You Can't Make Me

Tulsa is just beginning to dig out, or melt out, of our biggest snow storm in decades. My precious angels have been home going buggy with me for two weeks straight. It's taking a toll.

And I don't mean on the kids. They're having the time of their lives.

I mean this girl. I haven't been able to get outside for a nice long run in those two weeks. Sure, I've bounded through snow banks with The Dog, in the snow, in the cold, like a reluctant pioneer who forgot to bring her woolens. The roads have been covered with layer upon layer of packed snow and ice. The sidewalks were worse.

Eleven weeks from today I plan to run my first half marathon. The massive snow had me all wigged out that I would have to totally restart my training. A few things are funny about this. First, I never wanted to train in the first place. It just sort of happened. Second, the fact that I'm now referring to training in somewhat serious terms shows some level of self awareness on my part that this effort will require...effort. Finally, this will mean the adoption of some kind of plan.

Perish the thought. I'm decidedly anti-plan. Plans suck all the joy out of running. Plans make official the voluntary and fun. Plans mean some outside authority is asserting its will upon mine. I really dislike plans. Truth is, one doesn't just wake up one day and run a half marathon. Or, if one does, one will surely endure injury, pain, frustation or failure. I try to avoid those things.

I worry that adopting a plan will crush the spirit of joy I like to engage while running. At the same time, I recognize that anything worth doing, like our mothers always told us, is worth doing well. My personal coaches (I have a bunch of them) have made suggestions about distance and timing. They urge some kind of consistency. The best advice they've each given, though, remains the same: enjoy the run, have fun, do what comes naturally.

I will resist the plan even while I try to find one that doesn't cramp my carefree style. I will embrace the joy. So, maybe you can make me.

Raising the Bar

My friend Kristin has written about the bleak blah that is the month of January. While many people have never had a glimpse of the beast that is depression, many of us know its long and strong tentacles can gasp at any moment, sucking us down into a pit of miry clay, if I may be so bold.

I seem to live according the rhythm of the students' calendar. With three school-aged kids and one teacher man living with me, my life is set by the school. In the 16 years that he's been a teacher, and in the years prior to that when I was a real live student, I've experienced the roller coaster that is the school year. And I will tell you that January can bite it. (Along with August, December and May.)

Usually in January, I'd be wrapped up in layers and layers of soft, elastic-waisted clothes going face down in yet another pint of Ben and Jerry's Americone Dream. But you know, I've been running. And I have these goals! And it's so pretty outside right now. And I as much as I adore Americone Dream, I just can't eat another pint. Well... maybe just a bite.

My running routine was a precise and secure process in my day, leaving the house for a run right after the troops left for school. I was faithful to my routine all the way up to the day Christmas break started. It's been downhill since, rather deliciously I might add. I took time off for a trip to Pennsylvania. Then it was icy and cold. So I lost about 4 weeks of regular running. But this week my cabin fever reached critical mass. I had to find, gasp, a new routine! Golly I hate change. It's so...changey.

It occurred to me that I did not have to run in the mornings, when it was so blasted cold. Duh. What took me so long? I don't know. And I won't bore you with the logistical craziness running in the middle of the day causes. I will just say that it's not the most convenient. Silver lining: I still get outside to do the thing I love. And this is good.

So?

Well, a few things. One, the minor inconvenience is worth it to get something I want. A simple shift in perspective opened up a way for me to carve out the time I wanted. I know it's temporary and I can deal with that.

I also realized that I didn't have to be a martyr about running. I had run in 28 degrees and that was not fun, yet I had this misplaced idea that cowing to weather was copping out. But then, I posted to Facebook this morning "I deserve higher standards," about running when it's below freezing. Heck yeah, I do. I found a way to keep running without torturing my digits in sub-freezing breezes.

And then I realized something I'd thought before. I am often disappointed in what an easy teacher running is and how thick I am that I need pictures to grasp the bigger truth. I long for running to be this largely contemplative exercise from which I emerge an enlightened, empowered voice of untaught wisdom. Truth is, running is a pretty simple stand in for much of life.

What I mean is, we do deserve higher standards and I'm not just talking about the thermometer. And I'm not talking about keeping our houses and children perfect. I'm talking about what we allow ourselves the time to participate in. I wanted, I needed to get moving outside; there were a few obstacles and I kicked them in the teeth to get them out of my way.

I'm worth a run outside. I'm worth one hour to think and move, to pace, pray and vanish.

What are you worth? How will you raise the bar?

The Perils of a Good Samaritan

After the events from yesterday's run, I threw the challenge flag and went to the booth for replay. I viewed the mental video of the goofiest things that have happened to me when I'm out running. Not too many, but enough to give pause. Surely there's significance in this?

I'll start with yesterday. I was almost done with my run. It was cold, colder than my phone app told me it was (*shaking fist and exlaiming "curses technology"). I turned the penultimate corner when in my periphery I noticed an ID badge and a notebook on the sidewalk near a bus stop. You know how your mind sometimes takes a second to balance vision with reality? By the time I had figured out that someone had dropped important cards, I was 50 yards down the way. My stupid conscience made me go back. My plan was to move it off the path, put it in the grass, so that if the person who dropped it came back, his stuff would be right there. And that's what I did.

I ran on and my stupid conscience would not shut up. Cripes. Fine. I turned around and went back. Again. This time I was about 150 yards away. I hemmed and hawed the whole time. Should I take it to a local business? Why make it their problem? And what if they didn't do their civic duty? Could I trust them to do the important work of researching and finding the poor sod who lost his badge? Oh, and his credit card? An errand of this import could not be left to mere amateurs.

By the time I got back to the lost items, the dog was thoroughly confused and a tiny bit reluctant to keep running. I grabbed the badge, the lanyard, the credit card and the wet notebook (I refuse to think about what liquid put it in that condition). I ran home. Now the conscience pushed me on. Well, that and the cold. A shift in my day. Now I had a project on my plate I didn't really want or care to carve out the time for.

Then it got interesting.

