day 20: pursue

I made bacon to go with my eggs for dinner tonight.  It was glorious.

And. 

Right now, as I type, I can hear one of my man-eaters in the kitchen trying to track down the remnants of said bacon.  I can hear her rummaging in the trash right now {of course, I'm on to her antics so I  threw the contraband away in the dumpster while she was still outside}; then she will go to the sink to try to sniff the dishes, but they have already been washed and put away; finally, I will hear her nose open the cabinet where I keep the screen that keeps the bacon from spitting.  At that last resort, I will have to leave you for a bit.  It's a little gross to let the dog lick the clean pots and pans.  Just sayin'.

The dog is relentless.  The kitchen is like her personal casino and dinner time is like playing a hard-core game of craps.  One time, I left the kitchen briefly and came back to find she had eaten a whole stick of butter.  What?  Who does that ish?  Apparently, my dog.  Another time, she managed to turn on the stove with her big ol' feet.  {That wasn't really funny, I for real have dreams that I wake up in the morning and she's got the burner lit and just-a-roarin'.}  Yesterday while I was making chili, she just about knocked me over trying to get a piece of onion that I had dropped on the floor.  I thought that might deter her scavenging ways, but clearly a little onion will not stand in the way of a bacon hunt.

All in all, though, Miss Sadie Lou is sweet.  She is stubborn.  She is head-strong.  She is prissy.  And if she had pinky fingers, she would have hers permanently and proudly raised.  And for goodness sakes, when she bats her eyes in the midst of whatever havoc she is wreaking, my heart just melts and I find myself fighting the urge to cuddle her.  {She only cuddles on her terms, ever been snubbed by a dog?  Right!  I told y'all she was stuck up!}

This man-eater has a whole lot to teach her mama about being sweet and holding her own at the same time.  But, the lesson this afternoon was that sweet doesn't mean settling with the same dog food every morning and every night.  It means employing stealth, creativity, and perseverance to savor even just the smell of some bacon.  

Or in the case of the pictures above, batting her sweet brown eyes thus deterring me from making the bed and forcing me to stop and love on her just a bit.  Until, of course, she had had enough of the lovey-dovey nonsense.  

day 16: pray

I often compare my runs to life, it seems that each little run is a lesson that helps me move forward in my everyday life a little more smoothly; but, I also like to compare the bigger picture of life to a vacation with a lot of different people.  Almost ten years ago, my family took a four-generation, seventeen-person, two-minivan vacation to Florida.  Both grandmas needed wheelchairs, one needed to be pushed while the other refused to sit down; my step-grandpa wanted to go to Gatorland; the little girls wanted to be princesses; my brother was afraid of the water at SeaWorld; and, my mom and aunt made us all wear matching t-shirts.  We all had stuff we wanted to do, expectations for the trip, and the mutual conclusion that if we couldn't get along, we wouldn't have fun.  I think life is like this.

One of my Anonymous Beloveds is a tremendous planner.  I'm not gonna lie, I love to vacay with her because everything is always taken care of.  Even when something I'm not super into is on the agenda, I'm able to relax and enjoy it {some times more than others} because she's got everything under control.  I know for a lot of people in my life, I represent a similar calmness and security.  We all represent this for at least one person in our lives.

And, sometimes it's a lot for a girl to carry on her shoulders.  But, y'all already know that.

It's no surprise {or probably a coincidence, either} that I've been working through some stuff as I've been writing this series.  In a way, we're always working on something {or working on not working on it}.  It always is just a wee bit funny when the thing I've been searching for has been in my face, under my nose, or in my hand almost mocking me while I've run around like a cray-cray trying desperately to find it.  And of course, it's way worse when I'm über-stressed about all of things I've got to get done and all of the people who need all of the other things, and so on and so forth. So here's what smacked me in the face yesterday morning.  Y'all ready?

God is kinda like my AB, except with way more resources and is not at all daunted by carrying it all on His shoulders.  He's ready to take the load.

Then, I realized that in the midst of all of this stuff, I had forgotten to pray.

Source: thebestpinterestpics.blogspot.com via Laura on Pinterest

The thing is that praying isn't just about asking God for the things and outcomes that we want; it's about confiding in Him our deepest fears and concerns and asking for advice.  It's a conversation.  And it doesn't always take place while I'm on my knees at the side of the bed.  Sometimes it takes place while I run.  Sometimes over my morning coffee.  And sometimes, little signs like repeating numbers or the hourly notifications I set on my phone telling me that God is in control reminder me that I'm on the right track or that I need to get back on it.

When I first got my man-eaters, I read A LOT of books about dog training.  One of the most consistent piece of information I learned, no matter the method, was that dogs need to re-learn everything you teach them in every new situation they are in.  Humans are like that, too.  It so explains why I give great advice that I, for the life of me, cannot follow myself.  {It's okay to nod your head a little bit if you see a little bit of yourself in this, I won't tell.}  It also explains how I forgot to pray.

