Last night I played volleyball for the first time in months.  It was open gym at a new court in Sterling.  The center opened just last month and hosts practices and games for most of the club teams in the area.  It’s pretty awesome.

I was the third person there and stood awkwardly with a couple of guys waiting for someone in charge to show up.  As more people rolled in, we finally starting warming up.  Four of us found a ball, took over half a court, and started passing.  The first pass stung – my forearms aren’t used to the impact anymore.  The second time the ball came my way, I put my arms up over my head for an overhand pass.  It was a strange and very familiar feeling.

I moved from middle blocker to setter after my sophomore year in high school.  My coach at the time though that my left-handedness and general willingness to throw my body around would make me a good candidate for the position.  I loved it.  My junior year in high school our team went to the state tournament after a season of two-a-day practices, weekend long tournaments, and awesome bruises.  We won a match we should have lost and made it to the semi-finals before losing to the eventual state champion.

My love of the game hit some bumps in college.  I spent most of the time on the sidelines, watching my best friend lead the team.  I learned so much from her leadership and her guts.  Senior year, when I finally had a chance to play, there were more learning experiences to come.

I never saw eye-to-eye with our coach who came in before my junior year.  When our other setter got hurt just one week before a big tournament, her eyes landed squarely on me.  For a week she put me through drills that brought me to tears at the end of every practice.  She didn’t have much faith in my skills and she certainly let me know.  She scrapped our fancy offense and insisted that we run only the simplest hits.  Humiliation wasn’t strong enough a word for what I felt.

The weekend of the tournament our team came together.  We won the tournament for the first time in its 21 year history.  Standing with the rest of the team with my hands on the trophy was amazing.  It almost made the previous week of practices worthwhile.

Last night during time between games we broke out in to two hitting lines.  I stood next to the net and set for the hitters.  I found myself squaring my hips like my coach had drilled in to me.  I put my arms up early, readying my hands for the ball.  During games when I slid across the floor, it was the same motion that I learned at my first camp in 7th grade. It was second nature; my muscles just took over.

Today I ache in places that I had forgotten.  My forearms are swollen and I’ve got a bruise on my knee that I’ve already shown off.  Even my fingers are sore.  It’s a great hurt.

Most of the blogs on the internet fall in to neat definitions.  There are mommy blogs, technology blogs and fashion blogs.  There are blogs about running, blogs about traveling, and blogs about all things cute.  And then there’s everything else in between.

I started out with a clear purpose in mind for my blog.  This was a space where I would document my three weeks in Europe, a way for family and friends to read about and see my experiences long before I returned home.  It was great for that.  I so enjoyed sitting down to my laptop at some some point nearly every day and writing the stories and words that filled my head during my solo journeys.  I’ve never been much of a journal-keeper, but the experience taught me the obvious benefits of writing memories down before they are forgotten.

I am now facing a bit of an identity crisis in life and with this blog.  When I was a traveler, it was a travel blog.  But what am I now?  I am an unemployed history nerd/curator/event planner/writer with a puppy and a running habit who pines for London.  What does that make this blog?

Blogs are inherently narcissistic.  I’ve never disagreed with that and it felt strange for me to even start one in the first place.  I was bolstered by a friend who started her blog not long before mine.  And the fact that I could tell myself that I was writing for my family and friends made it seem less narcissistic, at least in my head.

Then I left Europe and kept writing.  There were a few stories from the trip left (and there still are), but the majority of what I write about now are random things from my daily life.  There was the marathon, my aunt, and the end of the year.  I wrote about what was raw as I tried to process grief and a healthy dose of fear of the unknown.  It worked for me.

I spend most of my days alone, scouring the web for jobs and ideas about how I might find happiness in a career.  I look at myriad job postings and try to figure out what I’m meant to be doing.  I take the dog for walks, I go out to run when it isn’t too cold, and I watch movies.  I’m signed up to volunteer for the USO and will start up with my Girls in March.  I’m ripping through books and have baked more banana bread than one person ever should.  I plot my return to London and read up on ways to get a work permit in the UK.

