I feel very fortunate to be featured in an article inthe September issue of the Forestry Source, a monthly newspaper through the Society of American Foresters (SAF). The piece is titled "Profile of a Scientist as an Artist," and I got the chance to talk about how I combine science and art. It was such a wonderful experience, and I am so thankful to SAF and to the Forestry Source. Please give it a read! You can view the online version here. Thank you so much!

Here's a peek of the front page, featuring one of my paintings!

I got to do a little interview for my department's webpage as a featured story. How exciting! If you don't know, I am a graduate student in the College of Forestry at Oregon State University, in the department of Forest Ecosystems and Society. Very happy for the chance to talk a little bit about science and art. Please go check it out, here! Thank you!

A poster I am pleased with, for the Diverse Perspectives in Forestry Group (DPFG) here in the OSU College of Forestry. I am very proud of the DPFG, a group I am grateful to be a co-founder of with my fantastic fellow master's student. I was asked to help put together a poster to use for events, and it was a good opportunity to use this little piece of art.

A couple more little sketches from my Flora of the Pacific Northwest class. The best way to learn something in detail is to tediously replicate it. Gotta love botanizing! : )

In my most recent posts, I have spoken mostly in a candid tone of frustration, hurt, sadness, and disappointment. As I said in my previous post, please: forgive me my gloom. Those are some of the most primary feelings on my mind at present. I hope that changes. I am working hard to change it. It is not what I like to be known for. But it will take time, and my own pace. I feel that, in the past, I have been able to move through things in a way that I cannot do right now. This is partly because things have built up for me, my bitterness and frustration and jealously even. And anger.

Now, because of that, I wanted to take a few moments to share some thoughts on these feelings, and explore them.

Some updates (May, 2016): Fear not, I am improving and my pluck is slowly returning. But, because I believe expressions of frustration have great value, I will leave the original post intact to reflect upon. . .

I have long considered a PhD. In fact, as I was searching for a graduate program prior to my Master's (a process that in and of itself was difficult), you may be aware that I considered the possibility of going directly into my PhD instead of doing a Master's. Ultimately, due to the combination of the funding situation and much thought and uncertainty, benefits and disadvantages either way, I decided to start with my Master's. I wonder often if this was the right choice, as I realized shortly into my Master's that I did feel well-prepared and ready to have been working at a PhD level. Nonetheless, I mostly feel good about the option of choosing my Master's, and that it has been useful. At the very least it has shown me beyond any doubt that I feel and likely am very prepared for my PhD. Though I do think, wistfully sometimes, how I would be half way through my PhD at this point had I chosen that route from the start here at OSU...... This summer, I thought a number of times about the caliber of my research, for example. Well, hopefully it was of a high caliber. Who knows. I have my doubts, of course, but the fact that I had designed most aspects of it, taught myself most of the plant physiology techniques, and managed things alone is certainly encouraging. Contemplating this in and of itself made me realize that, yes, I had likely been ready for my PhD already. But, my Master's degree has allowed me to sharpen myself, and has also allowed me to take some useful (and some not-so-useful) courses, and to work on my skills. That is all valuable. So it is.

In any case, my point is that a PhD has been a goal of mine for a long time, always just on the horizon. Something I've been chasing. In December, my applications were very precious to me even if they were few. I very deeply regret not being able to apply to a broader range of programs -- a regret you will perhaps understand more pointedly as you read -- but had so little time that I really do find it miraculous that I got anything organized at all. Regardless, I chose carefully. I knew there was much risk in building up my aspirations so, for each time I have done so in the past I have inevitably faced painful, stinging road-blocks or rejections. Yet, I have been told by many of my high-level of qualification, the depth of my experiences, and my value as a student. (All very kind words, to be sure, for which I am very honored! Yet, these accolades rarely seem to bear fruit, regrettably, and I am also very hesitant to believe them at this point). So I knew it would be a gamble of how much disappointment I could handle, against the chance of achieving my aspirations. Regardless, I felt some level of value in myself and my worth and my skill. I have worked very hard, and tried to do my best in all that I can. Likewise, I felt some level of confidence that I could be accepted, and I applied to an ambitious program with this confidence. A confidence, which, I truly do not feel is inaccurate or misplaced in myself. Even if I prefer humbleness, I will not deny at this point that I think I am very highly-qualified in my field, and I am proud of the hard work and diligence that has contributed to this. (One would think that confidence is a good thing. In reality, I have found, it mostly just makes things feel more disappointing. Again and again.)

Well, as I have learned, I might have guarded myself a little better against such predictable disappointment.

It has been some time since I have written or posted of my thoughts. In truth, graduate school has been very consuming these past months, perhaps no surprise. My research over the summer took quite a bit out of me, as I pushed myself very hard, and in many respects I am still seeking ways to recover. The summer was filled with learning and growth, to be sure, but often of the form that comes from pulling yourself doggedly, persistently, exhaustingly through a difficult situation. In the end, I think, I was able to complete some very in depth, very interesting research -- and in many ways, certainly, that has been very rewarding. I am not un-proud of my accomplishments, nor would I diminish that growth and opportunity. See, for example, how happy I look (to the left) measuring "fluorescence" after teaching myself how to assemble the machine, and teaching myself how to take said measurements. Certainly, there were exciting aspects of my summer. Perhaps, as I continue the daunting task of sifting through my results, I will write more on what I learned, what I found, and explain more of the tree physiology and science aspects of it. In fact, I am sure I will write such a post, because despite the rather down-beat tone of what I will express in this post, there are many exciting things to share about the summer and my beautiful, darling seedlings, and what they taught me. (And, as I realize now, I have not yet fully explained my research and my experiment, and just what I was doing. So I shall save the long story for another time, because in my plant-loving opinion, it is very interesting! Short story: I was researching drought tolerance and drought acclimation of Douglas-fir and loblolly pine in my experiment, as described in my post from back in June. I used plant physiology techniques, many of which I taught myself or which I, thankfully, had used in past experiences and was able to brush up on my own. Which came in handy, because I was pretty darn independent for my experiment.)