Stuff can be throw-you-off-the-tracks-completely hard.  Really, it's just a new opportunity to learn something new or master a tactic.  For me, it's been a little bit of both and prayer is a necessary piece to lightening the load.  I know for sure that carrying it all around does not a sweet lady make.

day 14: but don't settle

Theres a little voice inside all of our heads that tells us what we can and can't do.  It affirms what we subconsciously believe is {or is not} possible.  We'd like to stand up and scream in its face that what it is saying is false, but we second guess.

Oh, the what-if's.

Yesterday we talked about how it is a-okay to not be perfect.  But.  There's a fine line here.  Because, while we are all amazing in our own sweet imperfect way, it's not okay to settle for mediocre.  It's not okay to let that little voice convince you to stop, give up, or give in.

Take for example, my dishes.  My dishwasher is otherwise disguised as my two sweet little hands and the only garbage disposal that exists in my house doubles as two, four-legged, tail-wagging, man-eaters who prefer dumpster diving over actually eating men.  So you can understand, then, why I despise cleaning up after dinner and why sometimes I'd rather let one of my many personal chefs cook dinner.  It's one thing to accept that I'm not probably going to ever have a real dishwasher in my current house; but, it's a complete other thing to give-up on the whole having-a-house-that-hugs-me-back thing, feel defeated because I have to do it myself, tell myself that I don't deserve to have nice things if I can't have dishwasher, let all my dishes pile up, and become a hoarder eating off of paper plates while the real ones grow things in the sink.  Ok.  So, maybe it wouldn't be that serious.  But it could be.

Source: somethingstronger.tumblr.com via Felix on Pinterest

I've struggled a little lately with the concern of losing the wit and snark that I so closely identify with in my endeavor to become sweeter.  I have feared the idea that sweet might mean ignoring boundaries and putting on the facade of a constant state of "nice-ness" and perpetuating doormat-like tendencies.  In the last several days, however, it seems that by becoming more sweet, I have opened the door for me to feel more authentically like my self, more confident in my "flaws", and more determined to deepening my connections with beloveds.  My conclusion is that my desire to be sweet is really my desire to be a better, happier, more welcoming, more imperfectly unique me and nothing less.

day 13: accept

I was supposed to run 10 miles on Saturday morning.  I ran 4.  And I'm honestly not sure what if I did could even be called a "run".  But there were 4 of them.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  4.  Four.

Last Thursday, I ran five miles like I was a rock star.  No, really.

It's funny how one day can seem like the only possible limit might be the sky and then, in a matter of seemingly minutes, that same limitless sky seems to be falling faster than my poor heart did after hearing that my alma mater lost their homecoming game this weekend.  ugh.  and to a mean team.

The fact is that not every day, run, or body for that matter, is gonna be perfect.  In fact, perfection isn't probably ever going to happen and we just have to accept that.  Undoubtably, it is when we do finally figure this out that we learn how to truly love.

For as long as I can remember, I've beens searching for approval.  striving to be perfect.  because my underlying belief has always been that I was not enough.

This is painful to write, to see it in print on this screen, because for 32 years, I've known this wasn't true, I just, for the life of me, can't seem to believe it.

And then, Saturday, while I was cussing a little about how I should be doing better than I was, a little voice cut through the anger and self-condmenation and said, "hey, let yourself off the hook!"

Sometimes our high expectations and aims for perfection prevent us from seeing the truth in ourselves and in others.  We can't really be sweet to someone if we can't accept them for who or what they are.  And really, how sweet can we be to others if we can't be sweet to ourselves?

day 10: the truth doesn't have to hurt

When God installed the filter that runs between my brain and my mouth, I'm certain that it was one of the cheap ones.  And for the most part, it works just fine, especially for all of the big, chunky obnoxious comments that I keep to myself on a regular basis.  But suffice to say that I'm not known for my finesse in addressing difficult situations or subjects.  I'll blame it on my immigrant grandmother.

I'll be completely honest with y'all, well, 'cause that's what I do.  Sometimes, I don't even realize how mean some of the things that come out of my mouth really are.  My heart's not made of stone; and while I'm pretty good at apologizing, I probably take for granted that the people who know me just accept this as one of my flaws.

Yesterday, while I was focusing on not complaining or bringing nonsensical drama to the party, I was apparently failing to pay attention to how I was saying what I was saying.  It was brought to my attention by a third party {because, I'm apparently a wee bit intimidating as well}, that I may or may not have said somethings that may or may not have hurt a person's feelings.  This is not the first time I've been notified of such a thing and so I was not surprised, but definitely a bit remorseful {but only sort of, because, I mean, it was the truth}.

But still, it left me wondering if I could have delivered the same message with just a tad less brashness.  Would the message have been lost?  Would my sweetness have been perceived as weakness? Does causing a person to shut down or feel the need to defend themselves really help the message?

After some serious thought on the matter, I'm going with a big fat no.  A spoonful of sugar really may help the medicine go down!  Who knew?  And thus, one more reason to work on my sweetness: to be more effective.