All of this is well and good but none of it is especially blog worthy in my mind.  I’m not an extraordinary runner, I’m a slogger.  I’m not the best source for job-searching tips and I certainly understand that there’s a limit to how much other people really want to know about my dog.  (She’s cute, I swear!)

But I like writing here.  It makes me feel good when a friend mentions something she read.  I’m late to the blogging world but feel that maybe my voice is a worthy addition to the thousands of other bloggers out there.  So I’m going to continue to screw up my courage and write, even if my blog, like me, doesn’t fit in to any neat little category.

One of my best friends told me that being simple is easy but being complicated makes life challenging and interesting.  Being an unemployed-whatever-I-am isn’t simple.  And while I can’t promise that I will continue to jump out of planes just to create things to write about, I will certainly continue to write.

I went skydiving today.

It’s still so hard to believe that that I did it that I hesitate to type the words.  Me, Nathalie, I voluntarily jumped out of a plane.  I had more than 5 seconds to think about it and I still did it.  Stranger still, I enjoyed it!

All smiles.

I have never been a risk taker.  To be honest, I still wouldn’t call myself a risk taker.  But today, I defied my own expectations of what I could do.  I blew the minds of most people who know me.  I challenged them to rethink their opinion of me.  And more importantly, I showed myself that I can conquer those things that I put my mind to.

I search for memories of the jump and come up with snippets.  I remember watching the ground get further and further away, looking at the altimeter on my wrist and thinking that we have another 6000 feet before we left the airplane.  I remember the first time the door on the plane opened and people tumbled out, intentionally.  I remember being the only ones left in the plane – me, my tandem, and the photographer.  I remember being at the door, trying to breathe, and just going.

Leaving the plane, aka the "holy crap" moment.

The picture taken as I left the plane is true.  At that moment, I was absolutely terrified.  But in the split second after he tapped me on the shoulders and I opened my arms and my eyes, everything changed.  I remember thinking “I just jumped out of a plane.  I’m actually skydiving.”  I don’t think I believed I would do it until I was actually out there.  And then there was the cameraman, giving me the thumbs up, getting me to smile, and spinning me around.  I worried that the free fall would last too long, but it was over in an instant.

Going from wind rushing by at 120 mph to silence when the canopy opened was incredible.  I like my quiet time, and this was about as pristine as silence gets.  I read about that effect online but the real thing was like nothing I have ever experienced.  Once I got my wits around me and had time to look, I could barely believe it.  The day was perfect – clear skies and sunshine.  I could see the Blue Ridge Mountains that I drove past last month on my way to Nashville.  I could see what was left of the snow.  I could see the giant ORANGE on the top of the hangar below me.  There was just so much to see.

As we floated toward the ground, I was shocked to realize that the emotion I felt was sadness.  I didn’t want it to end.   Before we left I had visions of being grateful to be on the ground, a feeling that I often get at the end of plane rides.  But I didn’t want it to end.

60 seconds of free fall followed by about 5 minutes of canopy ride.  That was it.  I’m so used to counting experiences in hours.  A flight to Europe is at least 6 hours.  A marathon is over 4.5 hours.  My typical run these days is rarely less than 45 minutes.  This was 6 minutes.  2.5 miles in 6 minutes.

I nearly talked myself out of the jump last night.  Self doubt it a powerful thing.  But the fact that I’m still grinning over 7 hours later makes me sure that I made the right decision.

In Homer’s The Odyssey, the first one to recognize Odysseus’s true identity upon his arrival home is his dog.  As the uber dog-lover, I fully believed that this would and could be the case.  Even if you aren’t quite the dog person that I am, these videos might change your mind.

After a round of belated birthday bowling (I won, two games to one), Yakov and I headed to Raku in Bethesda for dinner.  The place is always busy and even though we arrived just after six on a Sunday evening, our only choices were two seats at the bar or wait for a table.  We chose two seats at the bar – we were both hungry and impatient.

