace, joy of real life.

For people who get up before five in the morning to exercise, working out is a religion.

I used to be a disciple. Ritual: set out clothes the night before near the bathroom. Ritual: pack gym bag, making sure all needed toiletries were there. Ritual: set alarm for 4:16 so two snoozes would get me up at 4:30. Ritual: drive to gym and begin workout at 5am. Ritual: listen to talk radio on the way so I wouldn’t fall asleep in the dark.

Everyday. Now because my schedule has a little flexibility, I have reduced my early morning ceremonies to once a week or so. Sometimes I get up early to run with a friend, but usually I make it to the gym at 8:30 after the first grade drop off has been completed.

However, I joined the ranks of proselytes this morning in a 5:30 spin class. I revisited my old rituals: clothes out and ready, gym bag packed with water and a towel, cycling shoes removed from the shelf they live on most of the time.

I always say that there are only two places crowded at five in the morning: the airport and the gym. Today’s spin class was nearly full so the entry ticket I got at 5:10 was one of the last available.

Maybe it was my 9:30 bedtime last night or maybe it was simply the activity in the gym so early, but I felt energized. I spun, I pedaled, I pushed myself up fabricated hills and then raced down the backside of the same invisible climbs.

The others in my class, also devotees of this early morning religion, did the same. But with simple expressions and half-open eyes. The instructor called out (as in most spin classes) after the initial warm-up, “HOW ARE WE ALL DOING THIS MORNING?!?!?” This question, that would normally have garnered hoots, shouts and hollers from a 7PM class, was met with nothing.

Crickets and the whirr of the ceiling fans.

I gave a thumbs up, but even I wasn’t up for cheering that early in the morning. We all were still negotiating with ourselves, apologizing to our bodies for the early hour and making pacts with our minds that we would try our hardest, but certainly not yell.

I finished my whole (and calorie torching) workout by 6:45 this morning. I’ve freed the rest of my day up to care for my coughing daughter, do the dishes and maybe (hopefully) sit down to read a book at some point.

It would be foolish to say that I will do this everyday. That I could return to my early morning religion, every week, six days a week. Even with the added schedule benefits of working out so early, I don’t think I can return to the practice. Not everyday.

Once a week, maybe, I can be a zealot.

I hesitate to even write this because when it goes down on paper/blog, it seems like a forever thing.

I mean, you can’t really kill information. Everything I write here online will forever be a part of the contribution of ones and zeroes in the large scheme of human history. Even if Google and WordPress crash and every blogger everywhere loses all of their archived posts, somehow, somewhere the information can be retrieved.

So you know what I mean when I get a little worried somehow that something I write is in its own way an entity, a being with its own life. It is permanent.

So when I say that I think I might be ready to begin my book, I hesitate…is this a commitment I’m making to myself? Is it a commitment I’m making to blog readers? Simply saying that I am ready to begin to write this thing seems like a permanent thing.

I worry…

• They will all ask me how I’m coming; if it is finished,
• What if the idea I have right now is really stupid and I don’t actually write it,
• Maybe I’m overestimating the time I will have this year to devote myself to it,
• Some people pump out books like every 4 months, others take years to complete…what if I’m a five-year-author?
• If I fail, ahhh disappointment (if I just do it and not announce it, no one will know if I fail…but then where is the openness?),
• And last, but perhaps the biggest concern, 2009 seems to be the year where everyone is working on a book. I’ve read blog posts stating in certain terms that “everyone should write a book, but not everyone should publish one.” I’m aware that I’m one in a million or more.

So that is the whole of it. I think I’m ready to begin. I am going to start. And nothing more. I have no lofty write-a-chapter-every-week goal. I can’t give more than a few focused hours a week to it. But I am going to start.

That’s it. I’m going to launch myself into writing my book. As much as I can and still be a mom and fold my laundry.

I never learned how to dance.

I mean I can now (sort of). There was a quick love affair with swing dancing in the 90s and a few night club trips in Mexico years ago. But I never hung ballet slippers in my closet or polished tap shoes when I was a little girl. I didn’t carry a dance bag or wear pink leotards (unless you count my brief pre-school stint in gymnastics in 1978). I watched Fame reruns but I never dreamed about living in New York to go to an arts school.

It just wasn’t a part of my childhood culture.

By the time I was a teenager, I always envied the cheerleaders who could dance the routines at half-time with ease, swinging wool pleated skirts that barely covered their rears without a hint of embarrassment. Maybe more than simply wishing I could dance, I wished I was confident enough to dance.

I danced a little bit through high school, but it was usually with stiff-ish movements, hoping no one would actually stare at me, at MY body. I was heavier then, but I was so uncomfortable with my own arms, my own legs.