I've heard relationships be compared to bank accounts via many different sources.  The way I sometimes pretend that I have an unlimited supply of money in my checking account is similar to the seemingly endless supply of support,  patience, and understanding from my beloveds.  I roll along all hunky-dory-like until I gravely discover after procrastinating on paying the bills for one-too-many days or one-too-many humorously judgmental declarations, that I have once again, taken for granted how far I can really stretch a dollar of either currency.  The remedy, apparently, is to save four dollars for every one I spend and to give a person four positive statements for every negative.  If this is true, I've got a whole lot of complementing {and saving} to be doing!

The next phase of this whole sweetness project is to employ my newly aquired questioning technique to understand the logic behind a person's action instead of making mean, mocking, or angry judgements and assumptions; to watch my words and the way I use them; and to avoid at all costs making any interaction a public spectacle.

This is, by far, the most difficult task I've set for myself yet.  So, please, help a sister out: what do you do, or have you done, to help you remember to bite your tongue {especially when you're so Mike Tyson angry that you'd like to bite the other person's ear instead}?  Thanks in advance, I knew y'all would have my back!

day 6: but, what if?

I knew it was bound to happen.  I suppose it's better to just get it done and out of the way.  Now's as good a time as ever, and sooner's always better than later.  Well, usually anyway.

My mini me is throwin' another fit, y'all.  And this time, she's angry at me.  It seems that she's pretty sure all of this sweetness stuff is going to backfire and leave us with nothing more than the dirt everyone else has left over from wiping their feet on our pretty little faces.

Sure, being sweet can get a girl's heart hurt, no one likes knowing that their kindness has been taken for granted, or worse, gone unacknowledged.  And yet, these are not valid reasons for choosing the opposite of sweet.  The choice to be sweet to the people we encounter in our lives, be them strangers, friends, or family, is a gift and gifts are not given because people earn or deserve them, they are given out of love.

Of course, we don't need excuses to be sweet to the people we love and who are sweet to us, although sometimes we need reminders {we'll cover this in a future post}, what mini me is afraid of and what keeps most us on guard in public are the people we don't really know or who we are getting to know and the pressing urge to protect ourselves.  Being sweet doesn't mean I am a doormat.  It means I choose to take and interest in other people and have respect for their journey as fellow humans ~ regardless of whether or not I agree with some, few or none of their decisions.

So, because mini me really likes clearly defined rules {they make her feel safe and secure, like she at least has a compass in the middle of the wilderness}, I thought I'd share the guidelines we have come to agree upon for the rest of this journey:

• People may not immediately appreciate sweetness from others, especially strangers, and that is okay.  If we are interacting with them anyway {passing through the same isle in Target, entering the highway at the same time, or even just walking down the sidewalk while we're gathering the mail} we lose nothing by being sweet and we have the benefit of going about our activities with a smile.
• We do not need to seek out people who do not wish to acknowledge or appreciate {although we're surely not being sweet for appreciation} our sweetness; in fact, sometimes giving people space without bitterness is the sweetest gesture we can make.
• We do not have stop enjoying our own activities in order to fill our time with what makes others happy; doing things that make us happy helps us to stay sweet.
• We are allowed to decline invitations as long as we do it sweetly.  This doesn't mean we have to give an excuse or tiptoe around the subject, simply acknowledging the gesture is plenty.
• We must always be genuine in our sweetness, it is okay to follow our mama's advice, "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."  People can see through insincere actions and being fake just isn't sweet.

I figure being sweet, you know, the genuine kind, is sort of like buying a raffle ticket from that little neighbor kid's  school or church fundraiser: the underfunded cause gets a helping hand, you've strengthened {or begun building} a relationship, and because you now have a raffle ticket, you've got a chance to win a prize, which is a bonus, because we all know that whatever is being raffled off is not often the reason we bought the ticket in the first place.  If it's done right and for the right reasons, there's no real downfall to buying a ticket from the poor kid, even when it's not a winning one.

pear-shaped madness

Ya wanna know which fictitious character I feel most like today?  Veruca Salt.  You know the bratty little girl who's daddy schemed a golden ticket for her, the one who hooted and hollered every time she saw something she just knew she had to have, the one who befell her demise chasing after a golden egg.  Yeah.  Her.

Photo Credit: FanPop

My mini me has been screaming, "I want it NOW!" in the back of my head for the last day or so.  I wish it was simply a golden goose egg (or a specially trained squirrel apparently, if you've read the book) that would satiate the Miss-Salt-like squawking.

Of course, let's be real here.  The egg wouldn't have satisfied her in the movie and what I think I want right now ain't gonna fix a thing either.  Well.  Maybe just a little bit.  For now, anyway.

What I want right now, really truly, is to be able to trust that this super handsome potential suitor I've been seeing is for real.  And.  Here's the thing.  There's no real reason, except my own insecurities, preventing me from doing it.  Because you see, we're at just the right point in this budding relationship that my crazy should start acting up, terrified of what one. more. disappearing act is gonna do to my faith in the male gender.  Turns out that I'm in the midst of a supremely vicious cycle that happens to have everything a little pear-shaped right now.  

My mama has always told me that hind sight was 20/20.  It's easy to look back and see all of the things I've done wrong and even to imagine how I could've done them better.  It's really really really hard, in the midst of pear-shaped madness to remember those lessons, much less find the serenity I had before the crazy came back to visit.

