Hey, everybody — it’s Materialist Tuesday! Or something. 

In the Buddhism I studied, there is a lot of talk about not getting attached to material things. It’s wise, of course, but the thing is, you kind of can’t avoid having things, can you? 

I try to really appreciate the things that I have. That sounds contrary to the Zen notion of detachment, but I think of it like this: Buddhism holds that the reason we buy more stuff is because we’re trapped in this cycle of desire, acquisition, and dissatisfaction, lather, rinse, repeat. My thinking is that if I can mindfully assess what I do desire and then acquire it after careful consideration, I won’t get to that third part, dissatisfaction, as quickly, and in turn, I won’t trip into a new cycle of desire/acquisition as rapidly either. My most cherished stuff tends to have good stories — I rarely buy souvenirs on trips — I prefer clothing or jewelry that will last a while and remind me for years to come of the place I went.

With that in mind, these are some of my things that I especially like:

My purse (aka the black hole):

This purse is by Walker. It is huge and made of some sort of insanely durable material. I have done my level best to beat the crap out of it and it doesn’t have a scratch on it. It has been with me through 5 plane trips and traveled to a half dozens states. It is huge, since I originally bought it when I was still carting Eliza’s diaper gear around. When she potty-trained, I switched briefly to a different purse, but I felt oddly naked and quickly went back to it. It holds all manner of stuff, including Eliza’s kid chopsticks (see below). You can’t see it in these pictures, but it’s actually fairly nicely styled, too, with gold contrast stitching and a strap which is made of seatbelt material (LOVE).

Kid chopsticks (do you love how I leaned way over so I wouldn’t be in the photo and now all you can see of me in the picture is half a boob? And how I can’t be bothered to reshoot? Also, sorry ’bout the nakey lady on the wall in all these shots. Is Munch print of Madonna, a painting of surpassing beauty which looks like crap in these pictures):

These are basically giant plastic tweezers, which are much easier for little kids to manipulate than regular chopsticks. Eliza LOVES them, and will not eat Asian-y food without them. This is why I always carry a pair in my purse. I am convinced they are part of the reason she will eat foodstuffs at the Korean and Japanese places that will not pass her lips in other cuisines. They are also the reason *I* love Asian food — a. she lets me eat without hassling me to death, AND b. she gets an actual balanced meal whenever we do.

My bookmark (which reads MA instead of AM here because PhotoBooth mirror-images everything and I can’t be bothered to flip it in photoshoot. Hmm. There is a theme here…):

My friend LT gave this to me, and identical ones to some of my other good friends, years ago and it is beat up in a way that tells you it is always being used. It’s a giant flat paperclip and it’s great. Eliza went through a phase where she loved it so much she would steal it out of my books, thus rendering it useless for a while (and also stealing its twin, which I haven’t yet recovered), but I can understand her.

Jewelry! (I can’t get the damn pendant to stop singing but, say it with me: I can’t be bothered to reshoot!):

So, I’m torn. I want to tell you about my favorite jewelry designer but I don’t want you to buy all her stuff before *I* get to it. I discovered this woman on Etsy and she appears to have my exact taste in jewelry, only, she makes it instead of wearing it. It’s surprisingly reasonable, given that everything is handcrafted, and I admit that half the fun of receiving packages from her is that she wraps everything so beautifully and includes a nice little note thanking me for my business.

So far, I have wee textured silver stud earrings, that big planet-looking green-and-pink-flecked stone pendant, and the spider earrings which are the sole reason I am sad, a little bit, about growing out my hair, because how will you see them?

I was completely unsubtle about wanting one of her pieces for my birthday to the point where my mom and I sat at the computer together and ordered it.

It is on its way, and it is one of THESE.

And I’ve just decided that I need to become independently wealthy because I thought she only had a two or threes trees but in her Flickr set there are DOZENS! And I must have them ALL!

On a related note, THIS is what you call a quality heirloom:

I have had sort of a thing about rose quartz since I was knee high to the proverbial grasshopper, probably directly related to a person who was a big influence on me. My German grandmother had lovely jewelry, much of it semi-precious stones set in silver, and I always especially loved this set, which included a ring as well. She gave me the ring while she was still alive because it no longer fit. It hasn’t fit me since my pregnancy, sadly, but I am keeping it for Eliza. After my Grandma passed 10 years ago, my aunt asked if I wanted any of her jewelry, and I asked if I could have this necklace. It’s absolutely striking, and I always feel like I haven’t quite gone the way of the mom-pant when I wear it. Which is an amusing thing to think about jewelry you got from your grandma, which in turn makes me smile when I think of her.

So, here, have some music instead!