There are two bar areas in the restaurant, one over looks the sushi/food prep area and the other over looks the actual bar.  We were at the bar one at the last two seats.  Our seats, particularly my seat, were closest to the kitchen.  Given the size of the restaurant, this meant that I was right next to the take out pick up area, aka the end of the bar.  Throughout dinner there was a parade of people coming to get their food.  They gave their name, paid the check and headed out.  A few people looked over the receipt to make sure everything was there, most just assumed all was right and headed back out to the cold.  One woman was different.

I noticed her initially because she was a bit closer than most of the people had been.  She was crowding me, even though she was petite and most of her bulk came from her coat.  She flashed diamonds on both hands and seemed to think she was better and more important than anyone else.  She asked multiple times if they had gotten her special orders right.  She had asked for sauce on the side and a side of broccoli.  Over and over again, she pressed to make sure the sauce was on the side.  When the first bag of food came, she nearly ripped it open trying to look in it.  The second bag came with the special orders.  Her hands were shaking as she undid the knot and pulled out both dishes to make sure she got what she wanted.

She finally seemed satisfied and retied the bag.  She gathered everything and headed out, nearly bumping in to a few people on her way out.  Yakov and I both watched her go, commenting that she must be a very unhappy person.  We turned back to our appetizers.  It took me a few minutes to sort out what about the woman made me so uncomfortable.  It wasn’t until Yakov noted that she had some OCD tendencies that I figured it out; it’s likely that she suffers from some sort of eating disorder.

There were so many things that could have given it away, but there was something about her voice and her shaking hands.  There was panic in there.  A panic that I felt so many times during recovery.  There is panic that you won’t get to eat when you are supposed to, making you think about the meal even longer.  There is panic that the meal won’t be exactly what you expect, forcing you to rethink your game plan about getting through it.  There is panic that something, anything won’t be what you want or expect or feel comfortable with.  There is just so much panic.

I thought about the diamonds on her hands.  The band on her right hand, the one closest to me, was covered with emerald cut stones and it threatened to slide off with every gesture.  I never got to look at any other part of her body, she was covered head to toe in down thanks to the painful winter winds.  But her words, her voice, and her actions were enough to clue me in to the possibility that there is something wrong.

I realize that I could be way off about this woman.  She could be a perfectly healthy woman who is just not a happy or even remotely nice person.  But I know that edge in her voice.  It is all too familiar and one that isn’t easy to forget.

In the Lavine family, we typically call less than pleasant events “learning experiences.”  These two simple words have taken on epic proportions thanks to their generous use during the recovery period of my eating disorder.  I am, however, able to say that there is a point to finding the lessons in the bad and so I’m now chalking 2009 up as a “learning experience.”  And so I present to you, in a form that should be remarkably familiar, 2009 in lessons learned:

Lesson 1: Moving on isn’t easy, but sometimes it has to be done.

For the first half of the year, I worked a job I truly loved.  I poured my energy and my love in to a very cool company started by a remarkable woman.  I got to stand at the finish line of a tough, hilly half marathon and watch as women of all ages and shapes grinned and held hands as they celebrated their accomplishments.

Photo by Jenny Watts.

Somewhere in June and July, after the heat of the summer kicked in, this awesome job wasn’t an option anymore.  I wanted, and still want, to be a part of this series that I love so much.  But it was better for me and the company that I left when I did.  I have countless new skills that I wouldn’t have had without those 8 months.  Now I can put them to use somewhere else.

Lesson 2: Tell your loved ones you love them.

If you’ve read this at all in the past few months or spoken with me at all this year, you know how I learned this.  I miss my aunt more than I could have dreamed I would.  On my birthday, I had my toenails painted a deep purple in her honor.  I look at them and remember that I got to tell her I loved her one last time.

My family is no stranger to health scares.  We’ve all had them and there will be more in the coming years.  The most we can do is work hard to make sure our loved ones know just how loved they are.

I learned this year that there are people who will help you if you need it.  They will be patient with you, listen to you (and only a few of them will bill you for it).  I have always prided myself on my loyalty and I’m not about to change that.

Lesson 3: Good things come in small, furry packages.

Lesson 4: Running away can do a world of good if you do it right.

The whole reason I created this blog was to document my solo trip to Europe.  That trip was a way for me to push my self esteem back up to a reasonable level.  It was for me to come back in to my own.