They say that good things come to those who wait, but waitin' is so dang hard.  And waiting with any sense of integrity can be plain old agonizing.  Right now, waiting is making me want to stomp my feet, throw a fit, and chase that stupid golden egg to my own inevitable demise.  Or just burrow into my bed for a couple of days.

Oh.  Wait a minute.  I've done that.

And it repeatedly gets me.... that's right, you've guessed it!  NO WHERE.

You know how the saying goes, if you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you've always got.  A self-fulfilling prophecy, if you will.

But, I'm not gonna do it this time.  Nope.

One of things I remember most from the good ol'days of The Oprah Show, was Oprah quoting Maya Angelou,  "when you know better, you do better."  I believe I finally know better enough to understand how to do it better.  This time, even if it doesn't work out or he falls off the face of the earth, I will know that I did better.  I will know that I was not a victim.  And, I will not be angry at him for failing to read my mind or for being flawed enough to *gasp* have more purpose in life than to simply please me.

So, this is where I change my course, scrape together all of my remaining composure, and let myself be a little more vulnerable than I'm comfortable with.  It's okay to feel uneasy.  It's okay to be scared strait out of my new Jessica Simpson heels.  It's even okay to let this so-far great guy off of the hook that he probably doesn't even know exists.

Wish me luck, 'cause instead of diving in after that golden egg, I'm gonna sit tight, stay sweet, invest some time in learning about him, and trust that I'm gonna be okay.  no. matter. what.

Cheers to moving forward,

hi, um, i'm crazy

In honor of the fact that I have had Miranda Lambert's "Only Prettier" stuck in my head all day, I was going to write a bit today about the necessity of putting one's self in a pretty package, but then I got to thinking a little about how a chapter in the book I'm reading cautioned me this morning about being too judgmental, now I'm thinking about how one of my AB's is a recovering crazy and how much I love her despite, actually mostly because of, her crazy.

Then it dawned on me.  We have a lot in common, my crazy AB and I.  Which means that I might be a crazy, too.  Of course this makes me laugh, because I believe that crazy people always think they are sane.  I, of course, pride myself on my level head and ability to stay completely cool and confident in all scenarios. Ohhhhhhh, the irony.

I think crazy is kind of like having cankles.  First, you should know that I've been secretly self-conscious about my ankles since I was in the fifth grade when a super cute, older boy told me that girls with fat ankles were ugly.  He then pointed out that mine were "a little on the thick side."  Boom.  Actually, that's probably when the crazy started, too.

At any rate, I noticed that my cankles showed up a little today.  It's back to school time, which means my summer of healthier-than-normal eating etc. is over and I've already caved in to my ceremonial 10 am bag of Chex-Mix and can of Mountain Dew.  Trust me, it does lovely things for water retention.  Since we've already established that God likes to make good and clear those delicate little lessons I'm supposed to be learning, there is probably no coincidence that as I was strapping on my running shoes and thinking about the sad state of my lower legs, that I heard the sounds of Miss Miranda over the radio waves.

You catch more flies with the sweet, pretty taste of honey, y'all and neither sodium-induced cankles nor act-like-you-lost-your-mind crazy are all that pretty.  That's for sure, but we all have a little bit of both in us.  And let's be honest, pretty isn't all that easy, neither is overcoming water retention or maintaining sanity.  It takes time and patience to do things for ourselves that make us feel pretty and I guess that's where this whole post comes full circle: there's a little bit of sanity in being able to laugh at your crazy and those of us who choose to act "prettier" will be prettier.

Having confidence is just like being you, only prettier.   You know what you had to do to earn it and believe you're worth the work to keep yourself that way.  Oh.  Wait.  Isn't that kind of like sanity?

happiness is an adirondack chair... or I used to be funny

Yesterday's post both depressed and freed me.  Sorry if it depressed you, but hurray if it made you think even just a tiny bit as much it did me. Here's the thing: I used to be friggin' hilarious y'all.  For reals.  I'm not completely sure that I am anymore and this makes me sad.

Ok.  I think the funny is still underneath all the ridiculous that has clouded over me in the last couple of years.  I thought about it while I was cleaning out of my classroom.  Well, actually, I think about it and how to get it back a lot, and I've been getting little clues, especially lately.  What do they say, when the student is ready, the teacher will appear?  Truth, I believe.

Anyway, every morning that I run, I make sure to run past my favorite buildings, they relax me and make me happy.  That's what it's all about anyway, right?  One of my favorite houses sits on corner in a big, inviting yard and on the porch, that seems like it would the perfect place to watch the sunset, bright yellow adirondack chairs are situated, contrasting beautifully against the bluish gray of the house.  There is something magically charming about this house, but I decided this morning that without the chairs, this house would hardly stand out.

And so, it occurred to me, that while the classic picture of white adirondack chairs on the beach is similarly and absolutely a picture of relaxation and peace, it is the chairs themselves that make the dream almost tangible.

The thing is that the chairs are simple, vibrant, relaxed, and sturdy.  In a word, they are confident.  Those yellow chairs on the porch or white ones on the beach aren't afraid that the sun won't always shine and they know that they will always find proper footing no matter how unleveled the ground is beneath them.  They do not advertise for people to join them, but their welcoming nature makes doing so easy and enjoyable.

