Running Scared

I have not blogged much in the last month, because I did not want to make my situation feel too real. In the last two weeks. I have been running consistently and trying to work on my speed, so it feels ok to talk about my leg now. The second half of April and much of May were about testing and limping and wondering if I might have cracked my hip or pelvis. The bone throbbed with discomfort, the lower back, the upper hip, the glut and groin and everything around them felt antsy and awkward, like they were out of joint. Telling people I was injured in the rear was a hoot. My first visit to the PT, the guy said, "The last thing I will do is touch the spot." I then said, "I know it is so embarrassing to be injured there," thinking he meant he would not touch by butt, but he meant, that was the last part of his exam. 

I had to keep wondering if the four months of hard training were slipping away, if I could race the Dexter Ann Arbor half marathon, let alone train for Chicago. The Running Institute guys studied my form and suggested that I strengthen my hips, hit the ground on my mid foot (less noisily) and not move my shoulders so much. With 25+ years of running under my belt, change is tricky. When I go to see them next, they might be upset that I went from zero miles to 50 mile weeks. 

I am lagging in speed, watching my teammate spring far ahead of me. I can't decide if it is mental or physical disadvantage. Is he faster for his three weeks of continuous hills and mile repeats? My coach reprimanded me for doing a tempo run yesterday and then being tired for speed work on the track this morning. I might have given up during the second 800, but that is now the past. I want to try for 7 minute pace on Sunday, and my teammate is considering 7:05 pace. One of my challenges is that in my enthusiasm or fear, I tell others they look great and to go for it, while simultaneously slowing down and watching them disappear before my eyes. I want to relax and enjoy the experience, the people and the route, while feeling good, which is not easy when pared with trying to run fast. So I guess the enjoyment should come first and the positive attitude that I am strong and am running for a different kind of reward.  I need to keep going and take my runs for what they are, a chance to see God, feel his strengths and my weakness and to enjoy the beauty of the shadows. 

Injured/ Overworked

I am coming into my third week of injury. Each week has been filled with questions about where and how bad the pain is, to determine what to do and how long it will take for me to be running again. Meanwhile my teammates are racing well and continuing to improve. I have to wonder what I am supposed to be learning through this.

The physical therapists like to say, give it two more weeks every time I see them and then today, the trainer suggested that two months is worth the wait, to get me really well. He then watched me run and noticed my inefficient stride and how I was straining my legs by landing with my heals first. Not running makes me feel antsy and tired and like everything in my body might fail me, which is hard given I pride myself on being invincible.

When my 76 year old father was here, he worked hard to help me build sandboxes and move rocks. In the process of purchasing materials, I noticed that at Lowes, the first worker, sneared, avoided contact and acted insulted when my dad asked where in the country the treated pine had come from. I thought about complaining to a manger about the guy. I moved back to the counter while he was saying over his shoulder, "come find me if we had further questions." As he turned off the isle, I could see that he was laughing. We found another guy who seemed sincere and more enthusiastic about our sandbox project. He wanted to select the best wood and cautioned us on possible chemicals in our choice, though my dad eventually contradicted the information, telling the man that he did not know what he was talking about. He further made recommendations to the man and insisted on more difficult wood cuts then the guy was interested in making. My dad did not seem to notice the negative responses and I found myself apologizing for him when he was out of sight.

I notice in physical therapy that I feel like my dad looks to the workers in Lowes. I have hairy legs, am unsure of how painful my leg is or even where it is injured. I wonder if people instantly write me off or since I assume they don't like me, they appear to not like me. The PT seems to think that I am trouble and barely takes a minute to treat me or listen to my pain. So I tell myself the story of how I am not worth others time and how I am not a good runner (even when injured) and not a good writer and not a good mother and definitely a terrible wife and a horrible participant in matters of faith. My dad has an easier time of things, since he does not notice or read into his interactions, and enjoys just doing what he wants to do.

So where is the happy medium? The right amount of ambivalence and noticing that is going to make exchanges and relationships last? I will go to sleep and try again tomorrow to figure that one out.

Whose Truth?

Today I am left wondering what my "my truth is." Is there such a thing as absolute truth and if so, who can interpret it? There was a time I thought my dad had an answer for every question and a later point where I knew God was the answer, but recently the question has been asked, "Who is God." If we were to write a definition or attempt a label, it would be limiting and fraught with our own misunderstanding. 