I’ve just discovered this song by the Handsome Furs, and I think it makes a worthy addition to the “songs about chicks named Evangeline” genre:

And I heard this one in a car ad and googled relentlessly until I found a free download on the car company’s website. It’s a cover of an early-1980s song and it’s genius for running to:

And finally, I direct you to this, the First Movement of Philip Glass’s Symphony 8. For classical music, it’s very … head-bang-y (feel free to tune out after the first 2 minutes):

It also confirms that apparently, where classical is concerned, my genres appears to be “Dudes who repeat the same 4 goddamn notes over and over, see also Gorecki and Nyman.”

Last Wednesday, my mom flew in for a visit. Grandpa Texas’s health being what it is, I never post these things in advance anymore — I barely tell Eliza, in case something scotches the plans. Luckily, he is doing OK-ish — there was some bad news recently that appears to be mitigated by some good news r.e. treatment options, and so she flew to us.

Those of you who know us in real life know that my mom has been training for the Boston Marathon since the start of the year. This is not a coincidence. Every runner has a story. Right now, that is part of my mom’s.

On Monday, she ran the marathon, and Eliza and I were there. We stayed in Boston with her for the weekend, and on Monday morning, we took a train out to Natick, the 15-kilometer mark of the race. We arrived shortly before the racers were due to come through. 

Forgive me if I get mired in cliches, but there may be no other way to go.This one is the Big One. The racers are more numerous, and what brought them here is more intense, than almost any other race. Shortly before 10 a.m. came a police vehicle, then a car with media. Then, a single figure. The loneliness of the long-distance runner is nothing compared to the sight of a solitary figure in a space-age wheelchair, hands pedaling furiously. He’s not racing the others, he’s racing — what? I don’t know, but he’s winning. So, too, the rest of the men’s wheelchair-racing pack. Then a woman, hunched, impassive, spinning, spinning the wheels as fast as she can, followed by her competitors.

Disabled? I’d like to see you try harder, do more.

In the gap between them wheelchair racers and the fleet-footed messenger gods and goddesses, lone figures of unfathomable strength. A blind man, holding onto a rope held by his guide, stepping out confident in his trust, guided down the road between two walls of sound as spectators shouted themselves hoarse with encouragement. A man in an oversize jog-stroller, pushed by teams of supporters — I don’t know if he was aware how big a deal it was to be in this race, but I was sure he knew he is loved. A man on two prostheses — his knees didn’t bend and he ran with a wide, side-swinging gait that was not a little bit of swagger. One of his guides, running behind him, raised his arms in that gesture of “give him a hand.” Unnecessary, because we already were. Another man moved by in a slow shuffle, pulling a cart behind him. What’s he pulling? What’s his deal? Oh my god. Those are oxygen tanks. He. is. running. the. Boston. Marathon. on. oxygen. Take that in, because pardon my French, but 26.2 MOTHERFUCKING miles with severe emphysema. (I looked him up later. I’m not kidding.)

And I’m hoping very much that this isn’t turning into some sort of pity-the-poor-disabled-people-look-how-brave-they-are thing as you’re reading this, because that’s not what it felt like. It was just this idea that every runner has a story — their partner’s cancer, their friend’s illness, their own unhappiness — writ large. Everyone has his or her own way of kicking against the pricks, and this marathon business is one hell of a way to go about it.

As for the runner we were cheering, my mom finished the race in 3:58:18. I had signed up to have updates texted to my phone and with every update I was astounded to find her advancing so quickly on her goal. For those of you doing the math, that means she ran at a less-than-10-minutes-a-mile pace — for 4 hours. We missed her in Natick, but I found a tunnel sightline near the finish line on Boylston Street amid the thousands of people. It was 2:30, and many of them had been there cheering for several hours since the wheelchair racers came in; but with every new cresting wave of runners, the roar went up again. I joined in, screaming “Grandma Texas” and ringing my bell, painted “Go go Grandma!” when I saw her speed past. And speed is the word. Some runners at the end look like zombies. I saw one women sobbing as she staggered to the line, undone by fatigue and the emotion of what she’d accomplished. My mom, on the other hand, was intense, but nearly incandescent.

When I found her in the crowd 10 minutes later and told her what her official time was, this woman, who had just run, let me state it again, 26.2 ^%#&%#$-ing MILES, was so pleased that she hopped up and down looking not unlike her granddaughter when she is thrilled.

She is sounding suspiciously like she plans to go again next year.

“When I get big, I’m gonna be a ballerina, an’ a chef, an’ a farmer, an’ a superhero… an’ I’m gonna sell ice cream!”

OK, bro.