sugarleg

Last night, as my happy, last-weekend-of-February was winding down, I could feel those bummer Sunday blues creeping in. Recurring thoughts of the list of un-dones, and a tiny hangover were all nudging me toward blue meanie oblivion. The full moon was getting ready to rise, so in the face of left knee pain and food and drink overindulgence begging me to stay on the couch, I decided to go for a run at about 7:45PM.

I am usually very aware of days and dates as well as any significance these days and dates have had in the history of my life. Since it was the last day in the month of February 2010, never to happen again, my run-brain honed right in on the philosophical nature of the passage of time and started pulling out all sorts of goodies for my voices to chat about over the din of the Brandenburg concertos. I needed classical as the soundtrack; I knew it was going to be one of those kinds of runs.

A theme that keeps coming up for me lately is the idea that all endings are beginnings. Yes, it was February 28th, officially ending the month of February (except on a leap year of course) and signaling the beginning of March. And as a December 1st baby, I pay attention to the last days of most months, waiting to make sure everyone flips their calendar to properly display the first day of each month on time, not as an afterthought. March 1st also represents the end of my year’s First Quarter and beginning of the second. I work in a field of constant deadlines and quarterly reports, quantitatives measuring the qualitatives. While I respect hard data and evidence, I always rely on my emotional calendar to signal endings and beginnings. This system may not be based on hard science, but with every day, week, month and year that passes, it might as well be the Atomic Clock.

There was a time I used to think that endings were more meaningful than beginnings because endings were more often emotional occasions: graduations, the last day at a job, going home from vacation, a funeral, a break-up. Each time something came to its conclusion whether I was ready to accept it or not, I found myself welled-up, instantly nostalgic and wanting to pull back hard on the reigns of time. There is a moment at each of my endings where I value the perfection of the experience of that teacher, that boss, that place, or that loved one, and the reaction is to stay right there and never change a thing. Almost as quickly as that synchronicity arrives, it passes and the undeniable reality of moving forward takes over. That used to piss me off and so I would spend much time in limbo, or as Dr. Seuss tells us, “the waiting place.” Boy do I hate the waiting place.

It has taken me awhile to figure out that a beginning was just on the other side of every ending, and it was totally up to me how long I wanted to stay trying to recreate the experience that was now over. My excellent selective memory could leave out all the struggle or drama or pain, but that just extended my time in limbo-land. As I was running along last night, I tried to remember if there was a specific shift when I started to let go of my intense desire to control endings, and to embrace beginnings, but it did not come. What did was a rush of memories and these very clear symbols of the balance of the endings and beginnings.

The Brandenburgs brought me back to Brazil, on location for work. I listened to them most mornings as the sun was rising, putting actors on the boats and then 12 hours later meeting them back at the same dock under different light and likely with a different musical selection to close the days.

Thoughts of February brought up the Winter Olympics, this one just ending last night, and memories of watching many before and where and who I was then. Also that I went from single to coupled and then married to separated in two different Februarys, but to the same man.

I thought of the relentless moon rises and sun rises and sun sets, but that every time I stop to notice them, they always reward me with their ability to put me into the present moment. The moon was so bright last night, I followed my shadow on my run.

I thought of my friend Jake, who late one February night, went home and did not stay to join us on March 1st or any other day ever again. I thought of all my friends who knew and loved him and how even though his body is not here, his spirit is, and we all love him and each other in spite of his absence.

I thought of running. When did I become a runner? I thought of the races I have started and finished and that I have another one coming up in April. And the best part: running finally made me a writer.

And so I got home, andrenalized, calmer, and proud that I went especially because I was so cranky and tired at the beginning. It was also a victory to finally honor my detachment from the romanticized emotion of endings. This doesn’t mean I don’t feel nostalgic or sad or in some cases, heartbroken, but now I know for sure it also signals a beginning. A new adventure, a new outlook, a new opportunity to put lessons learned to work. I think life will always give us the chance to start over. We just need to be brave, have some faith and after every end we will get a new beginning.

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Feet not touching the ground!