The writers at Calvin's Faith and Writing Conference this weekend write from a passion and a tradition, while also stating that questions drive their work. Lan Samantha Chang from Iowa, stated she was an agnostic who created a catholic priest character named Bernard, whom she liked, partially because he provided a wider view. Marilyn Robinson talked about the politics of peace by seeing everyone as "created in the image of God." Jonathan Safron Foer seemed not to care about God, beyond what the stories did to inform the structure and questions within his work and life. 

Patrick Madden shared his love of the essay, noting: 

- it is a place of questions/pondering, 

- the writer and character are the same voice, 

- the words are a window into the author's soul, not pretend, not self aggrandizing

- the writer tries to live up to the person he would like to become

This is a way of thinking about the world that I love. It is living in the complexities of politics, faith, and relationships, always open to hearing others voices. 

Back to Robinson for a minutes, she was asked why she was not more raw like Flannery O'Conner and she said that this was not her experience of the world, that she could only write what was authentic to her. When a student posed the question, "Where did your idea for explaining the ten commandments come from" (referring to her book Gilead), she said that [her character], John Aims told her. 

My age old questions include, how do I listen without trying to please and gain recognition? I fear everyones misunderstandings. While Robinson spoke, I found myself dreaming up pen names like "Soni Kraft," to hide under. Marilyn focused on Not Fearing anything but God, Lan shared how she avoided her calling for thirty years until she did not want to get up in the morning for anything else. I sit somewhere in the silence of Lan and fear this moment that I put words on a page. Weighed against my cowardice is my need for liberation.  And my question, "What if I can write something that matters to another human being."

I believe that God gave me himself and so I have to write our story down. My question, "What is my truth," leads to helping my character defy my smallness, to fight for something more beautiful and more painful then what I can see from my fogged windows . 

Losing My Guts

This week I lost my journal. It was somewhere and then it went missing and I looked and forgot about it and am now wondering what was inside the cover. If it was in my hands I would never bother to look through its tattered pages, but now I feel lost, like I have a dream that is vanishing before my eyes. It tends to have unfiltered emotions, real guts working through through my intestines or liver and hopefully exiting my brain, never to return.

I am heading to a writing Conference tomorrow and keep thinking things like,
Can I get runs in?
Will I know anyone or choose to be social? Will my interactions be real or fake?
Do I have to network and who would I even target?
Am I a serious writer? Do I have a story to tell and any work to share?
How can I go to every talk and not miss the best of what is there?
Would I be better served in a cabin in the woods for three days with my notebook and pen?
How can I leave my kids and what do people think of me for doing it?
Will my kids resent or forget me (will I lose them?)?

So I doubt my ability to choose to fight, over my instinct to curl up and hide. On Sunday I started my 10K in the pouring rain. In the pain of running the first 100 yards, do I kept trying to decide if I should shut down or push harder. And for what? For myself to know I can run fast? For others to say, wow, she is fast or slow? I  really want silence. I want a moment to run without all the effort to avoid judgement. A moment with the guts of my lost journal, where I can run any pace, scribble gibberish and enjoy myself.

Losing You

A close friend recently shared her work in dealing with a relationship and problems from the past in a desire for healing and wholeness for them both. In our correspondence she spoke of her fear of damaging our relationship by doing this work. It was a surprise to hear that fear about us, because my initial response was that nothing could hurt us.

Thinking about it further, however, I realize that losing people is often less about a dramatic incident, and more about my slow distancing. It is like watching a tree die, limb by limb, as I slowly become less personal or open, to the point that we both stop calling. I often feel sad about the numerous people who I cast off in this manner. Great friends from HS and College who loved and believed in me and wanted to  know me. At the time I could not meet my own expectations of being good enough or available enough or open enough to what I thought they wanted and so I caved under my own pressure.

The people who did not accept this are my closest friends. They continue calling when I will not answer and then pick up when I finally dial back. They inspire me with their fights for what they believe in often in direct conflict with upbringing, family and friends. When we are together they tell me repeatedly that I am a good mom, that I am a good writer, or whatever it is they know I need to hear (and that they sincerely believe about me). I want to be like them. And I want to be able to tell my friend there is nothing she could do that would make me lover her any less, because that is what faith and hope and Christ's love are about.

I recently forgave myself for all my failing people and decided God would cover my losses, my lack of relating and that some day we would be restored and together, like in old times. For you who I cherish today, I am so thankful for moments and glimpses of deep love we have together and I hope there will never be anything that separates us.