Ok, so the chairs are not funny.  But they are authentic.  And authentic can be, at the very least, humorous if it is, in fact, authentic.

God already knows that I'm a little bit of a big-headed type-A chica who would rather be in control of, oh I don't know, everything.  I'm sure that it has been no coincidence that everything I've encountered today, from my daily Bible verse to my Aquarian horoscope, have focused on the concepts of simplicity and patience; two words that, when authentic, scream confidence.  I guess the lesson here is that in order for me to get my funny back, I need to regain my confidence.  In order to regain my confidence, the true confidence that God's got a perfect plan for me, I have to be patient with that plan and quit trying to complicate things by forcing square pegs into round holes.  In short,  I need to relax, let my big head chill out in one of those phenomenal adirondack chairs, and watch God's plan unfold.

photo credit: Rosa Say via photo pin cc

fireflies

I thought about fireflies today.  

When I was a kid, I wanted so desperately for them to light up my room at night.  Just once, I longed to turn out the lights at bed time and have the jar shine like stars.  A tiny piece of summer heaven to lull me to sleep.

Countless nights throughout so many summers, I collected fireflies and carefully placed them in the discarded baby food jars that my dad and I had meticulously prepared for them.  We would use a nail and hammer to make the proper sized breathing holes in the lid and I filled the jars with fresh grass and leaves.  Try as I might to provide a welcoming home, those little bugs simply could not survive in those jars.  Even if they could have, I don't think that they would have brought me the joy that I imagined.  

There is something magical about how fireflies illuminate a warm night.  Something illusive and serene, like stars twinkling within our reach, a place to rest our hopes and dreams.  But just like the fireflies, the magic dies in jars.  

It's what so many of us do in love.  We want to be collectors more than participants, we want for our darkness to be interrupted.  We do our best to provide comfortable amenities in hopes that we can be persuasive and enticing.  The truth is that the only way that anyone, firefly or man, can really thrive is when he feels free to do so by choice.  Force and guilt ruin the simplest joy.  

And fear.  

Because without fear, there is no force or duty or persuasion or enticement.  All is secure.  Even when it's not, because we have faith that it is enough.

prayer run

I used to think that I didn't know how to pray, I knew I wanted to, but I just didn't know how.  Then it occurred to me one day, while I was sitting and drinking my coffee enjoying the silence of the new day, that God, like an old friend, and I were really talking over coffee--that I'd been praying all along.  Over time, my relationship with God has grown and I pray in the morning over coffee and at night on my knees. An AB and their situation is heavy on my heart today.   Today, I felt that I would continue my prayers into my run.  What better way to get closer to God than by using His body to explore the world He created.

For four miles, I concentrated and prayed.  I prayed for peace.  I prayed for guidance.  I prayed for strength.  I prayed for my AB.  My mama always says that God doesn't give us more than we can handle.  And it occurred to me as I came to the hill that never ends that I earlier this summer, I couldn't run that hill at all.

But what are the hills for?  Who cares if I'm stronger than yesterday?  Sure it makes a pretty picture to stare at in the mirror and can earn lots of shiny medals; but really, a strong body comes from a strong faith that you are doing what is best for your body, a trust that you can push yourself further than you ever thought possible and still live to tell about the journey, the strength to keep pushing when everything seems to be crumbling around you.  And sometimes all of this faith and trust and strength isn't for our own benefit; sometimes its for the benefit of the people whose lives God has brought us into.  Sometimes all of our work provides the calm in the middle of someone else's storm.

God never intended our lives to be easy, I think that's the misconception.  God gave us hills, sometimes so steep and big and arduous, that we think we will never reach the top.  But we do.  God gives us plateaus and valleys too, so that we can appreciate the lessons and catch our breath.  There are times during a run that I concentrate on putting one foot down in front of the other, but really, my body just works.  In fact, it is when I let go of the push and let my body do it's job that I run best, even up those hills.  Isn't that what the Bible tells us to do, let go of the idea that we have any real control and give it to God?  What a beautiful and extraordinarily difficult lesson to remember, let alone apply.  Especially because what I really want is to DO something for my AB, I want to BE there, I want FIX it.  And.  I can't for so many reasons that are beyond my control.  Well.  I can pray.  

visiting

It was a family story that we've told over and over again now for a couple of years.  Of course, it hasn't been passed down from generation to generation, and maybe it never will because, really, the story isn't all that funny if you've never met her.  If you've never seen her bright eyes twinkle when one of her grandkids walk in the room or heard her begin her speech about cutting back on Christmas as early as August, just one breath after asking us grandkids eagerly what we'd like for her to get us.  

One Christmas, I don't remember the hoopla but I'm told there was quite a stir, Grandma waited in line and bought all of the grandkids, there were three girls and one boy at the time, a Cabbage Patch Kid.  I've been told they were quite the rage that year, I was the oldest and I don't remember knowing I was supposed to want one, but I did love that doll.  Every year for the next three, we each got a new one.