In the lanyard were two cards, one an ID badge and one a certification from some kind of training. Neither card had a phone number. The credit card that was with the lanyard but not inside it appeared to belong to another person altogether. In other words, the names did not match. Hmm. I put my citizen's officer cap on and got to work. The only identifier was the name of the training company so I called them up. Eliza answered the phone and was very kind. She told me the man's number. I asked Eliza what state I was calling; Washington. I told her I was in Oklahoma, and she said, "My word," told her colleagues and asked my number.

I called the number she gave me for my lost person, but all I got was a weird beeping. Couldn't leave a voice mail. Then I tried to call the bank of the credit card. Yeah. Have you tried to call a bank lately? Apparently, no people work at banks anymore. You simply push buttons until you either hang up or get an answer that will have to do. I was unable to speak to an actual person. In fact, I could not get past the first set of menu options. By now my good samaritan vibe had long been replaced by irritated nice person.

But! But! My twitter friends came through for me! (Thanks, guys.) In addition to offering possible story lines for the three cards and the notebook, suggeting all manner of crimes and even the possible demise of the owner, I also got advice. One friend told me to call the police.

The police? Whatever. They don't care about that stuff. I should just put it in the mail and have done with it. But again, do I really want to trust the post office to get this stuff where it needs to be? Moreover, no mere citizen can handle this kind of sensitive issue with national implications. I have never in my life called the police, and for this I am grateful. I was kind of nervous. I called, I told them the story, rushing through it to get to the important parts. The friendly officer asked me to bring it by whenever I had a chance and that they'd try to return it.

Because I didn't want some guy's stuff in my house all week, I took it in yesterday. Two new experiences in one day. It's almost too much. Called and visited the police. Yep. I'm that girl. I told the story again, and the silver crew-cut, barrel-chested, baritoned officer called me ma'am. And he said I could come to work for them. As if.

Okay. So long story. Who cares? If you're still reading, you do. If you're gone, then you'll miss these little gems. Your loss.

Being a good samaritan is a pain in the butt. It is inconvenient. It is inviting yourself into a situation and then not getting to see the resolution. It's also a good way to have a little adventure. And, even if the dudes never get their cards back, I would have wanted someone to do the same thing for me.

The other interesting part is the story of the three cards and the notebook. How did they all come to be at a bus stop a half a world away from where they originated? How did two guys drop three cards in one place? Is it identity theft? Missing persons? I'm so curious and I'll never know, and I'm worried about them both. I want to know your theories. Leave a comment telling the story of the lost cards. I'll post the best story on Friday.

Finding Success in Failure

Oh man, did my run this morning suck. I mean, it sucked.

Let me count the ways. I hurt my shoulder running last week (yes, I know you're supposed to hurt your leg or foot or ankle when running, but let's just leave that for now, shall we?). So, I'm already hurting. And when I run with the dog, I keep him on a leash on which he tugs. Which hurts my shoulder.

And it was cold, so my nose was running all over the place. When I attempted a "farmer" blow of my nose, snot smeared all down my face, which I promptly wiped on my sleeves.

And I had to switch to regular running shoes because the vibrams I LOVE don't keep my feet warm. And the running shoes hurt my knee.

And my pace was off because of my knee and the dog and the shoes.

And the gps on my phone got all jacked. It had me going 4 minute miles which would make me either a Kenyan or bionic and I'm neither of those things.

Yesterday one of my runner friends posted that her run was awful, and I fell over myself to encourage her to keep going, and to try again, and to find her success. But then I "failed."

We have a tendency to oversell our failures, don't you think? What I mean is that I had kind of a bad run. Does a bad run equal failure? Um...no. It equals one bad run in a mass of days and runs.

My friend, Dr. Julie Bell, makes her living teaching people to define their successes in ways that work, to find What's Important Now. (W.I.N). I like this approach for a lot of reasons. First, it allows each person to find the things that are important to them and to pursue them. This may sound basic, but how many of us pursue things or ideas that other people foist on us? Second, it shifts our focus from what went wrong to what went right. Finally, this idea is not exclusive to runners or athletes. It applies to anyone.

Here's what was right on my run today. Let me count the ways.

I got out of bed and put on my running clothes. That right there is success.
I ran.
I figured out that I reallyreallyreallyreallyreally dislike running with the dog.
I realized I need new shoes.
I learned that I want to download some new music.
I liked running in the cold.
I kept going even though everything felt wrong.
I will run again.

The title of this post is misleading because there was no failure today. I wanted to use the word in the title, though, because the word is jarring in its harshness. It has an ugly edge to it and using it brings into relief how silly it is for me to perceive a "bad" run in such dramatic light.

What's going on with you? How are you defining your actions, your successes, your failures. What do you do when you're beating yourself up mentally?

This I Know

You know how you go through your day and think things you wish you could share with someone and then you forget until the next time you're thinking it and you're all alone and you wish you could share it with someone? Well, that's me on my morning runs. This little list is purely for entertainment purposes only. A lighthearted Friday post, just because.

This I Know:
(Or: I know I think this)

It is always hard to get out the door
The minute I put on my headphones dumbdog is ready to go
He will always pee on the bush at the playground
The cars will never stop for me in the crosswalk
The squirrels in the park have a death wish
They are kamikaze squirrels
Every day, the dog awakes with hope that this is the day he will catch one
He will never catch one
I do not like the smell of freshly baking donuts (are they baked?)
They smell like sweetened fat
That does not mean I will not ingest said sweetened fat. Just smells bad when I'm running
I do not know what Latino Tires are, but I know where you can get some
My barefoot shoes do not abide acorns
The older man who runs and walks on my route is kind
I like to pass him
This makes me a bad person with a cruel heart
When I get to the David Bowie part of the mix, I like to sing and bob my head
I know how this makes me look
I tell myself I am amazing when I am running
I laugh when I say this
The dog does not have near my endurance
I do not have his speed.
Then again, I don't run on four legs.
I sometimes say things out loud. To myself. On a run.
I know how this makes me look.

I love my runs. I love these thoughts shaking loose in my brain. I love sharing them with you. I hope they make you smile. Do something nice for yourself today.

How you Thinking?