I can’t remember where I heard it first, but apparently it takes 21 days to form a habit. This nugget of pop-psych-science is most often used in conjunction with encouraging the formation of positive habits mind you, not so much of the go-out-and-have-a-21-day-bender variety. One click of the Google and you will find countless links on how to use these three weeks to eat better, exercise more, sleep soundly, save money… the list of good-doing habits is endless. I tend to believe in this theory, even if I do fall off the wagon now and again, I know that if I can gut it out through 21 days I will likely come out calmer, healthier, and happier on the other side. In the case of the Running and Writing Challenge I imposed upon myself, I needed the additional nine days to really get it: I love to run and I am learning to love opening myself up creatively by writing.

This past Saturday, December 5th to be exact, was the day of my half marathon, the North Face Endurance Challenge. It marked the end of the 30 days of training and preparation, but more importantly the beginning of a new habit. I am sheepish to admit it still, but I feel like I might have finally made writing that habit. I looked back at the first post and I wrote, “And if I hear one more time that I should be/need to/why aren’t you writing and offer some b.s. excuse, well then, I might not have learned anything in 2009.” Well listen up 2009, you stubborn bitch, I learned!

Ironically, this has been the hardest post to write and it feels clunky. I hate saying goodbye, yet I relish change, so I am going to refer you to this highly abridged and completely awkward list below as I figure out how to take the training wheels off of my new habit.

Some stuff I learned:

…that carbo loading works for me.

…that I can make people laugh hard.

…that I am confident, not intimidating.

…that bodies respond to exercise with both joy and pain, and that both are equally important. I found my joy in telling stories, and how to make a change to make the pain go away. Even if it means rest.

…that I can climb my way over a hill and a metaphor.

…that focused commitment gets results, except when we are not honoring our values. I am committed to always paying attention to my values.

…that cheeseburgers are THE BEST recovery food.

…that I cry almost once a day. And that the tears or choke-up is almost always followed by a huge smile.

…and that I can make people tear-up too and feel emotional, but in the good way. See above.

…that hiking hills and running down them makes me feel like a kid and reminds me of my flying dreams.

…that caffeine is seductive and charming, and now, needs to go away.

…that I need to get my foot re-checked. Ow.

…that people, MY people, all of YOU are beautiful, special, insightful, brave, supportive, complex, witty, warm, silly, funny, inspiring and most of all, filled with love. Thank you for letting me share bits of your lives through my writing and how I have been able to learn from you and your choices and circumstances and challenges. Thank you for every kind word, every “thumbs up” on a photo or a post, every hug both real and cyber, especially every thought you just sent out to me the old fashioned way, through your heart. No kind thought is unnoticed.

I think it no coincidence that the last song I heard on the radio before I made my way to the start line (and yes, I burst into tears, duh) was “All You Need Is Love” by The Beatles. Sing it out loud tonight and know I am singing loud and proud with you. And then maybe sing it for the next 21 days, just to see what happens.

Love, Love, Love.
Love, Love, Love.
Love, Love, Love.

There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done.
Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung.
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game.

It’s easy.

Nothing you can make that can’t be made.
No one you can save that can’t be saved.
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time.

It’s easy.

All you need is love.
All you need is love.
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need.

All you need is love.
All you need is love.
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need.

Nothing you can know that isn’t known.
Nothing you can see that isn’t shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.

It’s easy.

All you need is love.
All you need is love.
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need.

All you need is love (All together, now!)
All you need is love. (Everybody!)
All you need is love, love.

Love is all you need (love is all you need)
(love is all you need) (love is all you need)
(love is all you need) Yesterday (love is all you need)
(love is all you need) (love is all you need)

Yee-hai!

Oh yeah!

love is all you need, love is all you need,love is all you need, love is all you need, oh yeah oh hell yea! love is all you need love is all you need love is all you need.

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Pile of goodies for the morning. Inhaler, Aleve (!), Cliff gel shots, bib and timing chip, iPod, map, water belt, foam roller, and of course, the scotch is holding down the fort for later.

My prep for the race tomorrow has been decidedly domestic, just like I like it on a Friday night. I did the carbo load (I scarfed probably about 1/3 of a pound of pasta with kuri squash, spinach, garlic, red chile flakes, olive oil, parm and a squeeze of lemon at the end, try it, it is delicious) and drank a ton of water with some electrolytes tablets too. I got all the laundry going, fed and loved on the dogs and then started cleaning, since I won’t have time tomorrow and Sunday is reserved for total rest. I only need to do the bathroom and the kitchen floor, and call me crazy, but I am going to deal with it tomorrow. I am pooped, which I am hoping translates to sleep. Or at least some.

