Smoke and Mirrors

This past Saturday, Amy and I took a much-needed sojourn out of town to relax before the start of our final two-day orientation session of the summer. We drove back to Gulfport, Mississippi, where I had spent a day at the beach a few weekends before a little more than an hour from New Orleans. After a restful morning on the quiet shores of the Gulf of Mexico, with few people sharing the beach with us for miles, we did some outlet shopping and headed home. 

Driving to Gulfport is basically a straight shot east on I-10. About 15 minutes into our return trip, a billowing orange cloud appeared on the horizon. At first, it seemed as though the cloud might have been colored by the lowering sun, but as we grew closer, we realized it was too low to the ground and the thick black smoke being emitted from the base. 

I started to panic slightly. I could feel my heart pounding as we neared the thick smoke, saw the break lights of the cars ahead of us, and could smell the acrid cloud as it flowed through the car vents. I could see cars disappearing into the cloud and contemplated stopping in the middle of the highway. No emergency vehicles were on the scene, and no sirens or horns were heard. 

So we drifted slowly into the unknown, into a thick cloud of hot smoke, where we could see a huge column of fire on the side of the road. Luckily came out on the other side with its scent still heavy in the car, but we had no idea what had happened. 

As the fire and its ominous cloud grew smaller in the rearview mirror and we continued the drive home, everything seemed much clearer. Literally. I felt more aware and cognizant of my surroundings. The fear and confusion of the fiery cloud brought the remainder of my I-10 drive into sharp focus, and for the first time, I saw Katrina. Not just her ghost, but Katrina, in all her terrible destruction. 

Alongside I-10, houses are still abandoned, mere shells of their former existence. Tattered blue tarps drape across the roofs of many buildings that remain empty, creating a collage, a blue-

quilted reminder of a once-in-a-lifetime storm. For Sale signs sit on the edge of properties where only battered foundations remain, or in some cases, a staircase leading to nothing; a stairway to a hole where life used to be. For the first time since I have been here, I felt as though I had come out of a dream-like state, awake and fully aware of Katrina, and the reality that though it's been 4 years on August 29, she is still all around us. 

It pains me to write this. It hurts to read stories and look at images and really start to feel the sense of loss present in this community. Our assistant vice president spoke to Amy and I very recently about this loss, and how its pangs still- and will always- haunt him and his family. His family has lived in New Orleans for nearly 30 years. He raised his children here, created a life here, and during Katrina, he lost it all. When he returned from evacuation, his home, his church, and indeed the community he and his family had been so intimately a part of, was entirely and irrevocably destroyed. There are people he hasn't spoken to since August 28, 2005- he has no idea if these lost friends and neighbors even survived the storm. I am not doing his poignant words justice here, but this phrase stuck with me, and always will: "Imagine your house burns down. The smoke clears, and all might be gone, but your neighbors are still there, your life is still there. You can rebuild. Now, imagine the whole neighborhood burns down at the same time. What do you do then?" 

Katrina burned the neighborhood down, the whole region, an entire piece of the fabric of our country burned to the ground and much of it has not been rebuilt. Some of it is still burning, its smoldering aftermath still palpable and deeply painful. It may continue to burn in the hearts of New Orleanians and others from this region for the rest of their lives. And after the burning's done, there will be much that is lost forever, too much that will never return. 

I am only now beginning to see past the smoke, beyond the shiny mirrors of what the outsider might see, and through the distortion of media images fed for months to the world about Katrina. I am no expert, but I am gaining a sense of place amidst all the loss, grief, fear, confusion, hope, and pride that has enveloped this region since 8.29.05. I expect that the visceral experience I have had here will hurt long after I leave, and in a way, I feel I'm better for it. I am glad that I am able to share this pain with the Gulf region. I can't rebuild it all, nor can I put out the remaining fires, nor can I fill the void the storm left behind. But I can tell its story. 

If you are reading this, please consider coming here and experiencing New Orleans for yourself. Forget about what you have seen on TV or read in the newspaper. It's not all about Bourbon Street, or Mardi Gras or Ray Nagin. It is about bearing witness to the people, the art, the music, the spirit, the despair and the hope embodied by an American community that is starting over, rebuilding, rewriting. And as Louis Armstrong said, I know I want to be in that number. I hope you do too. 