Ever feel like you don't belong?

I have.

The day before the Tulsa Run I had to pick up my race packet. I drove to OU Tulsa and entered the "Fitness Fair." The name alone gave me a mild panic attack: "will they let me in? I'm not wearing my fitness clothes, I don't have a cute ponytail or blonde highlights. Someone will know I'm an impostor. But, I have to get that packet if I want my official time." I really want my official time. (Pretty good, by the way.)

If I thought the name of the fair was bad, inside was waiting a veritable gauntlet of gorgeous: someone cloned Denise Austin, dressed the many of her all up in running gear and made a human tunnel for me to run through. I did not belong here. My mouth went dry. My throat closed up. I looked about anxiously, trying to pretend like I was totally supposed to be here and I know what I'm doing, okay? I found the letter where my packet would be and, because my name has many letters that are unpronounced, the helpful fitness guy couldn't find my name. It took him forever. I started to sweat. "Oh, crap. They can't find it. I didn't register right. They know I can't finish the race so they pulled my name. Someone alerted them. Would it be bad if I started crying, right here, right now?" By now, I was so upset I almost didn't want to get in line for my t-shirt.

But I wanted that t-shirt, because, I told myself, if by some act of God I was able to cross the finish line, I planned to wear that t-shirt to every single public event I could get myself invited to. I did get my t-shirt (in a size smaller, thankyouverymuch), I booked it out there to find a glass of water and the privacy of my car.

That's when the "I-don't-belong-heres" kicked into overdrive. I started thinking about the race the next day. If there were Denise Austins all over the "Fitness Fair," what in the world would I find at the starting line? I swallowed hard and tried to calm my racing heart.

And here's what I did. I told myself the facts. I trained for this race. I trained well and hard. I ran that distance and farther and did not die from it. I knew a good pace. I knew how I would find it. And I told myself the biggest truth: I can do this. I needed just a bit more, though, so I talked to my runner friends, who repeated faithfully back to me what I'd already told myself. I called my husband who repeated faithfully, lovingly back to me what I'd already told myself. I looked at the cloud of witnesses: I'm not crazy. People I love and people I trust and people who know things think I can do this. Time to face the truth. I can do this. I will do this. I did do this.

It creeps up on us like a ghost, whispers its ugly lies in our ears and we swallow the whole thing in one gulp, choking it down like bad medicine when it's really poison. "You don't belong here," it hisses. "You might be running, but you're not a real runner." Quietly, the sound winds into our heads and we think, "I'm kind of sucking it up here today. I can't do it. I should stop.It says all the things the wicked witch would tell you.

But guess what? The wicked witch was undone with a bucket of water. Just a little bit of H2O and she melted away. Know what else? The wicked witch is fiction! Doesn't exist. Never did, never will. I've come to think of those lies the same way, because really, that's what they are. Lies are fictions that keep us from trying the challenges we want to face, from stepping up to something new, from embracing the uniqueness we each have.

I shook my head. I refused to listen to the voice that said "But, honey," so sweetly and earestly, "honey, it's nine miles. That's craziness." I spoke back to that lie and told it to bug off. Because yes, nine miles is far, it ain't no big thang. "But," I said, "I've run that distance before and farther. I can do it again.You think I can't run nine miles? Watch me." And I did. I ran the entire race, without music, in a crowd of fat, skinny, ugly, pretty, tall, short, weird, weirder, slightly less weird people who all had to talk themselves into that challenge. Maybe it was easier for some. But we all got our booties out of bed, refused to listen to that lie and ran our race. I changed my thinking. Finishing that race would not be by an act of God (although He did run with me; we had a great time). It would be the result of training.

It's not easy, especially if you're used to obeying the voice, trusting the lie. It can feel as if the world is askew, or even just wrong or arrogant to say, "I can do this one thing, and well." When I first started running, I would say I "run" using air quotes, "I'm not a runner." So people would know I'm not high on my own ability. Some people would say, "I'm impressed" and I would want to shun that, to reject it. Oh, how times have changed. You wanna be impressed with me? You go right ahead, because the truth is, I'm impressed with me. I set my eyes on a challenge and I completed it. I rock.

I no longer choose to believe the lie. In fact, I reject everything that says that I'm not good enough, not smart enough, not thin enough, not whatever enough. I am me. I do what I do. And that is what is required of me. No one is asking me to be anything other than what I am. Any restrictions on me I've either placed there myself, or allowed them to be placed on me.

Know what else? I'm as impressed with myself as I am impressed by the women around me. You all are amazing bunch. You run businesses and homes. You build companies, you build children, you create great art. You run, you walk, you listen, you cheer. You take photos, you write, you climb mountians, you wipe dirty bums and change yet another diaper. You are you and you do what you do. I want you to be as impressed with your self as you are with someone else. Look in that mirror and be your own Jack Handy.

How? At first you may not believe yourself when you say, "Look at me! I'm so awesome." You might even giggle, looking around to see if you were overheard. You may roll your eyes. "This is stupid." Might be stupid, but feels good, doesn't it? There is no rule that says valuing yourself equals arrogance or pride. But, it does equal a lesson for our daughters and sons and a way to live in the world as we were created. Do it. Tell yourself you're awesome. Find one awesome thing about you. Not about what you do, but about you.

Again, I'm not saying talk yourself into running nine miles, or summiting Everest. I'm just saying say no to the lie and believe the truth. You may not know the truth, or you disregarded it for so long you have to dig for it. Then dig for it. You can do hard things. You can do big things, amazing things, astounding things.

When did it become okay for us to demure, to demean, to devalue ourselves? I don't know, but I've decided it's not okay for me and it's not okay for my daughters (or my son). Who's with me?

Banning the Shoulds

Or: In Which I Become a Bossy Shrew

The word "should" should be stricken from our language. I despise that word, and I'll tell you why. Think about it. What are the things you tell yourself you should do, be, think, or say?