But that's not the real story.  The real story has to do with the fact that Grandma was a busy body.  She knew everyone and everyone's business.  I can't recall how many times in my life I would catch myself wondering in awe who all of the kids, neatly framed and arranged on her entertainment center, end tables, and various other spots around her house, belonged to.  Oh, that's so and so's granddaughter from over there, and that's what's her name's daughter's son's niece and nephew, she would explain.  And of course she knew every one of those kids' names, where they lived and the names of their mamas, daddys, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  She loved them all, too.  

Grandma loved being at the center of the action, rarely was she the actual center of attention, she just always knew what was going on.  She thrived on it.  But she was not a gossip, not really.  In fact, I don't remember, except once, hearing her real opinion of anything.  Mostly she expressed sympathy.  "Isn't it just horrible," she would lament.  Maybe and maybe not.  I think that Grandma just genuinely cared.  

Grandma died after complications from several strokes.  She didn't want to be kept alive and we honored her wishes.  In hospice, where everyone did their best to keep her comfortable while she waited to pass into her next life, she twitched her feet to let us know she was still with us.  There was no real medical way that she was really able to move her feet, but she did it.  SHE did it.  We knew it.  She finally let go and went to be with Grandpa, who had passed long before I was ever born and had, therefore, never formally met any of his grandchildren, actually even his youngest daughter's husband.  Of course, that's not the story either.

Grandma died right at the beginning of November, the beginning of her favorite time of year.  The Thanksgiving after she died might have been the last time that all of us, her three kids, their spouses and us grandchildren, were all together and we knew Grandma's eyes must have been twinkling to see us there together,  talking about her, still a little emotionally raw.  It was a nuscience at first, that little fruit fly that wouldn't go away.  We swatted at it and it eluded our efforts only to rejoin the party from another angle.  And then, as sure as turkey  and a healthy dose of football will bring on the naps, that darn fruit fly was gone as soon as the dinner excitement was settled.  

That is, until the next time.  When that little fruit fly, maybe the same one, maybe not, sure did come out of no where and join her two youngest grandsons and all of their friends.  That little fruit fly put on the same show for them and disappeared when the action settled.  Of course this wasn't the last time a single fruit fly made an appearance at a family gathering, in fact, we've grown to expect it.

No one ever plans to come back to this earth as a fruit fly, but we all figure it suits Grandma best.  It allows her to hear all of the conversations going on at once and taste the food that she loved so much.  We don't even second guess it when we see a fruit fly now, because we know it's her, just making sure all is well.  That's the story, so short and seemingly insignificant, like a fruit fly I guess.  But I'll tell you what, I don't think it was an accident that a lone fruit fly landed on my arm today in church right in the middle of the part of the sermon that I knew I had really needed to hear.  She knew it and I knew it.  Then she was gone.

you just might find, you get what you need

Sometime in the first week of January 2009, I signed up for my first half marathon, to be run in April and for my first marathon, to be run the next January.  On that day, I had never run straight through more than 4 miles at one time and had participated in exactly one organized race.  A 5K.  In over my head?  A little, but in this case, ignorance was bliss.  I had no idea what I was really in store for.

Over the months I trained my butt off, finally got real running shoes, and asked more questions than a toddler from everyone whom I could possibly glean a sliver of insight - even the dentist.  In the world that existed then, there were no paces to calculate, no splits to aim for, not even a PR to beat.  I had no idea when I would finish the race or how I was going to make it 13.1 miles without music.  All I knew how to do was run and pray that I didn’t die.

Then it came, the April morning I had worked so hard for.  And it was raining.  And I was petrified.  Thankfully, between the enthusiasm radiating between my mom and my aunt, I mustered up the courage to line up in my coral.  As I stood there, protected from the rain by my motley garbage-bag-poncho, I surveyed the crowd and tried desperately to figure out what last minute preparations I was supposed to be making while I stood in line.  My mom has always told me that God would take care of me and even though this was the furthest thought from my mind, I had the luck of making eye contact with another lone runner.  We struck up what turned out to be a 13.1 mile conversation.

On that day, a stranger became a beloved and together we pushed each other to triumph.  Without her help, I would not have been able to run the whole race and with my help, she was able to beat her time goal.  I’ve often considered her an angel who showed up when I needed the support the most, even though I didn’t really think I needed it.

Today, on a glorious Easter morning, almost exactly three years to the day since that race, I ran with my Anonymous Beloved again.  It is only the second time in our lives that we have run together, or even spoken face to face, in our lives and yet it all just fell so naturally into place.  And again, we pushed each other passed our road blocks.

One of my favorite images of God comes from the “Footprints in the Sand” poem, when God tells the speaker that the places that only show one set of footprints are from when God was carrying him.  Maybe old friends, new friends, and strangers who become friends are the arms of God.  We weren’t meant to carry the weight of the world on our shoulders alone, sometimes we just need to be reminded.

starting from broken

Starting to run from scratch was difficult.  There were times when I did not think I could do it.  And there were many more times when I realized, in awe, that, despite the odds, I had.  