I received several really great cheerleader emails and txts and phone calls and I am pysched! The weather will be cold, but I will not feel it. Kind of like how I hope I don’t feel my knee.

Thank you family and friends, you are the tailwind. Updates tomorrow.

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I picked up my race bib and packet of goodies from The North Face store today. Lucky number 1128! (Or something.) I just like that it starts with an 11.

Here are some of my thoughts and concerns as the race is now less than 48 hours away:

• I am very tired. I have not been sleeping enough/well.

• My left knee… should I even mention that it hurts when I walk but that I can get into a stride when I am running that I don’t feel it? Except when I stop?

• The weather is and will be beautiful.

• Beautiful weather is giving me allergies. Allergies give me asthma. I never should have cancelled the appointment with the allergy doc last month and then not rescheduled.

• I am excited.

• I am nervous.

• I have nothing to wear on Saturday night. NO, really. Today, I bought my perfume that ran out in October instead of a new dress (that needed to be on sale and perfect) because I need to smell like me. I miss my smell. Now I smell goooooood.

• I have a cheering section at the finish line!

• How far should I run tonight?

• Ewww, I have to get some Gu packs. A necessary evil.

• Yay, that means I get to go to the Sports Basement on the way home.

• iPod or no iPod for this kind of race?

• I totally got my new lamp timer to work! It’s light when I come home now.

• Hydrate.

• Smile.

This is going to be fun.

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To get to my front door, you must climb 52 steps up from the street. 52 steps is approximately three and a half flights of stairs in your average building stairwell. When I found the place, I thought, this could suck, but the kitchen is new and they take dogs. Steps it would have to be.

My friends Heather and Robbie in Santa Cruz have even more steps to their front door. I think they are in the high 70 range and the staircase twists and turns through the redwoods, but also has a peculiar quality to it that makes you feel as if you are climbing an escalator in reverse. That sucker is long. Oh, and it must be mentioned that they have three kids, all of whom have learned to navigate those treads like mini Billy goats since the time they were learning to walk.

When you live at the top of such an ascent you become very adept at carrying every item you procured along the way of your day, all at the same time. It is critical to become your own highly organized porter, counterbalancing your goods from computer bags to mail to babies and children, dogs on leashes and yes, always, leaving a free hand for your keys. It is very important to be able to unlock and open the door while still clinging to all the packages/small humans/canines and then have one drop point only (This is why women were the “gatherers.” We carry a lot of shit.) Plus, no one ever likes retrieve a forgotten parcel in the car at the bottom of the stairs. After time, the climbing does not even phase you, and in fact, you become quite proud when you have completed a considerably strenuous trip without dropping a thing. I know this because Heather and I have boasted, oh I mean commiserated, about stair carrying/climbing achievements.

This past spring, after a few very dark winter months for me, I heard from my dear old friend Ceci. She called to say hi and tell me that she was going to be in California in a few weeks as she was on a Warmer Winter Climate Tour, having started in the fall in California, then made her way to Florida and stopped in between over the miles and months. Ceci and I have the awesome ability to always pick up right where we left off, and immediately get to the present and feel happy and comfortable and get right to the important stuff, which is to laugh. She is one of my laughing friends. We share a silliness, and now, a long history, so we are never at a loss to giggle it up. We are also realists, and curious intellectually and spiritually, and are both pretty intense. We like our opinions, but love a good conversation with interesting people. So to hear that I was going to get some Ceci time, I was overjoyed and knew her visit was going to give me some much needed old friend love and laughs and move me out of the rut. We started making plans for her to stay with me for a couple nights, a good old fashioned slumber party.

Then I remembered the steps. Goddammittohell, the steps. Part of the reason Ceci was on her Warmer Winter Climate Tour is because she has MS. And the cold in her little Colorado town, not to mention the nine months of snow, ice, mud and again COLD, aggravates her body in a way that can be totally avoided by merely getting out of there. That and, she was trying out her new wheelchair. The paralysis that showed up in her legs over the years finally made it too hard to get around without one, so she had one made and decided to take it on the road to learn how to use it and teach herself how to look at it as a way to stay involved in her very full life as opposed to an impediment to it. However, my 52 steps were going to put up a huge fight against the groovy new chair, so a bit deflated, I described the situation and told her to think about it. We could maybe just meet for lunch (sucky, not long enough), or stay at a hotel (too expensive for me, sucky) or what. What could we do?