I should:

work out
go on a diet
get up earlier
read more
spend more time in prayer
serve my spouse
serve my kids
shop less
rake the leaves
clean the toilet
make a calendar
watch my mouth


Do you hear that? That's the sound of guilt smearing itself all over your good intentions. The guilt implied by the word "should" takes a simple task that probably has merit and makes it ugly and hard. It smears a thick layer of "idon'twanna" right on top of your perfectly normal thought sandwich.

When I hear the word "should" I feel like I'm getting in trouble. Like I've colored outside the lines, again, and now they have to call my parents.

Should says you are not good enough, thin enough, kind enough, tall enough. Should says you're wrong. You'll always be wrong. There is something about you that's just...off. Should spits on you and kicks you when you're down. Should causes sighs and lowered heads and discouragement.

I hate should. Should sucks.

Although.

I think sometimes should comes from a good place. It comes from a place that desires change. That wants to be better, that wants a challenge, that craves something new. It comes from that place inside us that says, "You know, life is pretty good. I'm clicking along. And, if I (did x) my life would be better because of y." And this is not wrong, per se. It is not wrong to want to grow, or change, or learn something.

Yeah, maybe a diet isn't a bad idea. Maybe showing a servant heart to your family wouldn't kill you. Maybe getting up earlier would make your morning less hectic. See? Those are good things. Should takes that good intention, that good desire and makes it a task rather than a act. A chore rather than a mere action.

Therefore I made the following change.

When I hear "should" in my head, I change it to "need." If it makes sense that way, I consider making the change. The shoulds become less about guilt and more about simple imperatives.

Listen to the difference:

"I should call the doctor and schedule my yearly." Blah. That says I've been remiss in taking care of my health.
"I need to call the doctor and schedule my yearly." Yes. Yes, I do. No judgment. Just fact.

But wait! There's more. The intent matters, too. "I need to serve my spouse so he'll serve me in return and I could really use a servant right now." Vastly different from "I need to serve my spouse so he can see how much I care for him."

I know two young mothers with wee ones at home. Both feel discouraged that they don't have more time to devote to working out. As one who was once a young mother, I get that. I get that having a moment or two alone makes a huge difference in your day. I worry, though, that regretting the time you don't get to yourself shifts focus. Because not only are the wee one days short, but not working out does not equal a bad mom or an unfit mother. Should they run more? Or do they need to run more? Or something else entirely?

We make a habit of telling ourselves that if we don't do what we should, then we are not good enough. Not a good enough mom, wife, woman, boss, employee, student, teacher, person. And our ideas of what we should be doing come from crazy external forces, like other people, who do not live our lives, who do not have our needs, who do not have our schedules. See that? Everyone is different and this is amazing and needs to be embraced, not copied. You do not have to be Suzy Homemaker the tennis playing wunderhousekeeper PhD student whose children are so well behaved people think they're zombies. You need to be you.

Whew. I got worked up there. (stepping off soapbox). See, what I want to say is you found your reason, right? Now get rid of your shoulds. We are not going to do shoulds anymore. They waste our time and energy. We are only going to do needs. If you NEED to do what you have a reason to do, then do it with all your heart. If you find yourself shoulding yourself, gently remind yourself. (Do not berate yourself for being stupidstupidstupidhowcouldiforgetthatagain?) Gently. Gently. We are learning here.

So, you want to run. You have your reason to run. Do you need to run? Is it important to you? Do you have the time, energy and effort to devote to it. Then get out there and do it.

Next time, more on gently correcting ourselves.

The WHYs

I have a friend who trained for and finished a half marathon. Awesome, right? But when I hear her talk about it, she uses terms like "that stupid half marathon," and "I hate long run days."

When I started posting my runs to facebook, friends asked if I was training for something. Nope. (Remember, keeping the dog poo at bay.) I hated it. HATED IT. It hurt. It was hard. It was boring. I couldn't find the right music. It was too early. It took forever. I couldn't see any results (except for less dog poo in the house). I'm very good at complaining and justifying. But the power of the poo was strong, and I had to keep running. I was like my half marathon friend.

Over time, the power of the poo paled in comparison to what I had discovered. I discovered that I loved feeling like a total rock star at how many miles I'd logged. I smiled to hear my kids tell their friends how far their mom can run. I blushed to read so many nice comments from my completely cool friends. Rejoiced that my running clothes were TOO BIG! (Can I get a woot woot?) What I found was that my reason for running had changed.

Don't misunderstand. It was more than the weight, more than impressing my kids, more than getting my ego stroked. My reason had morphed from an external impetus (poo) to an internal one.

That's a long way of asking, "what are your reasons for running (or doing the thing you are doing)?" I asked my half-marathon-hating-friend to define hers. I don't know if she did but it occurred to me that maybe her reasons were like mine, outwardly impressed upon her.

When I act at the prompting of others, I can do the job, but I can't sustain motivation for it. I might lose the desire (if I ever had it) to complete it well. I could not keep running to prevent the poo because there would be a day when picking it up would be more appealing than running in the rain or cold.

When I act for a reason that I can firmly stand behind come rain, cold or fatigue, then I can get my running clothes on and get out the door like I'm headed to a party.

But here's the thing. Your reason will be different from mine. That's okay. You may start like I did, hating every single minute of it. That's okay. You may not really want to define it. That's okay, too. You may start with one and move on to another. Again, it's okay.

What I've learned is that when you have a reason that is strictly and solely yours, you will act with abandon and joy. You will own the track, or the class, or the whatever. You will be a total rock star.

A word of caution: Don't think it has to be a pretty reason, an altruistic reason, a glamorous reason. It just has to be yours and you have to believe it. It can even be as simple as "I want to."

Find your why, and write it down. Somewhere. Anywhere. You can tell it to someone if you want, but you don't have to. Just find it and know it.

Next time I'll tell you why I refuse to say the word, "should."

I'm No Expert, But That Won't Stop Me

If you have been here before, you know I've been a running fool lately. You can read all about the whys and wheretofores if you don't know that running has become something of a favorite hobby for me. Suffice it to say, if you're here and not at all interested in this running nonsense, I run. A lot. And I like to run. A lot.