      However, I often cannot fully mask my grimace when I think over the past months. I found that I faced frustration, perceived unfairness, and often faced what, to me, seemed to a string of entirely needless challenges, (but also due to the somewhat self-induced scope of my research experiment). I sometimes questioned whether I was being a little misused. That sounds rather harsh, and I do not mean it to be quite so. On the spectrum of unfairness, certainly, I have been spared graduate school situations that could be far worse and I have no illusions about that. I have grown greatly from my time in graduate school, and value many of my experiences, truly and deeply. This past summer was a part of that growth. Nonetheless, I began to increasingly question the lack of support I encountered this summer (which occurred for a number of reasons, most of them totally unintentionally). As I noted, it was all very independent: from designing the experiment, to carrying it out, I feel rather confident in saying it was a lot of my own ambitions. In fact, that is perhaps a double-edged sword: despite whatever frustrations I mean to express, I do genuinely feel pride in the fact that, as a Master's student, I was given the chance to carry out my own predominantly self-directed research, and I do feel huge gratitude for that opportunity, to be in charge of myself and so much of my investigation. My advisor puts a lot of confidence in my abilities, and I value that immensely (she is often very encouraging). However, my research escalated during July, August, and September into endless 80 to 90 hour work weeks, during which I had quite literally not a single day fully off from my experiment and was never away from the greenhouse where my experiment was housed. I felt, a number of times, to be mistreated. I felt guilty if I did not work constantly, and guilted as well on multiple occasions. I became exhausted. I felt a tiredness seep into my bones stronger then almost ever before. I was drained to an extent that I have rarely, if ever, experienced both physically and mentally. Now, I would say right here that I never expected my research to be easy, nor for graduate school to be easy. The stories I hear from other graduate students past and present indicate that I am not at all alone in feeling stretched and overworked. And I would say that I put in my time, that I worked hard. Very hard. I have always worked hard. Yet this was something beyond what even I could, truly, handle without the loss of my happiness and health. Not so much because of the work, but because of the endlessness, the stress, the anxiety, the uncertainty, the needless disappointments, the lack of any moment to catch my breath, the sometimes strained relationship with my professor because of both of our stress, how other experiments seemed (to me,  in my biased state) to cause such unnecessary added stress, and the number of times I had to figure things out so entirely on my own, relying on my limited though diligent wit and my deep capacity for gritting my teeth and striding onward. The number of times I had to pretend everything was okay, that I was doing fine, and to carry on without respite, because the alternative was giving up. The alternative was to make moot all of what I had already worked so hard for to that point. It felt very much like an endless losing battle, with no real hope for victory, but darn it, I was going to try for a draw at least.

But the truth ran often through my mind: my experiment required far more (wo)manpower than myself alone, and if it were not for the help and sympathy of my sister (who volunteered quite a few times when I reached desperate straits) I would not have been able to accomplish very much in depth, even despite some help from a few student workers who were largely shared with a different experiment. To make up for that lack of (wo)manpower, I strained myself -- to take multiple measurements at once, staying late into the evening until there was no more light to work, and then going home and taking more measurements. I slept very little, and when I did it was never restful and always plagued by thoughts of measurements, my mind cycling through my anxieties and seemingly endless list of "to do's." I felt anger, also, because I knew well what was being sacrificed in terms of the quality of what my experiment could have been in better situations, anger at myself for not being able to do more, anger at others, anger at the situation. I felt jaded, resentful, uncertain. I felt trapped too, and though my advisor is in many respects very kind, nonetheless it felt to me that they often alternated between hard-to-read, sparse, and guilting, and then (when my exhaustion became clear) sporadically sympathetic but generally un-alleviating. Moreover, some of the complexity that was causing me such duress was my own, and I knew it, though I knew also that it should be feasible. And my advisor was grappling with many stresses herself. (Perhaps the seedlings were having their revenge upon us, for stressing them out with our studies!) Finally and nearly too late I gained at least one student worker to help me specifically, but the endlessness did not seem to diminish. And such tiredness I felt. In that exhaustion, I am sure, my thoughts regarding the situation and that time were and perhaps are still often biased by these feelings. I also dislike to complain, or to sound ungrateful, and I do not mean to be so in sharing these thoughts. I recognize that these are, largely, perhaps, trivial issues and I deeply value the opportunities I have had, but I also recognize the effect these past months have had on me, which has not been wholly trivial. I have tried hard, in the past, to remain positive and cheerful and to hide my discontent. To make the best of things, if I can. This time, it got the better of me, and I can hear it in my words even when I try to hide it. So, better to be honest about it, I think.   