When she called me back a few days later she had a solution. “Dude, can you piggy back me?” Um, am I not the Queen Sherpa of Edison Avenue? Hell yes, I could piggy back her, and I’d deal with all the luggage, the chair etc. She proudly told me she was in incredible shape and quite slim, so not to worry about the weight. So it was settled, she would come and stay for two nights, and I would piggy back her up and down, and we’d get our much needed laugh and visit time.

Here’s the thing about piggy backing your dear friend up your 52 steps: that bitch makes you laugh. And laughter is the kryptonite of muscle strength. She had all the logistics down, where and how to set up the chair, what to place in which spot, which bag to bring and then finally, exactly how to get her securely piggyed-on to me. Anything I’d say is an understatement to how impressed I was at her organizational prowess except this: she knew exactly how to take care of herself even though I was about to be a big part of that. That was the very thing that put me at ease and gave me complete confidence that I could safely carry her up and down the stairs. Once I stopped laughing of course.

We had a wonderful weekend together, cooked some great food, told old and new stories, watched movies, called old friends and just laughed. When I transported her back down the steps for the last time and she hit the road, I turned to go back up to the casita. I looked up that long, long flight and thought that it was Ceci who climbed these steps, not me. It may have been my legs doing the physical labor, but it was her gracious trust in me that allowed her to climb them. I know that a cure is coming for her and for many of my friends also afflicted. And I know it because she carried my heart that day.

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There’s a very famous scene at the end of “It’s A Wonderful Life” where George Bailey busts into his house elated, excited, almost frantic, and certainly overjoyed. He’s a disheveled mess, lip bleeding, wet from the snow, out of breath, but a with grin and an energy that make him feel no pain or cold. He’s looking for his wife Mary to finally tell her how much he loves her, loves their family and that he is spiritually revitalized. She has news of her own to share, that being, that in his and their family’s time of greatest need, all of their friends are on their way to shower him with love and gratitude and little bits of money to make up the amount needed that was stolen from them by Mr. Potter. When George and Mary lay eyes on each other to share their collective great news, their passion explodes off the screen, nearly knocking the kids dangling off him to the ground and makes us both grateful for our loved ones and realize we deserve only that kind of a soulmate in our lives. I can barely write this without tearing up…

The other thing about “It’s A Wonderful Life” is really how somber of a film it is. The first time I saw it was my senior year of high school, in my English class over a week’s time right before the Christmas Break. (As a former high school English teacher, I can tell you how enticing it is to go the movie route right before a vacation, and that it is a-okay in many circumstances to do this.) I remember being perplexed at the choice of film for an English class, but as I got sucked in, I started cursing my parents for never having introduced this movie to me sooner. However, this made perfect sense considering how unsentimental my father is particularly, and how he is an Expert on All Things, Especially Things Deemed Drivel Without Ever Seeing, so I was denied until age 18. Funny enough, its dark tone and emotional complexity is exactly why he would love it. And that is exactly why I love it too.

I am one of the millions who wrestle with the emotional intensity of the holiday season, and often end up getting choked out. I think I have come to realize that because I am so sensitive a person, I cannot bear the lack of reconciliation between the well-intentioned, exorbitant expectations for human goodness and the inevitable failure to meet them. They are only unmet because they are unattainable to begin with. Personally, I have had too many of these failures happen right smack in the middle of the season. My poor heart can’t take it.

My friends, Ol Mossback George Bailey and his lovely wife Mary, they do help me though. Last night, when I got home from my birthday dinner with family and my best friend, I was feeling that familiar tightening in my chest, like the Grinch’s heart, only in reverse. I had a huge lump in my throat as I looked around and was alone. Just alone. So I thought about George Bailey and how he feels so distraught and alone he considers suicide as a way to ease his pain, until he sees the impact his life has had on so many others. I decided to be Mary and call in the cavalry, so I opened my computer and looked at all my birthday greetings, thought about all the voicemails and phone calls, and IM chats and home-cooked meals and even a few hugs, and I realized that even though I wish all of you could have been walking through my door in person, I am truly blessed by the people I have in my life and I guess I had something to do with that. I think things can and will get better, even during the holiday season. They certainly do for George Bailey. Mary just has to stand by with his lasso.

