Monday, October 22, 2012

I desire resurrection prayers over the internal fears that render me mute.

I went on a family trip last week, and enjoyed real time with my boys. I woke from vivid dreams at 5 AM and wrote until the boys alighted at 7 and then we were off to experience the world together. 

On the Saturday of our return, the neighborhood knocked, with work day jobs and Halloween festivities distracting me from a household of hunger and dirt and early frost. To stand in the chaos of competing demands and find its order turned my into Sleeping Beastly during Sunday's sermon. 

In my five hours without children today, I stutter over words, and what I am supposed to say. My body revs and jitters with what might happen if another person needs me. I want someone else to send them away with some good excuse. I even asked my writing coach to decide my goals, because I am empty. 

Tonight the kids and I head to Chicago to celebrate a close friends entrance into her thirties, and I long for a "rebirth of wonder" and a living faith that drives me to rejoicing.

Monday, September 17, 2012

One Hour To Becoming

If you had an hour to yourself, what would you do with it. I have four whole hours on Monday's to write. I am dedicating one of it to prayer. I did this today, but it took time to accept and decide it would be worthwhile. I show up in a rush to accomplish something meaty and quick, and then settle with a timer and nothing else. The question I grapple with is, Is God worth my hour. For all he does and has given me, I cringe at my question. I feel guilt and sweat and despair at how terrible it sounds to ask if God is worthy of me, when I know I am so unworthy of him.

Taking my notebook and praying was easier then I imagined. The people and concerns and hearts of my friends came into view. I spent little time praising and wondering about God, even as I kept coming to that place and trying to focus on God himself. "God, Who are you?" Why do you love me, despite my lack of loving you back? Do you have to forever prove your value, like I have to prove myself to my neighbors, parents, friends and faith community. If I do the right things, then I am ok enough for today.

I call on God when I am desperate, but what about the relationship, the two-sided conversation about my quirky dad (here on a visit). What about my ability to write or create as a calling from God. It is not meant to be a defiant battle to include God or an exercise in robotic obedience, but a sitting as me with a real God.

So much of my life seems to be about the list of to-do's in making meals, showering, cleaning up, managing kids, etc. Are the daily chores about faith or works?  There is a risk in trying, because I might fail and if I succeed then it is a brief relief, followed by the next task that I have to worry over. I would like to celebrate fall temperatures, a meal, a sentence, a conversation with God and simply enjoy being in my own skin.

I have three stories in the works that are close to finished. One is my Celeste who shall show up in my  novel one day. She expresses so much of what I hope to accomplish in growing and becoming one's own. Maybe I will post some of her story here.


Friday, September 14, 2012

Running & Praying

So I broke my toe a week ago and am still hobbling in my mind trying to figure out what it means. I am disappointed about not Running the Chicago Marathon (I have an entry if anyone wants it). I wonder at the year of effort and the big dream of a 3 hour finish and how I slowly lost sight of its thrill. I struggled with pushing myself harder and longer and then questioned if I truly liked the three hour long runs at 7:30 pace. I am sad, but almost relieved at being off the hook. So strange to say that and it comes with lots of guilt, because I should want to run fast and I do love the feeling of accomplishment, but this year it has felt like an endless mountain I am stuck beginning over and over again.

So without 90 minutes of running each day, I should have time. I am a bit giddy and alternatively listless about the extra. The giddiness comes on the nights I look for guitar classes to take and envision making large sculptures. The listless moments come when I think about how much time I am surfing for  the next adventure and not writing.

I have time to write, right? I have hours. I read Carey Wallace's article on writing and love the concept of writing two hours and how it took her a decade to publish, but she kept at it. What amazed me the most, however, was that she committed to an hour of prayer every day. A whole hour. I tried praying in the parking lot of Cosco yesterday afternoon, while my kids sat asleep in back. I usually do the quick, God, fix my toe, or be with my friend whose mom just died and then I go check, check (I do it in a heartfelt way, because I do mean it, its just that I feel like I don't have time to work on it more). Do I have 60 minutes of requests? Of course, I know prayer is not about requests, that you can pray Psalms and praise and all that, but I think I should actually try it. An hour of prayer, journaling, meditating every day.