"Who cares?" you ask, maybe glibly while rolling your eyes, scrolling down quickly to get to the good stuff, assuming, again rather glibly, that there is, in fact, good stuff. And I shall raise my eyebrows at you and tell you just exactly who cares.

You do.

And I know this because some of you have been asking me questions about my training.

You flatter me. I like this also. A lot. I've been emailing a bunch of you lovelies with my thoughts, and some of it seemed to make a rather cohesive whole on running, physical and mental training, and, if I may be so bold, some lessons I've learned along the way.

Now, let this be my legally binding (eye rolling) disclaimer that I am in NO WAY an expert. You saw that in the title. If you even try to suggest the old bait and switch, I will refer you heretofore, forthwith, ergo and nonesuch to the top of this little page, wherein ye shall find, for your reading pleasure, the title of my merry script, in which I declare my utter lack of expertise.

Okay, then, now that we have the legal mumbo jumbo out of the way... *slaps hands together in relief*

Here's what I want to say to everyone who has said or written that my running has been inspiring.

That's great! I love that you are inspired. But. It's not a big butt, because, you know, I've been running. But don't just be inspired in thought. Be inspired in action. I'm not saying go run a marathon tomorrow, you silly. That's crazy talk. I'm saying do something you didn't know you could do and see what happens.

I did not set out to run the Tulsa Run that would be a 15k, I don't mind telling ya. I did not set out to get super sexy calves (but I will show them to you, just ask). When I started, I've said before, running three miles was the most taxing thing in my day. I hated it. I hated that I was the one who had to go with the dog because I'm the one with flexible schedule. I hated it that sometimes it was too hot. Sometimes it was raining. Sometimes too many cosmos on date night...well you get the idea. It took forever it seems. If you cannot hear me whining, just thank your lucky stars, because I so am whining.

And again, I am in no way some kind of freakishly fast, super trim "athlete." When I registered on Dailymile to get cyber credit for every.single. stinkin'. mile, I didn't want to pick a category. They were so binding and scary and none of them applied to me. "Choose one: runner, athlete, cyclist, swimmer" and some other crazy things like tree climber, mountain maker...I don't even know. I sat and stared at that screen, cursor blinking like an annoying little sister, trying to decide. Finally, I clicked "athlete." For months, I ran in fear; I just knew Dailymile staff would track me down for the lying liar that I am. Athlete? Yeah, if eating, knitting and sewing are sports then heck to the yeah.

The point is, I love that some people find my running inspirational. I won't lie: I signed up for Dailymile just so I could brag about my incredibly amateur results. I'm a sucker for kind words so I went reaching for some. You people are putty in my hands. But here's what I'm trying to say, in a longwinded, friendly, conversational tone. If I can do it, you can do it. Promise. And in the coming days and weeks, I'm going to tell you exactly how I know that. Notice I did not say, HOW TO DO THAT.

And because I'm too excited, I'll whet your appetite for my un-expertise. I know. You might want to sit down. Some topics I want to cover: your reason to run (or take that class, or climb a mountain, or join a new church, or leave a bad relationship), mental training, self talk that works, and getting over the bad days.

Is there something you want to hear about that's NOT technical? Let me know. Let me stress just one more time, this is not a fitness plan, a guru lesson, or a technique forum. It's just one woman's thoughts on how to do something you never thought you could do.

Who's with me?

Running on Full

This is the dog, Cooper, sitting in a puddle in the last mile of our run. He is so hot, the water's rippling. He is the bane of my existence.

I started running in late April, my only goal being to prevent the dog from laying pipe under my sewing machine. Really. That was my only reason. I could have walked but walking is terribly inefficient and mind-numbingly tedious. If I was going to do this, it would be on my terms: fast, easy and relatively painless.

I had no goals. No desire to compete in races. No need for special gear or garments. I just wanted to stop the poop. (It did not, in fact, stop the poop, and we're still working on that. I'm bitter about it, yes, but that's not the point.)

A few tools became available to me that made the runs more fun. Running without my ipod is a big no-no. I must have music, cranked up as loud as my old eardrums can tolerate. Without the music I can not only feel myself sucking wind, but hear it also. One or the other. That's all I can take. Podrunner totally rocks for this.

Dailymile.com also added a social component to my runs, making my solo runs more communal. As I ran, I'd try out different statements in my head to summarize each day's adventures. And while readers may not have been impressed at my comedic attempts, it entertained me and kept my mind off how many more miles.

At first, I was happy with two miles. A quick, easy route, past the neighborhood school, up to the big stoplight and back to my door. Enough time for dog business, and enough time for me to work up a mild sweat. After a few weeks of this, I was bored. I thought I'd see if I could go three miles. Then it was four, then five. I didn't really have a plan or a regimen, although I do like that word, regimen. Sounds so official. At this point, it was still about the poo. The running got easier and more fun. My podrunner repertoire grew as did my dailymile circle.

I found as I ran that I rather liked the feeling of accomplishment. I felt proud that I could run 3 or 4 or 5 miles. I stopped making jokes about my running ineptitude and started basking in the glow of finishing something I started. And let me tell you, that feeling is unbeatable.

Then the inevitable happened. I wanted to go father than I knew the dog could handle. I *gasp* left the dog at home (in the backyard, again, pooping). Now this was liberating. I was faster, lighter, freer. I was like the wind! Excuse me while I wax hyperbolic. I discovered something I did not know.
I. Enjoy. Running.

In fact, I love it. I look forward to it as I'd look forward to a date with my husband. I crave it like I crave air.

It occurred to me that the reason for this new-found passion was that it was, essentially, all for me. I realize that sounds selfish. Hear me out. My past running attempts were prompted by outward impetus. I would "train" to run a race with a friend or to lose weight or to avoid poop.

But now, I was unfettered. I was running to challenge myself, and only myself. I ran to shake loose the crumbs of half-decent thought in my brain, or to clear out the cobwebs of doubt or frustration or anger or whatever. I ran to push myself, mind and body. And in the running, I found that I love the running.

So I am going to do some races, but now because I want to, and because I am no longer crippled by fear of the length of those races. I can do anything for three miles, or five miles, or ten. I'm stronger than I thought I was, deeper than I realized and more capable than I imagined.

