[Pictures] One girl in a "batty" place

My Halloween blog post for work (out October 27) features the story of Leslie Sturges, a Northern Virginia (NOVA) bat expert who started the non-profit Save Lucy the Little Brown Bat in March 2010.  The Save Lucy Campaign educates and empowers youth to help save North American bats from white-nose syndrome, a fungal disease that has devastated bats all over the Northeast and Eastern United States.

Here are some pictures; some of them I could not fit in the blog and they're just too cute to not share! Blog URL to follow.  Enjoy, Mb

 Jorge, a Hoary bat, was very curious of the camera.

 Hello!

So sweet! 

A Red bat. 

 Mooch, a Big Brown bat, having a meal worm for snack time.

 Say Cheese? :-)

 Feet!

Leslie in the flight cage behind her
house where young bats learn to fly.

All photos property of MABlevins/NWF, 2011 Copyright Reserved 

One girl in the "wild"

Things have gotten pretty wild since I've moved to DC.  I call it "the most powerful playground you'll ever play in"... others say they aren't sure how I deal with so many politicians on a day-to-day basis.

My answer: I write about cute, fuzzy animals like turtles :)

I have started a new blog series with my work that I would like to share: it's called Wildlife-Friendly DMV (District of Columbia, Maryland, Virginia). The goal of this blog is to connect wildlife enthusiast in DMV to local wildlife and the National Wildlife Federation (where I work), while also sharing the stories of people in our region who speak up for wildlife.

The first post features NWF's very own headquarters in Reston, Virginia!

Here’s the link: Wildlife-Friendly DMV, post 1 "10 Wildest Things Happening in National Wildlife Federation's Backyard"
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Suggested tweet: We're “wild” @NWF: 10 WILDEST things happening in NWF headquarters' backyard http://bit.ly/DMV_10wildesthappenings #DMV
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'Cause at the end of the day, life is "wild" no matter what...
Enjoy, Mb :)

One girl at the Today Show

Last Thursday, June 23, I found myself in a new place: behind the scenes at the Today Show.  Please view my blog post for photos, video, along with the candid-- and somewhat chaotic-- tale of my adventure.

Blog post on Wildlife Promise (my work blog):  http://blog.nwf.org/wildlifepromise/2011/06/wild-animals-camping-and-justin-bieber-behind-the-scenes-with-nwf-at-the-today-show/

I hope that you enjoy!

For sharing with your networks:
Suggested Tweet: Wild Animals, Camping and @justinbieber: Behind the Scenes with NWF at the Today Show. http://bit.ly/kgM6lJ @NWF @todayshow

One girl realizing many a things

The misconception that I've always had about writing for an audience is that writing must have this deep, underlying purpose or otherwise people won't read it.  And then over the past three months, I've realized that statement is not only not correct, but it is a hampering on my imagination.

What people want is questionable but that isn't the purpose of this post.  I can never please everyone (nor am I interested in trying).  Although, I can please myself.  It seems like the simplest statement now that I see it written out on my own screen.  It has taken me since my last post to learn this.  Better late than never, I suppose.

A good friend of mine told me once that the key to becoming a writer is to never stop writing.  Just don't ever stop he told me one day, driving in the car after a lunch date.  I've been writing all these months (at both my jobs), but what I haven't been doing is writing for myself.

I've made all these excuses: I'm too busy, my new job, I'm too tired from commuting, i don't have anything to write about... the list goes on and on.  I don't know why I stopped.  Life is a hectic place that moves faster as the days move forward-- I was told that they would.  And I'm realizing now that I had better not neglect the one friend that has never left me-- my writing hands.

And something I would like to take a moment to note: A special someone in my life began mentioning that I had stopped writing for me and that I should begin again.  Because I'm always "right," I would never admit that this person's constant persistence and encouragement is one of the reasons I'm sitting down now and starting again.  Thank you.