      The work for my experiment continued on into the fall, and this, in the end, was in greatest part due to my own stubbornness to do things well and to do things right and to honor the experiment, and the work, as well as my own high expectations and the expectations I perceived of me. I wanted to do the best I could. The greenhouse portion of my experiment, thankfully, blessedly, ended in mid-October, at which point I was finally able to learn a new technique with clear instruction, and I proceeded with measurements in the lab. Yet, I had stepped from full-throttle, 80-90 hour weeks directly into classes, continuing still with measurements and long days. I had never had a chance to catch my breath, as though the finish to a marathon had been moved beyond sight into the distance, and all water with it. There was no denying the way this drained me. Unlike in the past, where I have been able to pick myself up and stride onward with some resilience after facing difficulty, I found that I could barely pull myself forward. I did not have the energy anymore, nor, perhaps, the will. I had not had chance to recover, and now I felt damaged. Like a tire, punctured too many times and now un-patchable, such that any movement whatsoever came at great (sometimes insurmountable) physical and mental effort. As the summer and fall had progressed, I had also gotten to run less and less, rarely got to be outdoors, rarely got to do anything that was not research or stress. It came to the point that I was lucky to run once a week, an opportunity that was no longer enjoyable but exhausting and anxious and discouraging, as my body was worn down, and losing fitness. If you know me, I am someone who generally runs at least a handful of days a week, so running once or not at all in a week is always a clear sign that I am not doing well. So that certainly affected me. I felt so worn, and disappointed, and unhealthy, and torn between obligations and work and stress -- all the while wanting nothing more than to disappear. I wanted everyone and everything to leave. me. alone., but of course that never seemed to happen, and I continued to be worn away until I felt a despondent shell of myself.

 At the same time, I was able to take a class that, possibly more than anything else, saved me. It may sound silly, but as someone outdoorsy, and someone who loves (and studies!) trees, the chance to take a course in tree-climbing as part of my graduate education was something absolutely joyous for me. Courses such as this remind me of some of the benefits of a forestry program. When I had learned about this course shortly after beginning my Master's, I had made it a goal to take it. As it is only offered in fall terms, this was my chance, and tiredness and lack of time aside, I was not going to lose that chance. It was challenging, to be sure, given my limited remaining mental and physical capacities, combined with a memory that has really never been especially strong (making knot memorization for the class tricky!). Some of the gear and set up did not come naturally to me, but my stubbornness aided me again, and my unrelenting stubbornness alone seems to have stayed with me in great force and more intact than my other capacities. I took a particular liking to the climbing techniques that used minimal technology, and though these techniques were slower and required more muscling than grace on my part, they were rewarding. If you are not familiar with tree-climbing, it is often used by arborists, and often involves ropes (similar to rock-climbing set ups) and depending on the technique usually uses some form of "ascender" which allows the climber to ascend with minimal physical effort. (And there are also spur climbing techniques) Even so, I found myself drawn most of the time towards the traditional techniques techniques, using foot locks or body thrusts to move up the rope and up the trunk of the tree. Although I was very un-confident in myself, and frequently felt embarrassed for the slowness of my learning abilities (slow to begin with in most cases, but absolutely hampered during that time out of my consuming stress). Yet, I made it a strategy to be amusing and persistent, if I could not be talented. I greatly appreciated the enthusiastic spirit of the instructors, and their willingness to provide climbing opportunities. I got to join them for a tree-job on a weekend, creating snags out of very tall Douglas-fir trees, during which time I learned how to use a chainsaw and a hand saw. Snags are trees that are left standing, usually with limbs removed to some degree, in order to encourage birds and wildlife to inhabit it. They are sometimes created for this purpose by landowners or left in plantation stands, but also occur naturally after fires, storms, or the natural death of a tree that remains upright. Myself and one of my friends/fellow students got to spur climb and limb one of these large trees with handsaws. It was almost comical, because I suspect we were sent up the tree to keep us occupied and largely forgotten about as we climbed ever higher, limbing the tree, quite far up! It is a good memory, perched by our boots with my friend, looking out into the expansive view of the forest and valley below and joking (with some nervousness, of course) about our spurs kicking out (i.e. slipping) and how we had inadvertently created many perfect, spear-like cut branches upon which we should try our best not to impale ourselves. Spur climbing, by the way, is not commonly done anymore except in cases where the tree is to be removed or is dead. This is because the spurs, attached to the heals of your boots, stab into the trunk of the tree an inch or so and this can cause wounds in the tree that could result in infection or disease. It was more prevalent in the past, especially for felling and timber operations. That said, it is pretty fun, and I was glad for the chance to practice it. It was one of the techniques that I really enjoyed, because it is relatively simple, and muscle helps you out.

      This course was very liberating, in so many ways, despite the challenge and frequent uncertainty or lack of confidence that came with it. I had been trapped inside a greenhouse all summer. I had not gotten to be outdoors at all, where my heart is. This had been so draining for me, so disheartening, so frustrating. I had even grown a sickly pale as the summer had passed, since I was rarely in natural sunlight. (My greenhouse was very dim, as I realized pointedly, since I was measuring light levels all summer! So I know exactly how dim it was, at intervals of 5 minutes everyday through the duration  of the summer!) If you know me, you will know how important it is for me to be outdoors. So through this course, I got to be outdoors. Indeed, I had to be outdoors! We got to climb a 90 or so meter Doug-fir, all the way to the tip-top on one particular day. I have, of course, never in my life gotten to be held by such high-up branches of a tree. Looking out upon the forest, clinging to the crown of this old tree, up above the canopy. As one of my fellow graduate students, who climbs such trees for her research, has told me before: through climbing you must get to know the tree, to form a relationship with it, to trust it, to learn its form. I will admit, I held very tightly to that tree! I am not too frightened by heights, except when I am responsible for keeping myself from falling or when switching ropes, but I was not about to let go of that branch. On the climb up, I had to slip and scramble in between tight gaps between branches, and so it was scrambling and weaving my way down, covered in resin and needles. Although the course ended with the start of winter, I am very much hoping to, at some point, get my own tree-climbing ropes and gear and perfect at least one of the techniques. The course has given me a good base, and if I keep working, maybe one day I can get certified. Or, perhaps even better, incorporate tree climbing into my future work or research. Oh, you need a measurement from the top of the tree? No problem! I'll just climb up there!