The Carey piece inspired me and feels simple, yet gets at the core of real creating, which includes sitting down and waiting. So here I go, day 1.

Address for Article: http://www.cardus.ca/comment/article/2778/on-discipline/



Monday, September 03, 2012

100 Posts! WOW

I just noticed this is my 100's blog. That is worth something. I keep at it! That is how I am feeling today as I ponder my inner child (see last entry for more details on her).

What is the essence of my work? Why do I write or even read for that matter? I have been thinking about characters who go on an adventure and come back to a more contented self, those who seek out something bigger and those who shrink inside themselves. That is the choice I have for myself in each  moment. What is the power of intention that is outlined in author's words, characters experience? In good stories, there is moment outside oneself, like waking from a moving dream. A moment where we glimpse new possibilities. 

I have been reading a novel with a reliable and an unreliable character. At the start, I just accepted the narrators' words until he began hinting at hiding and at a game and hoping people would not find out about his affair, his alibi (he says he thought the police would be stupid - and maybe the reader too?). I keep feeling like I am looking inward, all of the sudden finding things I have hidden and that are now written on my forehead. 

Along with the novel mentioned above (that I don't want to give away), I am in the middle of several other novels. By my bed are The Count of Monte Christo, one on Genocide, Zetoun, and To the Lighthouse. On my shelves and in piles along my walls are years of others that eye me saying, you don't know how I end (The What is the What, The Return of the King, Tes of the Durbervielles, Harry Potter, Iris, etc.) 

Each feel like my own Gandalf is knocking on my door: (so I just have to include the first bits of The Hobbit)


In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill—The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it—and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking over his garden, and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river.

This hobbit was a very well-to-do hobbit, and his name was Baggins. The Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of The Hill for time out of mind, and people considered them very respectable, not only because most of them were rich, but also because they never had any adventures or did anything unexpected: you could tell what a Baggins would say on any question without the bother of asking him. This is a story of how a Baggins had an adventure, and found himself doing and saying things altogether unexpected. He may have lost the neighbours’ respect, but he gained—well, you will see whether he gained anything in the end.

As I work on, I wonder at the adventure of this season. I contemplate the real endings to each story I start. Will my heroin remain alone and angry or hide from the world. Will she jump into something that requires more then she thinks she can manage. Will the result be love, death, or more adventures? What do I tell my readers? Can I say, "well, you know how it ends right? Just add that part in after you get to my last words, or flip to page 84 for happy and page 92 for sad and page 203, if you like surprises." 

I really want the struggle, because that is where I sit, but I hope for you to burst up from under water like the Count and gasp for air and then swim miles and miles, knowing you want to find the treasure (and life past past regret?). So for me it is something new, a painting of this inner child, a finished story I might post here or another class that lets me put my trust in the creator.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Believing Bigger

I have spent a few weeks running many miles and each time I fight for 70 to 80 of them in a week, I seem to lose my stories, my 5 hours a week at the coffee shop writing.  Without watching characters evolve, my sense of self as a creator or maybe interpreter fly away. I feel like I am walking in a junk yard of bits and images covered in dust. The dark side of a hot August day without routine is that I dwell in the shadows of cluttered closets and unaccomplished tasks, without the will to do anything about them. My notebooks are full of to dos (or said another way, un-dones). I never researched schools for David, found a class for myself, paid taxes, completed community jobs, painted or sculpted something I envisioned in my head, or completed a story to the point of having it ready to submit.

I am finding that the only help for my malaise is in tiny acts. If I can clean one floor, that is something. To call one person or send one check, helps me get out of bed. Some of the weight of guilt lifts. If I determine a meal and make it, I can feel ok enough as a mom. Just like my two year old who claps at himself after banging on the trash can or blowing into his harmonica, I have to stop every few seconds and cheer myself forward. Look, you did it! I ran a slow 10 mile race, but finished. I called three people. I changed Isaac's sheets, diaper, wet shirt, etc. I took out smelly trash. I am so quick to want to write the opposite list of what I did not do, but will fight it. I can't fight it. I did not plant in my front garden or grocery shop or run yet today. My cousin is coming, I am leaving for a cabin tomorrow and I am responsible for the community picking it's jobs for the next four months.