Runner's High

This saying may already exist out there in the annals of famous philosophical quotes, but today, I kept thinking about it, so I wanted to share it with you; Every day offers unique opportunities for great things to happen. 

It is nearly mid-July here in south Louisiana, and I have to say, weather-wise it has been a weird week. I have been in New Orleans for one month as of today, and yesterday was the first day of legitimate rainfall since my arrival. It has rained on and off since Monday, accompanied by a radical drop in temperature. When my family visited over the holiday weekend, 100-degree temperatures plagued us daily. The day they all departed, these rains came, and it's been cool ever since. 

After work, I laced up my running shoes and headed outside, intent on taking advantage of the fact that it is indeed mid-July in south Louisiana AND at 6 p.m. it was 79 degrees. I have run on and off since I've been here, and blogged about the experience, but today was different. As I got started, I couldn't help but think that today may be the only 79-degree day I experience in this place all summer. And that could not be wasted with a quickie run around Audubon Park... today's weather offered a unique opportunity of which to take advantage. 

Approximately 14 months ago, I ran a marathon. Crazy, right? I was wildly unprepared for it, my longest run only reaching 14 miles (for non-runners, a full marathon is 26.2),because about 3/4 of the way into my training, I sustained a knee injury- perhaps the worst kind of injury one can have, because it was by no means debilitating, but hurt me just enough to not be able to push myself as far as I would have liked in training. In short, it was not enough to quit running cold turkey, but it probably was unwise of me to go for it. But, I had plane tickets, family flying in, hotel reservations. And I am no quitter. 

I crossed the finish line at the Bayshore Marathon in Traverse City, Michigan after 4 hours and 45 minutes. The pain was intense, in my knee and everywhere else. Though I completed a major milestone (good pun, I know) in my life as an athlete by sheer virtue of crossing that line, I have never experienced more self-induced pain and suffering in my life. By that evening, I could not move. I could not get out of bed on my own. I could not stop crying. Terry had to dress me. I could not sit, I could not walk without wincing. It was terrible. 

And the knee was pissed. When I returned home, I could not do anything athletic for more than a month. I gained back all the weight I'd lost in training. I felt miserable. I had MRIs and x-rays, and the injury remained the same- not debilitating but ever-present. I was diagnosed with a small lateral meniscus tear; too small to operate, too large to function. I was resigned to hanging up the running shoes indefinitely. 

But this year in Lansing, I've slowly been working my way back. All high-impact cardio stopped and was replaced by biking, yoga, and pilates; all good things, and things that kept me healthy. Substitutions. 

I only ran a few times during the school year, afraid of my knee and the incessant pain therein, so transitioning into running again in New Orleans has been daunting. Today, however, I wanted to test things out. I mean, really? A 79-degree, breezy summer day in the flattest city I have ever lived in? Somebody upstairs was issuing me a challenge. 

With a new iPod mix blaring in my headphones, I worked my way through the city. Somewhere around the 20-minute mark, a cramp in my stomach threatened to end my unique opportunity, but thanks to MJ's Man in the Mirror and the beautiful St. Charles Avenue sites, I pushed on through. The next time I checked my watch, 48 minutes had passed. Not a whisper from the knee, mind you, not even a twinge. As I crossed the entrance of Tulane, a broad grin drifted across my face; this was the Ashleigh who signed up for the marathon, the runner hidden behind the pall of knee pains and fears. 

I reached Loyola at the 60 minute mark, dripping sweat, tired, but so incredibly happy. I laughed aloud, people stared at me on the sidewalk, I sang aloud to Justin Timberlake. I could feel every muscle in my legs, the pounding of my heart in my chest, and a deep sense of accomplishment for the six miles behind me... I could have gone further, miles further maybe. 

Unique opportunities happen every day, to do something good, maybe even

something great, that makes life more sweet. As I came down from my runner's high, free of knee pain and full of satisfaction, I vowed to not hesitate when I recognize opportunities to do more, to venture beyond the norm. I could have not run, could have gone to the gym and whiled away some time on an elliptical, stayed afraid of knee fragility, stuck with routines. But not doing so, though tinted with risk, was much more inspiring.