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Sunrise at the casita.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I was actually born on a Tuesday too. And this is my 39th birthday, kind of momentous chronologically, since it is the last year I will spend in my 30′s.

Like most people, I spend time reflecting and looking forward when my birthday comes. I like that my birthday is the first day of the last month of the year. Not only is the chronology tidy, but there is an added symbolism for me to personally transition into my new year during the last month and then fully embrace it when The New Year arrives in January. I like benchmarks, and milestones, and milemarkers, however, I get easily transfixed by them and then find myself giving them more meaning than just an acknowledgment of their mere existence. On a road trip for instance, I have to be very careful to look away from the milemarkers or exit numbers, because I will start to anticipate them and do crude calculations about the time and distance traveled and how much farther there is to go. It can be terrorizing. Especially in Colorado where those little buggers are relentless. Now apply the metaphor to the daily slog of life and you can relate to my incessant inner voices.

I felt a little blue tonight, maybe left over from yesterday and definitely feeling anxious about the impending holidays, so I rebelled and did not run. I should have, but found some excellent excuses about being cold and not wanting to change clothes, and how I needed to make my lunch for tomorrow and then I got transfixed by “Intervention” on A&E. Lesson learned: always run.

If there is one thing I know for sure in the waning hours of being 38, is that the sun will rise, calendars will be turned, miles will pass on by, and even as much as I’d like to press fast forward from December 2nd to January 2nd, it will be Tuesday, December 1, 2009, my 39th birthday. And I like my birthday. A real lot.

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I might be feeling the girl power post coming on… but I need a shower first.

Hit a speed bump today: I am not feeling so hot. It started yesterday in the early evening, in the middle of my ill-advised, ass-dragging, feeble attempt at a training run when there was no way I’d win the race against the darkness. I also went out last night for about three hours even as I was on the decline because I had had the plans for weeks and was seeing friends I have not seen in over a month. There are many reasons why I find excuses to stay home and this year the decision was mostly made for me, so I knew, even in the face of headachey sluggishness, I had to go. I have to admit, I am a total wimp when it comes to feeling ill. Mostly, I just want to lay there and not move, and do some whining, and be mortally offended at the germs who have made me feel less than perfect. So for me, it was HUGE that I motivated.

I picked up a friend and we met the rest of the gang at their bar. Immediately it was wonderful to be with my friends, catching up, hearing about new jobs and new cities, feeling proud of their accomplishments and being complimented on mine and encouraged about the race. I of course explained I was slightly under the weather, so a Hot Toddy was procured for me, which I nursed for the next two hours, but which did feel like just the right medicine. I also downed about three glasses of water to balance it all out.

This group is highly traveled and multi-lingual with the three core friends having met in Spain when they were in college on exchange. Much talk turned to everyone’s latest travels, the sharing of “When I was in New Zealand/Melbourne/Tokyo/Lima/Puerto Vallarta/New York/Miami/Buenos Aires…” let alone the talk of planning of trips for the first quarter of 2010. I love hearing about all the places and sights and food and hotels and adventures and general wackiness. I am not well-traveled, definitely not by their passport stamps, so I was not surprised when I started to hear that sad voice remind me that I have never been to most of the places they travel to regularly, and the miss-out syndrome felt worse than my sneaky head cold. I pitiful wave washed over me… if only I had not gone straight to work right out of college, if only ten years had not passed since the one and only time I was in England, if only I had not gotten married to the wrong one, if only I had bounced back sooner, if only… <sigh>

I got up from those conversations, took a sip of my Toddy, and wiggled in next to my girlfriend who was deeply engaged in some iPhone silliness, so I saw a chance to shake it off and get caught up and giggle with her. A small but extremely meaningful shift, and it totally worked. I was amazed at how she and I just fell into a completely focused conversation about us, and I realized that I was the only one who cared about my travel deficit. At that point, her husband walked in wearing a fake moustache and beard and it didn’t matter if we were sitting on the Great Wall of China or in club in Miami, we lost our minds laughing and then proceeded to pass the fake hair around for all to try on and pose for pictures.

My friends love me for me, not for my frequent flier miles. Our genuine fondness for each other, our shared love of good clean fun, our laughter, our hugs, this replaced my training run for the day. When I am hitting mile 10 next week, possibly in pain and tired as hell, I will think of these faces to put some gas in my tank.

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