And I keep plastic poop bags in the studio now.

For Those Without Walls

Photo credit: The Art of Helping Others

I started a summer running challenge on Memorial Day. A twitter friend suggested running 150 miles from the beginning of summer to Labor Day. At the time, I was looking for a little motivation to run with the dog who lives at my house. (If you know me, you know he poops under my sewing machine when I don't take him. Jerk.) I don't accept any running challenge without assessing the feasibility. I figured even if I only ran a mile or two a day, I could easily squeeze in 150 miles, as staggering as the number seemed on May 30.

As I ran my regular short path near my neighborhood, I grew stronger and more capable of running longer distances, so I started exploring the trail to see where it would lead and how long it extended. I ran over a bridge one day, looked underneath as I did so, and noticed two figures in repose under a light blanket. A bucket and a box lined up against the concrete abutment of the bridge. In a flash, I made my decision to run in the opposite direction.

I ran in the opposite direction from the homeless people all summer. Never ventured under or beyond the bridge. Each day in passing, thoughts flooded through me; conflicting ideas, emotions and questions. Should I help? What would I do? Why are they there? How awful! How infuriating! How gross! (I should say here that it never ceases to amaze me the vast expanse and complexity of human emotions that so much can run through me so quickly.)

Finally, my running endurance was such that I needed to run under that bridge, and I'm embarrassed to say that I felt nervous. I didn't want to disturb them or, worse, interact with them. I didn't want my dog rummaging around in their business. I just wanted to run by and get on with it. Running above them on the bridge was entirely different from running past them. My awareness of them as humans came into disturbing relief.

It seemed like I invaded their space, that I had just trampled through their bedroom. That thought made me angry on two levels, and they are not pretty. To be perfectly honest, my first thought was an incredibly selfish, "This is NOT your living room. It is a running trail." My second was to kick myself for my ignorance. "How can I possibly run by these people every day and not act?"

All summer, I tried to think of what I would do about it, but I never did anything. Two days ago, I ran under the bridge on my way home and I beheld the most grim vision that has spurred me. The woman crouched over an old bucket to relieve herself. As gross as that might seem, the reality is there is no dignity for a person without walls. I don't know her story, I don't know why she's there but I do know that every person deserves food, clothing and shelter.

I've been thinking about walls on my runs this summer and I've written about them before. Here is another kind of wall. Or to be more precise, a lack of walls that builds a distinct barrier. I know, with absolute clarity, that I need to do something about this. I still don't know what it is. I'm thinking, I'm praying, and now I'm asking you, my friends. I want to help. I want to say that I acknowledge them as humans. I want to show compassion to my brothers and sisters. Will anything I do make a real difference? Will it house the multitudes? I don't know but I have to stop running by and start doing. What should I do?

I made my goal and then some, by the way. When I accepted the challenge to run 150 miles, I didn't know that it would potentially take me, and my community even farther than that.

And the Walls Came Down

Been thinking about walls lately. Not just structural walls like the ones around me right now as I type, although I'm glad they're here. No. I've been thinking about the ones we humans make to navigate the world, to hide the darkest parts of ourselves, to keep out the darkest parts of others.

Just like house walls, they serve a purpose. I want walls in my house. They tell me when the kitchen becomes the family room. They separate my room from my children's rooms. They let me use the bathroom in peace. (My kids don't but that's not their job, right?) They keep the hot summer "air" out, the cold winter wind knocks at the door but can't get through. Walls are good.

Walls also shut people out. And while I don't want my house crowded full of people all the time, there's a time and a place for hospitality. Right?

I had a few emotional hiccoughs this summer, which spun me into a mild summer funk. A sort of sadness turned me inward. I locked up my personal doors and windows. I put extra insulation around my virtual interior windows, drew the blinds and shut off for a while. I was hurt. I was confused. I didn't want to write because writing would make me feel and I didn't want to feel. I wanted to float. To simply exist without thought or notion.

I kept living my life, of course. I mean there are these people at my house who rely on me, things to do, people to see and all that. So while I tuned out emotionally for a bit, I kept running. Usually when I run my brain works on overdrive on creative ideas I can use either in my studio or in my writing. Running opens part of my brain that helps me see the shadow of possibility, a glinty piece of silver on the path. During this emotional wall building thing, I concentrated on step after step. That was it. That was all I had. I had nary a decent idea or thought. My train of thought went something like: "step, breathe, step, breathe...."

If there are routines in your life you depend on for some semblance of regularity and those systems go on the fritz, it can feel like trying to catch a speck out of a glass of water. You see it. You know the solution but you can't make it happen. I felt frustrated. Stupid, even. Creatively dry.

Until two days ago. I put new music on the old ipod, music that had no emotional connotations for me. Music I had never before heard, music that drummed into my head and feet a rhythm that breathed and stepped for me and suddenly, the cobwebs of doubt and confusion disintegrated. In my head, I composed a sentence. Not just any sentence. One that was more than two complete thoughts, related to each other, with interesting word choice and a funny point (if I do say so myself).

In my attempt to keep myself from feeling the hurt, I also closed my eyes to the re-creative potential of the hurt. I'm not saying running is a magic potion. I'm not saying that feeling hurt is amazing because it leads to great art. I'm not saying music is the great salve to the weary soul. Far from it. Maybe it was time, or perspective or simply being tired from the effort of suppressing it. I don't know. But the wall started to crumble, and I'm thankful.

In feeling it, in pulling it out of myself and writing about it, I could polish the stone and reflect on it from different angles. I found that the hurt held good truth in it that I needed to see. We don't always see the good that comes out of pain. Sometimes it just hurts. This time, this one time, the truth is flooding into my head and heart and I'm thankful for that.

Put the Play Dough Down

It rained on my run this morning which made my normally full hands slippery. I had the dog leash in one hand and my phone and ipod in the other. Normally I clip my ipod to my shorts but not today. Today, because SOMEONE had left my ipod in SOMEONE'S car, I had to use SOMEONE else's ipod which doesn't clip to anything Before you give me a thousand different ways I could have solved this problem, of the holding of gear, know that it's a story for another day, personal preference being what it is and all that.