I wonder now, if I had learned how to dance when I was young, if I would have had the same self-concept issues I struggle with even now. Or if a certain level of body awareness early on would have helped me become comfortable in my own skin as I got older.

My older daughter has gravitated toward body-aware, individual sport disciplines. She’s taken horseback riding lessons for three years and gymnastics classes for four. Riding has improved her posture, strengthened her legs and given her control over a powerful animal 20 times her size. Gymnastics is teaching her focus, increasing her upper body strength, and helping her to become aware of the possibilities of her own limbs.

I don’t know how long she’ll continue in either of her sports. But at the very least I do want her to glean some confidence, awareness and poise from them. I know that she’ll have the normal junior high horror stories and the typical high school attempts at fitting in or feeling left out. But hopefully before then, she will know what it feels like to be good at something, and feel confident in her own body’s ability to perform.

She may not be a dancer, but maybe she can survive high school someday with a little more courage than her mother.

When I was in 2nd grade, I was sent to a spelling bee.

This was far before I knew anything about spelling bees. Before I knew that they were kinda geeky. Or before I knew that it was kinda special that I was going. I just went.

I asked my mother about it recently and she says she remembers quizzing me on words to prepare. I have no idea how I was chosen; if I had been the top spelling scorer on a test (possible) or if I was just a favorite of our teacher (not likely) or if it was random (probable). Regardless, I was chosen to represent my class and I went…with the third grade teacher and another boy I didn’t know at all.

I remember that I was on some kind tiered platform or stage. I remember having to wear a dress. I remember being very scared. And I remember going out on the first word.

I do not remember which seven-letter, second-grade level English word that tripped me up, only that it was easy, and I froze. I just froze. I knew it and I couldn’t get it out.

In the years between second grade and twelfth grade I froze during a 6th grade debate on artificial vs. real Christmas trees; in 11th grade speech class on how to apply makeup and in a skit in a drama talent show during my senior year.

That gripping, stomach-pulling, time-arresting, tongue-numbing, feeling of utter blank. As if a never-before-written-on dry erase board has invaded my mind and blinded me. There is nothing there, nothing to draw from and nothing can pull me back into reality.

Since then, I’ve learned to speak in front of groups both juvenile and adult with partial ease. I worked on a communications emphasis in college and I loved my drama classes. I taught middle school and learned to lecture. I teach a Bible study on Thursdays. But there is always something in the back of my mind waiting to pounce, waiting to thrust me into the purgatory of forgetfulness.

So when I do speak or teach, I have to be mindful to always stay present. Never to let my mind wander. Never to, really, think TOO hard, but instead let the flow of what I know take over my words and just talk.

I’ve learned, slowly, to overcome those fears that made my teeth and tongue ice over in second grade. Careful preparation and practice coupled with an easygoing attitude toward speaking in public has helped me avoid stage fright in recent years.

Just never put me on a stage in front of 150 parents and teachers and ask me to spell “penguin” or “balloon”. I might just freeze.

Is anyone coming to this?

Mt. Hermon Writer’s Conference

I’m going. And so are some amazing bloggers I know.

Annie,
Mel,
Brad…

and you?

Our Disneyland passes expire in March.

Bought at a less tight time, we probably won’t be able to renew them. And because Disneyland is free until you are three years old (and then almost $100 for a single day pass everyday thereafter) up until now, we have only had to purchase 3 passes. My toddler has been free.

Her birthday is in two weeks. And then she will be expensive.

So I’d been planning all week to take her today. By myself when her sister was in school. Just her so she could, at her whim, visit any ride she wanted without the desires of a 7-year-old sister guiding her.

I’m ditching my plans. Its raining. And not just spitting like it usually does here, but pouring. And she has the beginnings of a cold. So we are staying home. We might visit the library or the bookstore, but we won’t be riding in an open air tram and child-sized rollercoasters.

And plus, too much of something good might actually not be good for her. We will go one more time before her birthday (perhaps to celebrate her birthday) but allowing my girls to get used to a luxury has its detriments.

I never want them to become bored with something as grand as Disneyland. I don’t want them to expect it, think it is owed them. I don’t want them to become spoiled.

Having an expiration date on something like this is a good thing, I believe. There might be 6 months or a year or two years that go by without going back to Disneyland. And when we do, it will be all new to them, all exciting and all of it a treat in itself.

I’m afraid we are Wii Flops.

We admit it. We confess it. And now we are ready to start again. Please be patient with us.

The Wii Fit IS responisble for my sprained wrist. And Chad’s Wii Me is asleep. Sooo…

We are sorry. We will try to do better.

The Markleys Get Wii Fit #3 from Sarah Markley on Vimeo.