     With December and the winter came "winter break." During this time, I was fortunate to be able to come home to Minnesota, to see my family and my little brother, my aunt Didi, celebrate my 26th birthday, and to see some very good friends. Also during December, I would like to note, I was finally able to visit one of my oldest friends, Sara, who is living in New York City. She has lived out there for a number of years now, and although we have been friends since elementary school, I had not seen her in possibly a couple years! I had begun to feel this separation increasingly, and to worry, and to miss her. I decided, spuriously and perhaps financially irresponsibly, that to heck with it I would go to New York and visit her. Sara came to visit me back when I was in Japan, and that was one of the last times we had spent much time together. I had never yet been to visit her in New York in return, and I felt it was time. I am no fan of big cities, and have never had a desire to see one of the world's largest and busiest. But if Sara was out there, and staying out there so long, then gosh-darn-it I would go there to see her. Deciding to make such a trip definitely, definitely did not help alleviate my stress levels or to help me in my endeavor to catch up on seemingly endless work, but I a deeply glad that I did it. There are reasons, I think, Sara and I have been friends for so long and I value that friendship very profoundly. Old friends seem to slip into old ways very easily and naturally, and it feels so comfortable to be around a dear friend. I have missed her, and we have both probably changed, but my fears that we had wholly drifted were abated. I very much cherished the handful of days I got to spend with her, and was also very grateful to her for showing me patiently around New York. I was just happy to get to see her. And, as it turns out, New York City isn't so intimidating. (Central Park is very nice, and has some very lovely trees, especially the sycamores.) I also felt very fortunate to spend time during December with another of my oldest friends, Carolyn, who I have known since middle school, and her beautiful family. To pay my respects to Wendy, her mom. And to sled (and smack into a tree) with two fellow St. Olaf alums, Maddie and Lisa, to have lunch with Lisa and her wonderful boyfriend Stuart, and to visit a dear track team mate, Gina. So these were all experiences I was very grateful for.

     However, I never seemed to find "rest" during December, and although it was allegedly "winter break" it never felt like a "break" from anything. Just rushing from one thing to another. This is, partly, because December is the time that graduate school applications are due. I had a lot of work to catch up on, and the first part of December was a whirlwind of anxiousness and application writing. Throughout the fall, in addition to my remaining measurements, my courses, and a grant proposal application, I had been trying hard to sort out the possibilities for my future -- for my PhD. I had wanted to consider more programs than I was able to, but could only muster time to research a few, and to prepare those applications. I feel, looking back, that it is somewhat of a miracle I was able to summon this energy at all, and to submit anything anywhere. Nonetheless, I feel the regret keenly, that I was not able to look into more programs -- programs that, as I continue to learn more about options (which takes time),  seem as though they might have been great fits for me.  Even so, I summoned all the energy I could, I gathered all the focus I could muster, all the persistence and hard work I could, into sculpting these applications. I poured my hopes, my aspirations, my ambition, all of this into my applications. Recently, I faced some rather significant discouragement in this regard, which I will perhaps write about in the next post.

       At the moment, I am reminding myself to take a deep breath, and be grateful. It is becoming, sometimes, easier and my mind and body are becoming, sometimes, happier which hopefully will continue to be the case. That mentality, of taking deep breaths, of seeking gratitude, has oftentimes helped to sustain me in the past, when I have encountered difficulty or struggled with myself. A form of centering myself. These days, the combination of many forces, present and over the years -- my fatigue and tiredness from the summer and graduate school, long-pent up issues related to my family and their various situations, as well as family relationships in general, emotional struggles, sadnesses, regrets, grief, guilts, anxiety, depression -- finally got the better of me. Finally, likely due to my research frustrations and anxieties and ceaseless grind wearing me down at last, it became such that I could not re-center myself for a time with any methods. I felt, towards the end of the fall and into the winter, feelings of such strong depression and anxiety that I, nearly, could not overcome. For one of the first times, I was fully swept away, and grappled to regain control. I generally keep such things very secret, because I never wish to worry or burden others. Yet, if I am honest, what I imagine must be some form of depression, and likely some form of anxiety, has haunted me for some time, likely since high school, and probably stemming from a number of sources. I remember being asked this question by a classmate once in high school, to which I responded that no, I just have a sad looking face but I'm fine! In college, my coach once asked me if I had considered that I may be depressed. I always denied it, to myself as well as to others. I also imagine that the truth has been more apparent to others than I might wish, but it may also be a surprise to some. I try very, very hard to mask things, to mask struggle or unhappiness or discontent. I suppose I probably fail at that fairly often.

     Generally, however,  I have been able to keep myself under control, or to keep such feelings at bay and keep going. To move forward, and often to find genuine happiness. Usually, such unhappiness or discontent or sadness, whatever feeling it is, is rather small, and only a minor hamperment.  Something that is there, in the back of my mind due to any combination of past and/or present issues, but, if I am in a good situation or kept motivated, it shrinks or is pushed away and is less troublesome or almost forgotten. Sometimes in my life, it has been rather strong, and sometimes I did not recognize what it likely is. During some periods of my life, maybe, it has even abated altogether. It is only in the past couple years that I ever let myself consider that it might be the case, that maybe that would explain things. It almost felt to be a relief, to make that admission to myself.  But over the past 6 months it has been especially strong, those feelings depression and anxiety, and I have little doubt my graduate school situation played a part. I found that I lacked all will, that I wanted desperately to disappear. To be gone. In the past, when I have become especially overwhelmed with these feelings, I have been able to move forward with deep breaths. To remember the immense gift of being alive, of breathing, of a beating heart, the feel of the wind, or earth, or the wonder of the stars, and the trees, and the birds. Reasons for sticking around and reasons to smile or to be happy are many, and I could encourage myself in these small ways. That was generally enough. So, I have usually been able to find focus, and move forwards, to summon a passion for things that are good in this world, or to dedicate myself to some goal or ambition. This time, it seemed to hurt, which has only ever happened once or twice before and never to such a prolonged degree. To hang on me heavily and unrelentingly. I could not pull myself out of it. I found that my brain was very affected as well -- I could hardly think, many days, and could not accomplish very much without great effort. I worked hard to hide this, but it more often than not felt as though I was drifting about, and fumbling to grasp what I could.