The point is, my hands were full and slippery. Every few paces, I'd notice my hands were clutching the life out of my technology. It reminded me of something a very wise and gentle friend told me this summer. (Not my husband). He told me that I need to let go of the idea that I'm in control.

If you know me, you know I hate when people (my husband) tell me to "relax." My instant and strong reaction is rather the opposite of relaxation. My hackles raise up like a thousand little poisonous snakes ready to strike. I guess that makes me the middle(ish) aged version of a rebellious teenager. I'll relax when I'm darn good and ready to relax, thankyouverymuch. I like control. I enjoy control. When I know what to expect and who's going to be where and exactly when, I feel calm and reasonable. I feel, well, I feel in control.

Trouble is, life is uncontainable. It is largely ungovernable, especially by one as meek and lowly as I. When my friend told me I needed to let go, he was asking me to rethink how I viewed the world, asking me to see that my constant control-seeking kept me from relishing the peace of letting go.

So I'm running along this morning, cursing the dog as usual, and I get this image in my head: a brand new lump of play-dough, right out of the jar. It's all smooth and clean. It smells like salt and kindergarten. But, you notice...see, right there? There's a spot on the top that isn't quite blended in with the rest; it's sort of clumpy. So you reach out to smooth it, and in so doing, you make an impression with your thumb. Now you have to fix that, but you'll have to pick it up to do so, and before you know it, the cylindrical goodness that dumped out of the little tub is now a blob. With fingerprints on it. And some of it is on the floor and the table and under your fingernails. So you roll it up into an inexact spherical representation and put it down. Moments later, you're back to smoothing the edges, ready to get out the compass so you can verify it's symmetry.

That's how I approach life. And that's how approached the first week of school. I worry about my kids. What that tells you is that I'm a good mom. I worry and I pack lunches. Right there's your evidence. So, my eldest gets most of my social anxiety, because she prefers her own company, and her three best friends have all moved away. First week of school, I didn't care about classes, or homework or teachers. I wanted to know who was talking to her, to whom she was talking. Were there new kids who seemed nice? I made myself a tiny, annoying fly of repetition. She tolerated my anxiety. For a while.

Finally, kiddo told me to step off. "Mom. It's fine. I'm happy. Please stop bugging me about it." I knew it was coming. The increase in visible and verbal eye rolling? Off the charts.

But there's that lump of play-dough. I want to grab it and shape it and coax it and make it perfect. Or close. Or closer. And I'm running along, and I realize my shoulders have hunched a bit higher, my hands strangling the ipod. I hear my gentle friend's voice. "Let go."

I suspect this will be a lifelong journey of small steps. I hope the steps get farther and farther apart before I need reminding. I'm thankful for people who tell me the truth and help me to uncover it on my own. I suspect that image will stick in my head and help me to remember there is only One in control. And I'm not it.

Striking a Blow to Depression

Recently I discovered what other people were born knowing. The joy of waking, of getting out of bed, of laughing, or being together, of speaking without fear or anxiety. Of deciding firmly and strongly and not looking back.

Two months ago, I wandered into my doctor’s office. I knew I was hurting. I’d been hurting for some time. I’ve been treated for depression on and off for most of my life. I’m okay with that. I accept that taking pills is part of my reality. This is fine with me. I realize that if I were diabetic or had heart disease I would take the same steps.

So, I walk into my doctor’s office and I want to try something new. I have my little speech prepared. I’m ready, because I don’t want to cry. I simply want to ask for what I need and get the hell out of there.

He asks me a simple question. It’s always the simple questions that unravel us. “How’re you doing?” But he doesn’t just ask. He’s not just making conversation. He looks at my face, into my eyes. He knows why I’m there and he waits patiently for an answer. He watches my face contort as I try to control the coming tears. I am powerless. I begin to weep, unabashedly, uncontrollably.

“I feel like crap.” I confess. He listens. He nods. I pour it out. All the symptoms, all the hurt, all the torment. And in the confession comes a release. There is constantly a tight, grey fist curled around my heart, at the very center of my person. I can feel it squeezing me, bruising me, crushing the good to a pulp. What’s left is fear and anger and insecurity. It oozes out between the stone fingers and pours into my life, into the lives of the people I love.

But in the confession, I conquer just a little bit of that fist. I shove back against the constant arm wrestling happening inside me. I tell that fist I don’t want to live like this. Without sleep. Without joy. Without love. There has to be another way.

My doctor is amazing. He spent an hour with me that day. We talked through the many answers, including ones that are not strictly medical, but spiritual, physical and relational. Those are the ones I control. The chemical stuff? Yeah, I got nothing on that.

So he prescribes a new medicine. I’m skeptical but relieved. At least I’m doing something. Moving. Trying. Talking.

Two weeks go by. I start waking at 5 or 6 am. Not tired. Not anxious. Not worried about jobs or kids or the organization of the day, or whether the spoons are put away in the right places. I wake up feeling rested. I think, “Okay. That’s...weird.”

Then, I start wanting to run. WANTING to run. Again weird. And the more I want to run, the more I run, and the more I run the better I feel. And the better I feel the more I want to be with my kids and talk to them and hear them and love them and be their mom. And the more I respond to them the more they respond to me. This is quite lovely.

Other delights happen, too. I asked my husband, “Is this how you feel all the time?” I’m shocked. Amazed. Humbled, thankful and overjoyed. I have never, in my life, felt as good as I feel now.

I keep trying to put my finger on it. I feel like if I can’t explain it it will change, or worse, stop. Or if I don’t put words to it those closest to me don’t know exactly how much better I feel. And I want them to know. I want them see who I am. That tight fist clamping my chest was actually just one part of the crushing pain I lived with. A hard shell surrounded me, feeding me lies about my worth, coaxing insecurity and embarrassment into my heart, like a plume of foul fragrance. Leading me to think I had to fit into a certain ideal in order to be of value. That shell got shot to pieces. I feel, if not invincible, then definitely like I could kick some ass.