Moving forward, the only thing I can promise about my writing is that it will exist.  Now whatever shape and/or form it takes, is up to me.  Something else to note: this is the most invigorating thought I've had in years. 

beso (kiss), M

One girl driving onward

Grace Pickering slammed the car door and skidded down her parent's driveway.  She starred into the rear view mirror.  The brick, red roof and black shutters of her parent's house disappeared in the early evening sun. Dust from the opened Jeep hatch kicked into her eyes, and golden grit stuck in the tears that rolled down her cheeks.  The glaring sun reflected pinks and oranges off her 1973 Ray Ban Aviators as she drove into town.

Behind the dark lenses her eyes could see nothing but Mark Stocktan's eyes.  She'd left him, but he still burned a hole in her heart.  She knew it wasn't cause she wanted him.  She didn't love him; could care less about him-- really.  She'd left him on a white porch in the middle of nowhere, Texas with spurs on his boots and a bottle of rum in his hand.  The sloshing in her stomach and pain in her eyes were only for Mark, the man she wanted to move on from, but didn't know how to.  

Grace wasn't surprised she couldn't get over him even with 1800 miles and countless days between them.  It took her eight fights and two slashed tires later before she actually left.  Five times she packed a suitcase and paid for a cheap hotel with a heart-shaped jacuzzi.  The hotels always called them "Honeymoon Suites."  Grace preferred "Hell but in a Luxurious Bathtub."  Hours of boiling water seeping into her pores and countless bottles of champagne later equaled nothing but fire for the months to come.
 
"Damn," Grace said as she threw the gear into first.

"What am I gonna do with myself?" she murmured, cranking up the radio as strands of red hair flew out of the hatch. 

It all appeared very clear months before:  She'd become someone important in the small, New England bay area, just like her dad.  She would make her fortune at her dad's lobster company, helping to boost business with more buyers and sellers, with more fisherman and with well, just more.  Grace would bring the untapped lobster masses to the company she'd one day take over.

"What the hell is wrong with me?"

Grace's forehead hit the windshield.  Queasy, she touched her forehead.  The knot formed instantly as she looked ahead where her emergency lights reflected off the metallic white road sign.  Sweating and huffing, and rubbing her eyes she saw what she'd become those last 12 weeks-- nothing but a bum.  She spent her days sitting on the wooden porch of her parent's home, watching fishing boats pass and listening to the squeals and cheers of successful lobster catches, and people wrapping up their work days.  They would either be heading home or off to the bar.  She plastered her butt to the porch for hours, just like Mark always wanted her to do. 

His voice come out of the speakers,

"Pretty girls like you don't need to work, cause what if you aren't home when I get back?"

Grace opened the Jeep door.  His voice and the Maine she had returned to pumped out of her stomach and onto the blacktop.  Lobster and salt water.  Lobster and gabbing about lobster.  Maine would hold nothing for her but endless days of lobster casseroles, pies and lobster cakes served with a side of lobster.

"Oh, no."
   
Her body shook as her slim figure leaned up against the maroon Jeep.  Her sunglasses fell into her hands, where she saw Mark's face appear.  She learned a long time ago that there are two types of people out there: the ones that care and the ones that don't.  It really was that simple and she knew it, though she fought the idea with Mark time-after-time.  She told herself he cared.  But propped up on the side of the road that day she knew he'd never change his leather chaps for another tune, and it was time she stopped playing the same song on repeat.

Wiping her nose, Grace stood up and grabbed her atlas from under the passenger seat.  She flipped through the pages of states hoping to strum over a highway, interstate or back road that would let her drive onward.  Grace closed her eyes, held the atlas above her head and breathed,

"I'll let the road choose for me," as the atlas fell face up on the gravel.

She peaked.  She grinned.  She laughed.    

"Peaches can't be any worse than lobster."

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Grace Pickering and Mark Stocktan are fictional characters crafted by Megan Blevins.  Read previous posts to catch up on their story. Enjoy, Mb

One girl running her heart out

Mile 6.75 the cramp started.  Slowly, it progressed up my ribcage.  I fought it.  Breathing deeper, I hoped it would just disappear, but I knew the pain all too well: hunger.  I didn't want to eat too much, as runner's diarrhea is one of the main causes people have to stop racing.  No way in hell was the cramp gonna win... I'd come too far.