     It has taken quite a bit more work than usual, this time, but somehow, things seem to be improving. Some of that weight has lifted. I think that, as the days grow longer, this has helped. I am also quite affected by the sun and by daylight, and the winter in the Pacific Northwest becomes very grey and rainy. Beautiful, in many ways (especially the lichens this year, which were breathtaking). But it can be oppressive sometimes, too. Especially when sunshine is something that helps to center you, and you aren't especially fond of cold raindrops, and are worn out. Deep focus and thought and quiet perseverance have also helped, as well as moving on from disappointments and letting go of some expectations. Additionally, I am a very introverted person, and I have allowed myself to protect my solitude more so than I might have in the past, growing to recognize how vital solitude is to help me recharge myself. Time alone, in peace and calm, is often most restful and healing to me. I yearn for it, throughout the week. Yearn for the chance to be on my own, for my thoughts to be, briefly, my own, and to be relieved of the stress of functioning among others. Active things like running or hiking are also generally healing for me, though they take quite a bit of motivation to do sometimes. And these activities can sometimes be more healing with a friend, and sometimes more healing on my own. At present, my brain still feels as though it is working on empty, or that it has turned off and I'm searching for the right switch to get it functioning again. Even so, it is improving. With the spring arriving quickly here in Oregon, and the daffodils and crocuses poking up, the buds bursting like emeralds on spindly branches, and the rain breaking more and more with occasional sun, I am also finding encouragement and energy. Oregon, as I am experiencing more and more, is a spectacularly beautiful place. It has made its way into my heart, the scent of its air, the fascinating complexities of its forests. It is incredible, and I feel very fortunate to be here.

     Beyond the stress of my research and academic life, I am also very closely involved in social justice issues here in my department and College of Forestry. After taking on many of these duties during the Fall term, at a time when perhaps I was too stretched, I had been especially pulled between obligations. I felt as though there was no time at all for myself, for my own healing, and that is not a wise thing to neglect. It will get you, in the end. At some point, I had to admit to at least one other that I was feeling broken and I could not be relied upon as I might wish. This admission hurt. I do not like letting others down. But it had to be. Since then, I have been working to build myself up again. I have found immense drive through some of my recent activities, coordinating meetings with the college regarding cultural inclusion and the tribes of Oregon in regards to the design of the future forestry building here at Oregon State. This is something profoundly important to me, and an opportunity that I am deeply grateful to be involved in, and a topic about which I have many thoughts. Those thoughts may be for a later date to share. Needless to say, however, the will to do what is right is something that often helps to push me onward. I am also hoping to coordinate, possibly, a speaker series for the next term as well, and feel great excitement over those possibilities.

     So, overall, during the past few months, I have certainly felt challenged (not necessarily in ways that I would like) but continue to grow. I am looking forward to the summer, and hoping to graduate at the end of spring. Wish me luck, in that! I will need it. I have lots and lots of data to sort through and analyze, and a thesis to write. I also await the time when I decide what to do next, regarding my education. That decision is fast approaching. We shall see.

Recently, I wrote about my love of running and being active, and shared some of my positive running experiences. There is another aspect of running, and perhaps generally being a woman, that I did not share at that time and would like to talk about briefly here. It is not so positive. That is catcalling (and worse things), cars, and men. Or, more to the point: men shouting from cars. The summer is particularly plagued by this disgusting, entitled behavior.

Even if you don't run, perhaps you can relate -- really, the issue at hand in this case is not so much running, as what one frequently encounters as a woman who happens to be running. If you can't relate, it is probably good information for you to know. I bring it up spurred by a string of recent and particularly frustrating incidents.

Coursework, experiment/research planning, exams, endless scientific papers, numerous meetings with professors, etc. sucked up much of my year. But, I have hoarded away a small amount of time for a few other endeavors. Running, primarily. And a bit of painting/writing. But for now let's talk about the running. As those of you who know me are aware, I am often running. Sometimes, it is out of obligation to stay fit, but sometimes it is for enjoyment or peace. In fact, this started out towards the end of high school because I wanted to get in better shape, and had always been an active person (playing soccer, basketball, and hockey with some skill in the first and relatively little in the latter). I really started to enjoy running, however, in college when I joined track and field and then cross country. Through athletics at St. Olaf, I learned to push myself far beyond what I thought myself capable of. I remember running 8 miles for the first time with cross country (it was hard, at least for me, green and inexperienced as I was). Then, for other workouts, gradually farther. During those first years of cross country, I felt like Samwise Gamgee many times when he remarks that he has taken the farthest steps from home. Each step was a bit farther, and a new limit. However, my true love was always track and field and "long sprinting" (I started out with sprinters) and middle distance (I like to claim that I run everything from the 200m to the 1500m, and while it is hard to choose a favorite, the 600m and 800m are probably them).  I did cross country to improve myself for track, and for the challenge. But it was definitely more difficult for me -- in a different way from the challenges and difficulty of track and field -- since cross country and distance running lacked the enjoyment and love that I had for the track. There are few feelings more dear to me than racing track and field, and a close second would be training for track and field. I love it. I often regret that I only started in college, and that I missed out on four potential years of competing in high school. At the same time, perhaps starting later saved me from injuries as I never did get injured during collegiate track and field (and that is a rare thing). It could also be my ox-like build and blood. I'm not the toughest, or the strongest, or the fastest, or the smartest, but I am pretty stubborn mentally and physically. So, as you might gather, distance was not the most pleasant for me during that time and I certainly would have chosen 800m repeats any day over a long run. And a long run, to me at that time, was probably anything beyond 5 miles. It just didn't feel fun and exhilarating like sprinting/mid-distance. The 800m can be grueling -- just as grueling as a distance race -- but it is of a different sort. It is intense, but brief. You pour everything into it that you can, and have to summon all that you can then and there. There is strategy, but only enough strategy as can fit into less than 2 and 1/2 minutes at the most. It is hard, and it is a challenge, but I always loved it. Distance, on the other hand, seemed to drag on forever. It was a challenge that did not appeal to me.  It seemed less of a "race" to me (personally, not literally) and more of a "I am subjecting myself to an extended period of pain and I don't even get to sprint" experience. I had ample respect for distance runners, but never saw myself as being able to do what they do (and not really wanting to, or imagining that I might enjoy distance running given my sprinting inclinations). 