I’m not saying I’m cured or healed or perfect. I’m saying there are always options and choices and another avenue to try. I’m saying if you’re hurting tell someone, tell me, tell your mom, tell anyone. That dark grasp can crumble.

Another Reason to Run

My children are Philistines to my cultured 80s musical ears. They care little for my playlists when they see the album covers that include really high hair, men wearing lipstick and strange arm dancing.

Philistines.

I don't really listen to what they listen to. I do monitor it, and I know it's not "bootylicious." There's no bumping and grinding going on. I mean I hear it and I know they like it but it all sounds the same to this old lady. Autotune and really obnoxious harmony and a lot of fluff. But whatever. They can like what they like. I remember teasing my parents for their out of the closet love for Roberta Flack. Yeah.

So, when I run, I celebrate, because I can listen to whatever I want. If I want to play one song on loop gosh darnit, I will. Sometimes, when I run, I sing a few words. Out loud. Imagine!

Saturday I went for a nice long run and I had it all set up.The perfect running playlist. All my favorites, hand pecked to cheer me on and distract my mind. Started out with a little Adele, because her voice is smooth and rich and makes me feel invincible. Next up, "Desire" by U2. This is the perfect song. For anything.

I won't bore you with the entire playlist but in my little head, I connect with these songs. They make the miles pass by unimpeded by thoughts of how flipping hard it is. My head goes into the music and Freddie Mercury is suddenly reminding me that I'm the champion. The champion! Bono, in his gorgeous rasp of a voice tells me we're one. He says we have to carry each other. This alone is enough for my mind to focus not on running.

Matt and Kim, well, they kind of get on my nerves because they come on at the end of the run, and they tell me "don't slow down." This causes two reactions. One, it pumps me up. Two it makes me want to slow down. I don't like people telling me what to do. Then, and I'm a tiny bit embarrassed to admit this, I simply must hear Christina' Aguilerra's "Fighter." Talk about invincible. That song is like a kick in the teeth to all the junk we carry around. Listening to that song at the end of my run makes me feel faster, lighter, and stronger.

When I arrive back at my front step, stretching out the old calves, I've done something important. Something good for myself. Something no one can take from me. Something I gave myself, and will give again. And the music I take with me is like another part of that treat. Isn't that what art is supposed to do? To call us out of ourselves and into the world. To be enjoyed once and again. To be plumbed for depths, to skate along the surface.

At some point I will need to make a new playlist. For now, I'm rocking and running with this one and loving every mile.

Hate to Love: My Dubious Relationship with Running

First let's be clear. I'm not sure what I do is actually running. It's more like a mildly paced shuffling kind of jog thing. I have "run" off and on for the better part of the last 12 years, starting just after I married my husband, the former cross country coach.

Those early days were heady. We were young. We were fit. We had energy and drive and time. We had one kid who sat happily in the jogger pointing at butterflies and flowers. We'd go for miles and chat. He'd give me pointers on technique, like hold to hold my arms to I don't waste energy.

These days, energy is in short supply. I will do anything to conserve it. Like sleep. However, we also have three very active children and a dog who poops under my sewing machine if he doesn't go out. I'm fairly sure this is a not-so-passive-aggressive retaliation. What I wonder is, "Why me? Why am I the one he punishes for not going on a run. There are other runners and walkers and poop picker uppers in this house."

But I digress.

The point is for a while I really hated running. The dog is like a manic toddler scooting from one pile of detritus to the next. I'm pretty sure he had the 52 ounce bladder installed by QT because he sure stops a lot. Which means I stop a lot. Which means 3 miles takes quite a time investment.
I try. I really try to give him the first mile to do his business. This, I think, is a reasonable compromise, but one I'm not sure he got the memo. So sometimes on mile 2 and 3 I get a little testy with him.

Again, digression.

If I can stop thinking about him, I like where my mind goes. It goes to that place we all have, where ideas pump like blood, where pieces of troubles shift into place like puzzles suddenly closer to solving. It's the place where the vigilant censor takes a vacation and I think all the things I don't say out loud, things that might not be for public consumption in polite society.
It also feels really, really good to hang up the leash and get on with my day.

In short, I love that the dog needs to go for a run because I like where the run takes me. Of course it liberates me from poop under my sewing machine. But it's more than that. It's one time segment devoted to thought. Wild, free thought.

But don't tell the dog.

On a Long Leash

If I don't get up at 6(ish) every day to run with our rescue dog, Cooper, he leaves enormous and smelly "presents" for me under my sewing table. No where else in the house. Always directly under where I sit. Since I spend at least an hour a day in my studio I like it to be poop-free. I know, crazy!

I paid the price today. Slept til 7. The rascal left his surprise. I didn't want to risk another, so I laced up the old sneakers and took him out. Running with him is a lot like trying to shop for groceries with a toddler and thank God I'm not doing that anymore. They have to touch everything, explore, pull stuff out, run around, get lost, have tantrums.

Cooper bolts out the door and promptly stops to smell the mailbox. He then eats a few grass blades from the neighbor's yard. There are some flowers down the street he simply must mark. Because he is young dog, and because I have seen his crazy morning excitement, Cooper runs on a leash that extends and retracts. This works best for both of us: I don't have to wait for him and he doesn't have to wait for me. We are always connected.

That's the idea behind a leash. It keeps two parties connected. One of them must hold the leash, keep it stable, make sure the other end doesn't get wrapped around a pole or run off unhindered. The leash holder must know the path, must know when to spur the other on, must know when to stop and wait for the "leashee" to smell that pretty flower or chase that taunting bunny.

This morning as I ran with Cooper I was reminded that as Christians, God gives us a pretty long leash. I don't want to get to literal or too wildly metaphoric about it, but it's true. It's easy for me to get distracted by the next new thing, or what those people over there are doing. I want to go check it out, see what they're up to.

At the end of the day, I'm still on that leash. And I'm cool with that. It's a guide, it's a comfort, it's an anchor that tells me where home is, and that I'm safe, that I'm headed in the right direction. And it's always there. All I have to do is turn around.