I’m not super proud to say that I was so nervous and upset before I left that I threw up twice on the plane ride to London.  I am, however, extremely proud to say that I rocked Europe.  I dealt with car troubles, language barriers, and history both ancient and recent to find my way through three amazing countries.  I saw cities, mountains, and fields through clear eyes and a mind that wanted desperately to come out of a haze.  I learned to love a new city and rekindled an old love.

Lesson 5: Be patient and be willing to fight for what you want.

I have spent a lot of time this year waiting for minds to be made up, for decisions to come down.  I haven’t gotten any of those decisions and as I look in to 2010 I see more of the same.  I don’t know if I’ll get what I want or if I’ve already lost it.  I do know that my opinion has never wavered and that I stand firm in what I want.

Lesson 6: Look forward.

Many of my friends and my family members have had sub-par years.  We have had more “learning experiences” than we bargained for as we entered 2009.  I won’t be sorry to see this year go.  But I’ve made up my mind that it is now less about the failings of 2009 and more about the opportunities of 2010.

So starting now, at 11:04 pm on Tuesday, December 29, I’m officially writing 2009 off as the year of learning experiences.  I’m taking what I can and ridding myself of the rest.

2010, you’re on notice.  I’ve got lessons learned and I’m not afraid to use them.

I try very hard not to be a follower of “literary” and television trends.  I’ve never read a Harry Potter book or seen one of the movies.  I will never read a Twilight book or see one of those movies.  It took Yakov a very long time to get me to watch The Lord of the Rings, and that is actual literature!  But.  There’s always a but.

When I drove home from Nashville last week, I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express in Dublin, Virginia in order to give the puppy a break from 10 + hours in her kennel and to avoid any ice left over from the Great Blizzard of ’09.  After I took her for a walk and bought some puppy shampoo (the snow at rest stops is really dirty), we turned in for an evening of television.  What I found was Grey’s Anatomy.

I will admit that I got sucked in to the bomb in a patient story they ran after the Super Bowl one year.  But that was it.  I never watched it.  Meredith seemed whiny, I didn’t think Patrick Dempsey was that dreamy, and I don’t think any television medical “drama” will ever live up to M*A*S*H.

Wednesday night, however, it was like something changed.  I was in a foul mood – it’s hard to leave the comforts of home for a seemingly frozen tundra.  I didn’t want to go back to my life in DC.  So I think I just escaped.

I watched three episodes, back to back to back.  I putzed around on line during the commercials and even half-heartedly picked up a book a couple times, but being honest with myself and you, I mostly just watched those stupid shows.

They were from last season, when Izzie was trying to self diagnose herself with what I knew turned out to be melanoma that had spread to her brain.  The story, I’m told, plays out very differently from the one in my life since Katherine Heigl decided she didn’t want to leave the show.  When I discovered that I could watch the entire season on Netflix on my computer, it was all over.

Normally I escape life by running.  I watch tv shows for comedy or for drama that I can analyze (think Criminal Minds).  But for whatever reason, this stupid season of a stupid tv show has sucked me in.  I find myself gasping out loud with my hand mysteriously pressed against my lips despite the fact that I don’t remember it flying up there.  I’ve even gotten teary eyed on a couple of occasions!

I can tell myself that I like it because of the doctor-returned-from-Iraq storyline.  And yes, that is fascinating to me and I think they are handling it remarkably well so far.  But no, it’s everything.  It’s guessing how long it will take for the patients’ stories and the doctors’ stories to line up.  It’s discovering that while Dempsey doesn’t do much for me, Eric Dane does (Sorry, honey).

It’s the fact that while I struggle to get my life together, push myself to get out of a crappy year, there are these stupid characters on this stupid tv show with stupid voice-overs that remind me to step out of my head.

Now excuse me, but I have a show to watch.

At certain times of the year religion is more obvious, including the weeks before Christmas.  This is when perfect strangers wish you a “Merry Christmas” without stopping to think that you might not celebrate that specific holiday.  Growing up in the Bible belt, there weren’t many stores that went with the more PC “Happy Holidays.”  My family and the family of one of my classmates from Hebrew school were once featured in an article for the Brentwood newspaper.  Eating latkes and playing with dreidels in December just wasn’t done very much in that neighborhood.