You may then be surprised to learn that this year I ran my first ultra marathon -- and a trail ultramarathon. The McDonald Forest 50k (31.3 miles) of trail and 7,000 feet in elevation gain (and loss!). You might also remember that towards the end of my time in Japan, I ran the 2013 Hokkaido Marathon. Training for that marathon and that challenge brought with it a change in perspective. I trained for it alone, and without much idea of how to train besides a bit of online reading. Once I got myself to a baseline of decent distance fitness, adding mileage became. . . well, sort of enjoyable. For the Hokkaido marathon, this peaked with the exhilaration of running 20 miles to reach the neighboring town. A thrill! And an adventure. I also found that if I slowed down my pace from middle-distance hare mode to sustainable tortoise mode, I could apparently run forever. Although cross-country was never quite as enjoyable to me as track and field, one aspect I had always loved was the time spent outdoors admiring and feeling and experiencing the land. So at worst, marathon training let me gaze lovingly at the land for hours on end, and to feel it beneath my (sometimes blistered and achy) feet. I was fortunate for that first marathon to be able to find some beautiful roads to run. One, following the Shinkawa river down towards the ocean and then in the case of running to the next town heading upwards along a road near to the ocean with occasional glimpses of the water. I went for a 10 mile run one week, 14 miles next, 18 miles, 20 miles . . . and then did the full 26.2 for the first time in the marathon.The training, of course, was physically challenging and I often had to push myself but it was rewarding and honestly, not really unpleasant at all (with the exception of one run with a very tough head-wind). And the marathon itself was, well. . . pretty easy and smooth. I admit, I did not "race" that marathon or push myself as perhaps I could have, and my time was a mediocre 4 hours. Nothing like the speedy olympians. I did it calmly, and to complete the distance. I did it cautiously. Having little experience with such distance, I was always waiting to hit the wall. But I never did and it was pretty comfortable. I was perplexed. And proud, and pleased, of course. I was most excited, probably, to tell former track-teammates and family that I had done it. It was something that no one would have expected me to do, and possibly something that some did not think I could do. But, because of my stubborness, I tend to assiduously try to do things people think I cannot. I had also, often, remarked during my time as a track athlete that the first person to run a marathon died doing it. This was usually said somewhat sarcastically -- it was meant to say: that's fine if others want to subject themselves to it, but I'm just as well with my 800m or 400m thank you very much. 

Well, after that marathon I began to understand how distance running can be enjoyable. As I mentioned, it came from changing my perspective. Changing my mentality. From embracing the calm of the long run, from pushing myself, from controlling myself, from step by step of exploration, and from taking a few leaps. (Because, after all, it was all uncharted territory and hey, who knew when my engine might quit? A dose of risk and some good leaps of faith in myself were requisite.) I taught myself during and after that first marathon to think with an open mind and fresh eyes to the experience. Not to compare it to sprinting or to track and field, but try it out for what it was. Not to compare any one experience to another, but to embrace each for what it is. That might not work for everyone or every situation, but mentality is a powerful thing and it can be an immense tool. It helped me to grow while I lived abroad, and it has helped me in many challenges to improve myself. It seems that shift was enough to transform a stubbornly devout-"long sprinter" to a distance runner (well, someone who can run a decent distance and usually enjoys it. Maybe not a "distance runner" per say!).

Changing mentality does not only apply to running. When I am in a difficult situation, when I feel tired, frustrated, angry, defeated... sometimes I let myself linger in that negativity and sometimes it is fine and healthy to acknowledge difficulty or other frustrated, tired, sad, or angry emotions. But you must move past them. Otherwise, you will weigh yourself down. Thus, as I have learned, if I can change my mentality and my perspective, things brighten. For example, instead of saying "I'm so tired", I can tell myself that I have worked hard, but I am alive, look what I have done, let's see what I can do. Isn't this a privilege, to push myself! I must embody gratitude. I can tell myself: I am breathing. I am standing. I am living. Embrace breathing. Enjoy the air. Enjoy the sun (or the beauty of the clouds, grey though they may be, or the touch of the wind). Take a deep breath. Admire the ground, the grass, the tree, the insects, the birds. Be grateful for my body, the atoms that I am fortunate to call "me" for the time being. In other situations, instead of saying, "I am so unlucky", reflect on better fortune. Remember that I have a home to live in (not to be taken for granted), that I have access to water (well....sometimes on runs I don't and that's tough! But I mean in general). Water is a precious, precious thing to be respected and to be grateful for. Think of how fortunate it is to get to drink something so nourishing. Or simply, remind myself that at one point something good happened to me and savor it. Tell myself, "Well, I do not like what is happening here, but let's change that for the future. Let's work on that." Anyways, there are many ways to change one's perspective. Sometimes, it works!