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Eight weeks before, my training for a half marathon began.  Legs to concrete, feet into my new orange kicks, brain clocked into power mode; all to run 13.1 miles on Oct. 3, 2010.  I trained alone.  I ran anywhere from 35-50 miles a week, with cross-training on the bike and elliptical.  I trained until my body could not train anymore.  It was game time.

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At 4:07 a.m., my body got out of bed.  I had programed myself to run this race, and my body took over. The race started at 7 a.m.  I ate at 5 a.m.  Two pieces of bread with peanut butter and one banana.  Water, and Gatorade, all drank on a schedule of 15-minute, sip increments.   Again, runner's diarrhea happens when too much water is consumed before the race.  The body loses control of well, certain bodily functions when running this much.   

  
I remember nothing until mile 6.75.  I know that my body was moving, carrying me across land.  Gliding me down the road, up and down steep hills, turns and bends.  It was the perfect day at 50 degrees, sunshine and a little breeze.  The perfect morning until 6.75 turned into 6.89, and the cramp progressed to both sides.  I needed food, energy.  I needed some power.

Every mile there was water and Gatorade.  Mile 7 saved my life-- "Hammertime."  Literally, the honey-like, gel energy substance named "Hammertime," that I squeezed out of a green packet saved me.  Instantly, the pain turned into "hammertime."

Mile 8 to 10 blurred in my legs and knees.  I never thought I would see the sign for mile 10.  The most I had trained for at one time was 10 miles.  The miles after 10 were a mystery.

At the mile 10 sign, my body knew what it saw.  Ten miles down with only three to go.  Again, literally-- hammertime.  I heard from another runner that we were at a 8:57 mile pace.

I almost fainted.  I didn't know I could really run that fast.  My goal for the half marathon was 1:57:00.  I had no clue if I could actually make this time.  I had no clue if I could actually run that fast, without stopping, without injury and without stopping from being too afraid of running my little heart out.

But I did just that-- I ran my heart out.  And quickly.

For 13.1 miles, I ran up and down hills, all while carrying the solid pace of 8:57, finishing with a time of 1:56:59.  The last mile was a complete uphill incline.  I sprinted to the finish line.  I groaned and screamed till the very end.

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I showed that last, one mile incline who was boss  

and more importantly,

I showed myself on that Sunday morning, that I could do anything I put my mind to.  

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I ran and ran and I ran.  Out of 402 people overall, I finished 192nd.  Out of 180 women, I finished 58th. Somehow, I wasn't even sore.  Running has now taken me places I never knew I could go... and to answer the question you're all asking:  "I don't know if I'm running a full marathon anytime soon." ha :-)

one girl back in wine country

The world we live in is an interesting place.  It's full of people we may not really know or understand; trains crowded with strangers that we run into, but never notice-- it is a field of eyeballs and no one can see.

The life that I live for, is made out of people who get the path I want to travel down, and who comprehend the person that I want to become.  Opening up to another person is one of the toughest things to do in life.  It's hard to put your precious thoughts in the trust of someone else.  Or, the thought that another person might know you better than you know yourself.

So then what do you do with the people that you have decided to let in?

Do you tell them stories and thoughts in hope that they might think you are funny, kind or interesting?  Do you smile uncontrollably in want of being accepted for something that you aren't?  Or do you do the unthinkable and pour your heart and soul into another human being, whom may not give two shits about what you say?

The world we live in is a peculiar place-- full of people we cross and dine with that we may never see again; let alone actually remember how their face looked in the glowing shadows of the red candle, the color of their teeth after too much red wine or how they leaned toward you in compassion because they wanted you to know that they cared.

Does letting people in mean you are becoming attached? Perhaps.  But an attachment for the sake of sanity and enlightenment of a good time means I'm making the friends that I've been longing for in DC.

People thrive on other people, the one element that I've been missing here.  Without people's passion and that connection, people are dead.  I've been dead to many aspects of DC:  I've never been so homesick, distraught, overwhelmed, confused... but the flip side: It's been a long time since I've been this happy, over joyed and determined to make the life that I have now work for me.

At the end of the day, in this outrageously, awesome world that I live in, no matter how afraid I am, things in DC are opening up doors and relationships that I never saw coming-- the true tell sign that life is treating me just fine.