I remember dreaming of effortlessly running for hours and then the devastation when my lungs and muscles were screaming after minutes.  But I remember the progress, too.  I remember the first time I ran for 3 miles straight through - I was on a treadmill and I thought for sure that it was going to explode as I wondered if anyone had ever run that far before!  Ha!  I remember the first time I ran 7 miles.  I was at my favorite park, which I had been trying to conquer for years; I couldn’t stop smiling when I realized I had made it the whole way around, and then more when I realized I wasn’t even as tired as I thought 7 miles should have made me.  I remember when I finished my marathon, I cried as I crossed the finish line.  My dad had been very sick through most of my training, so sick that I almost stopped training all together; but, I am happy to say that he was there on the other end of the phone, waiting to celebrate my finish with me.  

It was this time last year that I started to feel the pain in my legs.  I was confident in my ability to run the distance that I was starting to work on my speed.  By the end of April last year, I was out of commission with surgery scheduled.  Nine months after surgery, after 13 odd weeks of physical therapy, after countless stretches, lunges, and squats, I am ready to start training again.  I have my sights set on a half marathon in June - the one I was training for last year when I tore the labrum in my hip.

Now, I am starting from broken.  And I think this time around it is harder.  It is humbling to set out for a 3 mile run, a quick, down and dirty workout before, and realize that I can’t do it yet.  I feel like I’m the chunky little kid of my childhood who wants so much to be athletic, but whose dreams are bigger than her ability.  My runs are leaving me frustrated and previous landmark triumphs taunt me.  I’m trying to be forgiving and understanding, reminding myself that I am starting from scratch again and that there will be good and bad days.  But I’m not starting from scratch and the bad days seem to be taking over and the mental scripts that I thought I had conquered are fighting to comeback.

This time, progress is going to be a mental battle.  I tried to remind myself today that even if I had to walk, I was still moving forward.  I have to remember that I am capable of the physical aspect, that is what drove me before; now it is time for a mental triumph.  It is a call to take accountability and control in a way that I have lost track of as so many things in my life are willy-nilly.  I learned once upon a time, in my non-runner life, that the cure to almost all ills is to keep my attention focused on the present.  I still have my sights set on that hometown half in June; but right now, I’m focused on three quality miles.  

terror.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous. Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."  -Marianne Williamson 

Life would be simpler if we could just live perpetually.  And be happy.  Ugh.  Living perpetually, according to habit, following the rules of what’s always, and changing only when there’s no other choice; but where is the glory?  Can we truly enjoy the beauty around us when we take for granted that it’s always going to be there?  I think no.  

As I progress into the uncharted territory of a new life, I’m almost overwhelmed at the possibilities that seem available all of a sudden.  Have these always been there?  Geeze!  Where have I been?  But I am not caught up in a whirlwind-of-regret terror, it is the whirlwind-of-what-if terror.  And not the what-if-I-fail variety.  What if I succeed?  What if people want to by my jellies and jams, and then they want to buy muffins and then I open a shop and then my brand and products become popular enough that I have to hire someone and then I get to negotiate with companies to mass produce my products because I simply cannot keep up with the demand and I am truly, unequivocally, glowingly happy because of my jelly baby?  

Of course, its not the fear of all of this success that really scares me.  It’s the almost crippling fear of leaving behind everything that has been comfortable in my life up until now.  A job that pays the bills, a nice car that solidifies my identity so that I don’t have to, a house that secures my small piece of the American pie.  I will have to rely on my ingenuity and ability to adapt to pay the bills.  I will have to rely on me to secure and solidify my identity (and my brand).  And, I will have to remember that the opportunity to follow my dreams IS the American dream.  

I will have to find enough confidence to believe that I am worth the success.

The crazy thing, it that just like the beautiful fruit that ends up in jars, life is not meant to be just looked at, it’s meant to be lived, savored, and enjoyed.  My good friend Paula Deen often says that “you taste your food first with your eyes” and I think that is true.  I think dreams and aspirations work the same way.  They look amazing in the mind, but the true miracle is when the other senses become involved and that sight is not longer a mirage, but becomes concrete.  Savorable.  I am fighting the potentially paralyzing fear of the unknown and reminding myself, like so many times before, that God will open doors for me.  Maybe the terror is more than a gentle reminder that I am alive and that I should really work on living rather than relying on my things and circumstances for the security of identity, comfort, and the American dream. 

improvement

During the training for my first half-marathon, I was reeling from a bad break up and filled with rage at him, at the way it happened, and at being single.  AGAIN.  I remember wondering, as I pounded through the miles to angry music pumping through my earbuds, what would happen to my running when I was not so fueled by rage.

Over years that followed that race, the rage-fueled runs peaked and valleyed and I clung to any type of artificial adrenaline pumping I could find.  Please read: angry music.  I did not enjoy the running, but was in a way addicted to the anger and animosity; kind of like the gas tank of a car, I kept picking up more angst to keep me going.  I thought of myself as a positive person; but in hindsight, there was no peace for positivity to settle in -- not while I was filling up my tank with aggression anyway.  