Armed with the experience of one marathon, and the surprise that it was not so very hard at least at my pace, I actually felt for a little while that other challenges were not such challenges anymore. Used correctly, this can be empowering. But it could also be, surprisingly, discouraging. "I can run a marathon", I would sometimes think, "so what is the point of running?" That is perhaps an exaggeration, and not really a good mentality at all, but what I mean to say is that I wondered "what next? What do I do now?" I felt that now running was like spinning my wheels, whittling away time, and what was I achieving? That is not so, of course! But in any case, I felt like I was stuck, was looking for something, and not sure what, and running had lost some spark. Having graduated from collegiate athletics, that fount of focus was also gone, and it stung bitterly. I had lost motivation -- not just because running suddenly seemed lacking or boring. It was probably also connected to dissatisfaction with my situation in life at that moment, with stress for family, for my future, and likely connected with depression unrelated to running but certainly affecting my motivation. I needed a change in my mentality, that was for sure!

50 mile or 100 mile races are typical ultra-marathons, and would be the next leap in distance if I wanted to do something longer, I thought. Yet those distances did not seem especially productive for me (and possibly overly ambitious and might lead to injury if done improperly). Alternatively, I supposed, I could do another marathon, and try to get faster. Or maybe try to accomplish something with 5k's or 10k's, despite never having much success against sleeker, slimmer, distance-types.

The answer slipped into my mind when I first visited Oregon State University last spring as I was trying to decide on a program. The graduate student I stayed with is a spectacularly active woman -- biking, running, rafting, skiing, mountain climbing -- she is inspiring. She took me for a short run, and told me about a race she had done last year called the Mac 50k. The trail she took me for the short run on lead up a hill, and I was not in great shape at that time. I had been skimping in my running, out of frustrating laziness, not going more than 5k distance in the chilly Minnesota winter and spring and lacking much of my past dedication. Minnesota is also comparatively flat and I had not run up a hill in some time (and generally had a practice of avoiding them). While trying to hide my gasps for air and to keep up, I listened to her tell me enthusiastically about the 50k. It was in the research forest connected to the very country park trails and woods we were in. 50k, I thought with a hidden roll of my eyes. That's 31.3 miles, I huffed and puffed to myself, that's a long ways on hills! Did I mention that my distaste for hills used to run (pun intended) about as deep as my distaste for distance? Or deeper. Ah, how I would whine about hill workouts. I always disliked that burn, slowness, and hopelessness of an uphill climb! So when I heard about this race, while struggling up a hill, I politely nodded but did not think it was for me.

But the seed was planted. 

When I moved out here to Corvallis OR to start graduate school last fall, I began to keep that race in mind. The apartment that I ended up in, in a spectacularly fortunate twist of fate and with a dash of diligence, is precisely where I am happiest -- close to the forest. A huge, beautiful forest which I have mentioned before, the McDonald-Dunn Research Forest. I was still in not so great running shape, but started to do some trail runs in the forest, seeking solace and exploration in my new surrounds. I still did not think I would be doing an ultramarathon. I learned more trails, and made a loop -- which I later learned was 9 miles --, frustrated with my poor fitness and choosing the toughest climbs to try to whip myself into better shape. The McDonald-Dunn research forest, less than a mile from my doorstep, is very hilly. Any forest out here in western Oregon is likely to be hilly. That is because the bulk of the forests coat the Coast Range of mountains (read: hills. They are definitely hills, not mountains in my book). In any case, the research forest is beautiful. It was always a little bit frightening to try to learn the trails on my own, but I kept pushing myself. Little by little, my running fitness started to improve again. I found many friends in my kind classmates. I started to settle. My mind was starting to work again. In general, I grew happier. And a bit stressed, of course, as graduate school will apparently do to a person.

When Christmas break rolled around, I was not unaware that the opening of registration for the Mac 50k was also around the corner. The race itself would be May 9th, but registration began January 1st. I registered that night. Suspicious behavior for someone previously "not interested" in running an ultra-marathon!  The next months brought some tentative training. I was still unconvinced the whole endeavor would work out. There was always a little risk in my mind (not wholly unfounded) that this might just not work. But little by little, I kept at it. I kept running in the forest. I sought out tougher hills, and longer runs. I burned myself out on a couple of 3 1/2 hour runs up 2,000 ft of elevation in the cold, misty, chilling wet of the Oregon winter. Ah, lots of cold mist and cold rain and soaking, muddy shoes and drenched clothes and pink skin. After a couple of those exhausting runs, I laid off. That was too much, and I was tired. This was going to be hard, I realized. It was late January/early February, and I had probably burnt myself out around that time. So I eased off of those really tough runs, but kept doing my 9 mile hill loop -- my comfort loop, that I could run without sight (and have, when it got dark too fast a couple times on those short winter days!).