All that aside, the psych challenge for this week is to figure out what the little girl inside me is like, to draw her picture and once visualized, to give her a present. I am just stunned by this idea and maybe terrified to. I sense that there is a person I ignore inside, because I am afraid to hear and then be unable to help her. I am the adult who avoids the basic needs of this little person. I am going to take a step towards listening to her, by just imaging what she looks like. I can't decide if she will be a tattered one eyed doll or some beautiful dimpled creature with long braids and outstretched arms, but I will attempt to see her.

How do I become whole?

And how do I listen to the three sets of neighborhood kids who for the past ten minutes, have kept knocking on my door asking for balloons. I hate that they want them from me and more that I am responsible for either taking care of or deny them their request. I feel like Scrooge, clutching anything of myself to protect it from evaporating into everything around me.

I just keep praying that God will reveal himself in a big way! I need big, like the taking over of Jericho with instruments or hopping in a boat filled with animals while it sits in the desert. I want to believe that God will do the work, if I can just hear him and respond.

Thursday, August 02, 2012

Today I Write

Today is another day. Woke up feeling like a bus hit my head. Isaac ran in saying "need new diaper" (and he really did!). David scratched his belly button and needed a lot of pampering, lotions, Band-Aids an special shirts. He even suggested that a bath might help. 

My neighbor made us breakfast and we ate it on her back deck watching the corn grow before our eyes (it is over 6 feet tall). A man in a baseball cap walked through her garden with a dog and we had to tell him not to trample her melons. 

David's hard thing from yesterday was that I would be leaving all day today. On top of that, he woke in the night because he dreamed that Andrew and I left him. This morning when my neighbor suggested that I go and sit for a few minutes while she watched the kids, David said, "You don't really want to sit alone, do you? You want to be with me." I get emotional thinking about it. I want to want to always be a happy mom, to write, to run to live, but it all feels like either too little or too much. I can't win. 

I committed to 12 weeks of writing and completing 4 short stories. The weeks few by and I feel frantic at how much is not edited. I am sitting for 4 hours to finish four stories. As I sit in a working space, there are books on the wall and all I can think of is how I can avoid writing. I could eat lunch, buy coffee, run, or online shop. But the consequences of avoidance are sheer agony. My body is tense thinking about it all.

I am also doing a running plan where I should be at 78 miles this week. It is Thursday and I have 17.5 complete. I was short 8 last week. Each day I struggle to want to take the time, but also can't not run. I am in that incongruent space between action and stagnation, I suppose like a dog chasing it's tale or a swirl of leaves in a corner. So much energy is taken in just thinking about what to do and I know that if all was decided and I just went for it, I would feel major relief. For today its writing, left overs and a long run at twilight. 

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Living with IT

I wonder about this entire month and feel my voice slipping a bit. I catch my pointer finger crossing perpendicular to my lips while I speak, making people say, "What? I can't hear you."

This morning I spent 2 hours with 2 year olds in the chaos of the church nursery trying to communicate through their bodies. They don't have words beyond screaming and laughing and pushing one another out of the way. The noise of their needs was deafening.

To contrast that, I now sit in communal tables at the strip mall ghetto liberary in our town, where you can be homeless or a billionaire and sit together sharing the front page of the Detriot Free Press. It is all ruffling pages and clicks and the banging of metal carts. Strangers politely asking for what they need with no strings. It is cool and there are windows to a back parking lot. Kids talk normally as they check out. I sit next to thick books of Presidents and famous bigwigs like Steve Jobs who I can nod to from afar, while being about the business of living my own story and sharing that with you.