The crazy thing about that time of my life is that I thought I was working hard, and I was, to a degree.  I did increase my endurance and conquered distances that I had previously thought impossible (when I started running at 18, I couldn't run the distance between two suburban driveways without a walk break), but I relied so much on the outside motivation that I sold myself out in way.  Just before I got injured, as I began working to increase my speed, I noticed how reliant I was on the music, how quick I was to ease off of a hard workout, and how the sound of my own heavy breathing brought on a walk-break-required anxiety attack.  

I learned a lot about life and running while I waited for and recovered from surgery.  I learned about pushing myself gently, about not giving in when things are tough, and about not shying away from my own inherent greatness.  I learned about using serenity and acceptance, instead of hostility and defiance, to move forward.  So far, I've carried these lessons with me in life and back into my runs.  I'm building my endurance base and will officially start training in the next couple of weeks for my 4th half-marathon.  I'm faster, stronger, and more at peace.

My resolution is the same this year as it was last, and probably will be again next year also: to leave the year better than it found me.  I was successful last year and plan on succeeding again and again, mostly because to live is to grow.  Just as equally (and maybe more), to grow is to truly live.

life. in training.

When you train for a race, you do it for a lot of reasons: the crowds, the energy, the challenge, the finish line, the medal.  For every race that I have run, I have been lucky enough to have at least one member of my Anonymous Beloved Cheering Squad on the course to cheer me on and waiting at the finish line to share in my joy.  Race days are special, they are like my personal princess-for-a-day holidays; training days, however, are often times a different story.

We all have struggles, things in our lives - sometimes minor and sometimes earth shattering - that attempt to bulldoze us off of our path, knock us out of our comfortable chair, and turn our lives pear-shaped.  What jars some people doesn't even phase others and sometimes, what seems petty to us in other people's lives can leave us breathing in a paper bag when we are presented with it in our own.  Training days are the ones where struggles seem ginormous, where we doubt whether or not we have what it takes to keep going, where sometimes just putting one foot in front of the other is a success.  There are no finish lines on training days and many times the people who will ultimately be there to support us are the first ones to point out our short-comings.  Training days can be discouraging.

As I diligently mounted the treadmill and trotted through my warm-up, I could not help but to let my mind settle on one of my Anonymous Beloveds and the rough string of training days she's been having recently.  Today, each interval seemed to be just a bit more difficult than the last and my AB's story hung just a little more heavily around my shoulders.  We have had our share of turmoil; done things, knowingly or not, that has left the other burned and broken; and we have supported each other at times when it seemed no one else could or would.  It was with each thought of her story, my story, and ours together that my resolve to see the weighty run through with strength, courage, and serenity so that I can help her do the same.

Today, as my mind carried her and my heart tried to comfort her, it occurred to me that maybe training runs aren't just necessary for race day, they are necessary in order to make it through the next training day or to help an AB through theirs.

Sticks and stones

I've been feeling very temperamental these last few days.  Maybe I'm torn in too many directions, burning the candle at both ends, getting too much sleep, not getting enough; really, the possible explanations are endless.  Tuesday morning, I couldn't wake up soon enough in anticipation of my first run since April and this morning I almost talked myself out of it.  The only things that seem to be concrete right now is how short my fuse is getting and how much I end up changing my mind in a short time.  I am, right now, in a word, crabby.


This morning, once I finally committed myself to the cause and pressed "start" on my Garmin, and started running I waited for the euphoric runner's high to wipe away my bad mood.  And then I waited some more.  My current regiment calls for three rounds of 2 running minutes and 8 walking minutes; after the initial 2 running minutes, I was certain that my morning jaunt was going to haunt me more than release me.  What felt freeing on Tuesday, felt cumbersome today; what motivated me then, had begun to daunt me; the disappointingly short 2.5 mile loop began to seem like 25.  But I trudged on, obediently switching gears according to the beeps and I finished in what seemed to be a shorter time than Tuesday.


I did finish quicker than Tuesday, by almost 2 minutes; and that first cumbersome interval, turned out to be the fastest pace I've been able to sustain possibly ever.  All of a sudden what seemed at first to be a rough start to the day became a ray of hopeful light.  Isn't it funny how a simple definitive result can affect a whole experience!  This morning it was a good thing, but what about the times when the end result shadows the joy?  It has been said that true rewards are found in the journey, not the destination.  This morning, the reward was defined neither by the run nor the effort, but by the Garmin.  Even thought the feeling was brag-tastic it was external, none the less.


I always think that running is a metaphor for life; that whatever I experience in life can be explained and examined through a run and whatever lessons I learn from a run can be projected into life.  In a strange way, my handy dandy GPS watch has become an interloper; another metaphor perhaps.  Maybe electronic feedback can be just as disheartening as public opinion, that is, if I choose to allow it.  As Eleanor Roosevelt, so famously, said, "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." 


Ultimately, I want to feel good; we all do.  Maybe the lesson is that I've grown to depend too much on the data, the external sources, to define happiness.  Maybe the various directions that my life seems to be pulling me, the burning candles, and my sleeping habits aren't really the cause of my crabbiness; maybe its that I'm depending on the external feedback to define my journey after the fact instead of using my internal barometer to help navigate the course.