Into March, it hit me that I had better as heck start training again. I only had 8 weeks before the race, so use them well and get serious! In somewhat of a panic, the next run I did was 20 miles. I jumped up from a maximum distance of about 10 to 14 miles at most to a 20 mile run, which is never especially wise. It could have been a disaster, but it was one of those leaps. Either I would be able to do it, or it would be a long walk home. Always a little frightening! The loop I ran was also on the roads out to the countryside, not in the forest, and thus considerably flatter. This helped, and the first 14 miles were a pretty smooth and controlled "trot." But I will say that I did not run one step beyond 20 miles that day, no sir. I was parched, and achy, and realized at mile 20 that the loop was actually just over 21.5 miles so I walked that last 1.5 miles which is one of the first times in many years that I have allowed myself to walk during a solo run. From there, my "short" runs became longer and easier,  not bad at all. It stopped raining as incessantly (though I still, more often than not, got rained on). During that first 20 mile run, I felt some resentment that it required 3 hours of time to set aside for running. I sometimes felt, guilty, too. I was busy, I was being pulled every which way by professors and friends and obligations. So 3 hour chunks of time seemed to be snapped up by everyone. Stolen away from me. But once I had decided I would run 20 miles for a certain day, I guarded it doggedly. I hoarded away that time like coveted gems. Especially if I knew the weather would be sunny. I was frustrated by the amount of time I would need to defend for running, even so. Then, another transformation occurred. The next couple times I ran 20 miles on my loop out into the Oregon countryside, in the beautiful, hesitant sun of spring, with growing plants (daffodils at first, and then lilacs) and birds around me. . . I started to savor that time. The ground beneath my feet. The gentle, slowly-warming wind on my skin. I did that 20 mile loop 3 times, and I think fondly back to those runs. I would gladly do them again! I also did them after my morning class, and before my evening class. So I will not soon forget quickly changing, splashing water on my face, and arriving to class with creaky knees to learn about environmental law and policy, and wondering if anyone could guess why I looked sunburnt and salty.

Then, in my last week of training I did a 24 mile road run, followed by a 21 mile trail run in the hills two days later. This was the test. All my distance had been on roads. I had been avoiding such long, long runs on the trails, all the while the knowledge that I must face them nagging at me. It was a misty, but not too chilly when I did that 21 mile run. It was also the first and only training run I ever did with a water bottle. (I will tell you, my limit without water is 22 miles...and I know that with some precision because that's how far I got on my 24 mile run before desperately dragging myself to a precious and hard-to-find drinking fountain). I was a bit achy by the end, and ready to be done, but it was not too bad. And I was done. I was done training. Oh, the relief! I really wasn't too concerned about the race itself anymore. Who cares? I can go 21 miles on trails, can definitely go 31 on the roads. Worst case scenario? I spend a day in the woods.

I knew I could go the distance and just had to make sure I could do it all in 8 hours. Based on my calculations from my training runs, I was on pace to do it in 6 hours. I ended up doing it in 6 hours and 51 minutes because I made sure to be cautious, and because it was tough. There were lots of unexpected climbs, different from the route I had anticipated. The first half was pretty simple. I was a bit nervous, but fresh, and the weather was excellent though very hot. The forest was beautiful, and I was occupied with following the trails and the lead of the people around me. It spread out more and more, and for much of the race I was alone or could just spy a couple people through the trees far ahead. There were a couple times during the second half of the race, while fast-hiking it up after hill after hilly, pointless, narrow trail that I realized the stupidity of the whole event. Then, I would get some water and feel less crabby. (There might have been more than a couple of times when I was crabby, I suppose! The 10 foot slide down a loose dirt, steep slope on my butt among those moments. But usually I was all alone in the woods and so, not hard to calm down, take a deep breath, and acknowledge the beautiful surroundings.)

Overall, however it was not too bad! And really not all that hard, to be honest. Challenging, yes, tedious, yes, but nothing all that arduous. It wasn't really a running race though. The strategy is to fast-hike the tough climbs, and I did a lot of that. So I think if I were to do a trail ultra-marathon again I would just train by doing moderate running distances and hiking my butt off. I would also like to do a 31 mile race that is flatter, just to see the time I would actually take running since on my training run it seems that, without hills, 6 hours is a reasonable goal. I really picked up speed after reaching 26 miles -- I "sped" past a lot of people during that last 5 mile stretch and felt like I still had some decent running in me, since I had done so much hiking. I was, however, ready to be done. All and all, I am very glad and proud of my ultra-marathon. Plus, I got my finishers jacket. Maybe that's all I wanted?

Candidly, I think that, more so than marathons, trail ultramarathons are pretty silly. They seem to have it as a goal to make things needlessly difficult. I think I would rather just try my hand at the distance -- I am, after all, a true trackster and thus like to be able to time things and compare performances accurately -- than a bunch of different, unique obstacle courses. Can't I just run my 31.3 miles in peace without clamoring over fallen trees and steams? That said, obstacle courses are really fun, too. And jumping over fallen trees, I will admit, is a favorite past time.

A few weeks later, I also ran the Run for the Hills 30k (18 miles). That felt like a nice, reasonable distance by comparison and remains among my favorite races I've ever done, through gorgeous woods, and up some lovely, grassy, windswept hills with views of the valley and rolling Coast Range. And did I mention? After all that hill training, I don't mind hills at all anymore. I kind of like them. Sometimes, my legs want them. 

So it has been a rather transformative athletic year, as well as academic year. I have a broader perspective on distance running, and will probably keep doing it. It brings you to beautiful places, and your feet do not forget them. You absorb those places into your bones.

My spectacular distance fitness lasted a bit longer (it felt so good to feel strong and trim and indomitable), allowing me to coast for a couple weeks through some great runs. Now, predictably, it has faded. As with all things, you use it or you lose it and I haven't yet made a habit of 31 mile runs. I have since settled back around 9 or 10 mile distances, and even done a couple of shorter, speedier races. (I can tell you, I was longing for some "short", "fast" 5ks after all that distance training. I can tell you that prior to Ultra-marathon training, I would not have called a 5k a "short" distance race, nor would I have thought of it as speed training.). I remain thankful above all for my health, and for the privilege to roam the woods and grasses, wide places, narrow trails, and many roads of this earth.