This year has magnified the religion question due to recent events.  In the moments after we learned of my aunt’s death, after the relatives had been called, my parents and I just sat there.  I had no idea what to do or what to say.  Typically Jewish families join together, have a brief burial service, and then sit shiva with the family of the deceased for seven days.  There would also be lots of food involved.  However, this wasn’t the case.  My aunt didn’t want a funeral and so the family didn’t immediately descend on the greater Tampa area.  This left us a bit lost in our grief.

Next up was the marriage of a former intern.  The pictures showed up on Facebook and left those of us who knew the bride dumbstruck.  When she interned for the Society, she was thinking of converting to Orthodox Judaism from a Reform background and attended services at one of Washington’s more observant congregations.  She was interested in going to law school but wanted to spend a year in Israel first.  We kept in touch after she first left, but then hadn’t spoken in months.

Her wedding followed every rule laid out by the Torah.  She wore a long-sleeved gown and had her face completely covered by a veil during the ceremony.  She celebrated with the women in one room while her new husband and the rest of the men were in another.  In a photograph taken the day after the wedding, she is already wearing a wig.

I have gone through the Facebook photo albums over and over again, trying to understand the forces that drive someone like her to want a life full of structure.  She will be following rules and practicing rituals that women have been following and practicing for hundreds of years.  Few things in her life will be a choice; she will do as the Torah and her husband tells her.

I am currently struggling with the questions of what to do with my life and how to best conduct my marriage.  If I were different, a more observant Jew, none of these issues would exist.  I consider myself lucky to have the luxury of deciding what I want to do and who I want to be with and how we live our lives.  But it is this freedom to question that allows for and creates an unsettling unknown.

(I did this before, so at least it’s not a total cop-out, right?)

• I’m working on a project for/with Yakov that requires a lot of writing on my part.  It’s brought back memories and habits from the end of college and grad school.  Just to name a few: eating cereal for dinner, drinking a lot of diet coke, and procrastination via running.  These are all centered around little bursts of productive output.
• Sadly, the productive outbursts never last as long as I would want it to.
• They’re calling for 2-4 inches of snow here tomorrow.  It’s a little sad that I read that on weather.com and thought, “Aw, it’s Sasha’s first chance to make yellow snow!”
• My second thought was, “Do we have enough diet coke and toilet paper?” (Why yes, I did grow up in Nashville.)
• Tomorrow morning I’ll be attending (but not running) a 5K race with 19 of the coolest little girls I know (and 5,500 other folks).  It’s the end of season race for Girls on the Run.  This is my third season coaching and I’ve had a number of the same girls for all three of them (they like me!).  My assistant coaches will be out on the course while I man the finish line armed with medals for the conquering heroes.
• I’ve never actually “raced” a 5K.  The shortest race I’ve ever run is a 4 miler.
• After a major epiphany on my run today (the results of which I will share next week), my belief that problem solving (and sight-seeing) is best done while running is firmly intact.
• Oh look, I’ve got a new method of procrastination!  Writing silly lists for the blog.

Have a wonderful weekend, whether it includes screaming lower school girls, yellow snow, or diet coke.

I am thankful for a wonderful holiday weekend with family.

I’m thankful that I could start my holiday at a race, even if it wasn’t the Bolt.

I’m thankful for a table full of food surrounded by my parents, my in-laws, and friends.

I’m thankful for text messages from kind friends who are miles away.

I’m thankful for the massive gingerbread bundt from Dozen.

I’m thankful for the puppy that provides hours of entertainment each day.

I am thankful that I got to see my aunt one last time.

I’m thankful that her husband and son were with her in her last moments.

I’m thankful for being with loved ones at the hardest times.

I’m thankful for finding comfort in the known repetition of Jewish prayers at Friday night services.

I’m thankful my mom remembered to bring the kleenex.

I’m thankful for quiet mornings spent watching the sun rise and truly appreciating what is good, even if it is a few days after Thanksgiving.