I made a list of the people who are real in my life. It is a long list. Friends who seek me out and continue to leave messages when I don't pick up. I have two reactions to their love, the better one being that I matter to them. My son saw a friend at the playground on Wednesday and yelled out to him, "Noah, It's me, your best friend." I love his confidence. If you called to me, I would like to yell back something like, thank you for wanting to know me. I am here to listen to you too!

The trouble comes with my next thoughts which are, what do I need to do to make you want to be my friend, or what do I have to give you, to make you happy. Even as a I wrote the list of friends, I felt I should be doing things for them like making meals, watching their kids, calling to inquire about all the important things going on with them. Then, when they talk about their loved one's battle with cancer and their child being solicited by strangers in McDonald's, or the tree that was pruned in the front of their house, that I will want to solve the impossible, by making these things disapear. Assuring them that no one dies and that you can let your child out of your sight and still be a good mom and that I can replace the tree or take the kids for the week.

Exhausting, right? I can barely keep my eyes open while I try to write about one of the most exciting races of my life, when my friend lived through the first hours of her breakup with her boyfriend and we ran faster then ever, without even trying. I rest my head on my arm and close my eyes. I can't remember the temperature outside or what day it is and as I sleep, I dream  that I am trying to pick up my kids toys from a parking structure of an apartment complex, that has mean people living inside. No matter how many bags I fill and how close I am to getting everything, I see another bit of legos and trucks just ahead to work into another plastic grocery bag that floats towards me. My friend Kristen offers to help me carry them and I say, "I can't manage. Don't worry about me." Maybe I should claim a week without toys. A week without watching other's kids? A week without commitments to supporting others happiness, so I can just wonder about all of my beautiful friends who are working magic in being who they are right now.

(I wish you could tell me how you live in contentment, service and FREEDOM alongside the chaos that pulls at their legs - Please comment!!!!)

Thursday, May 31, 2012

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. 

Thursday, May 24, 2012

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.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

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 . 

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

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.

Saturday, March 31, 2012

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.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Community of Women

I stayed for three nights with a friend in Chicago last week. While there, she mentioned this notion of everyone needing a place where they can be taken care of, loved, and supported. I can't help thinking that this is what community should be about.

During the days together, we were full of energy, hope, despair, while seeking after the silver linings. She questioned how we live in the moment and embody our experiences, rather then shutting down in an effort to survive the next hour or day or week. She shared the concept of living with overwhelming despair in the midst of fierce hope (from a Pastor Chuck sermon).

It was beautiful to wake up, eat cereal and drink instant coffee. She packed PB&J, grabbed a stroller and we were set to go anywhere. One of her goals is to be out and let her kids play. We did not have to be anything, but walked and sat and moved from beach to park to bus while talking about anything and everything and nothing at all. We had the nights to sit and ponder. I felt the numbness come over me the instant I arrived at my own home to find a sick family, TV blaring, dirty house with sugar ants and endless hours alone with my kids.

I have to believe there was a time when family was more connected, lived within a block, shared the work and kept life simple, cooking and cleaning to eat, but not worrying so much if others liked the flavor. I long to be with real people that I can trust, knowing we will cover each other in our weak moments and fight to defend hope when we have more to give.

Maybe I will start some women and children retreat center, where women can get away with their kids and all be unconditionally loved and taken care of (or maybe this will be Heaven?).

Monday, March 26, 2012

The Race is On

So I had several clear indications that I was not to run the race set out for me on Sunday. My husband asked why I would do it to myself. I had to get childcare, illegally purchase a ticket on Craigslist for $45, manage Navy Pier for the race bib (a long and expensive traffic jam) and on top of it all, I lost the bib number just before leaving, which is the item you need to get into the event (and time it). On top of all of that, it took over twenty minutes from the start time of the race to even get to the start line. That left me with almost 20,000 recreational runners and walkers to manage. I cut along sidewalks, ran the outer edges, slid between people and tried my best to feel like I was running, but in the end I was moved by the forces around me. The redemption in it all is that I raced my way from Grant Park to Foster beach, feeling both tired and exhilarated from the sixteen miles of faster speed and with the the sense that no matter what the pace, I could keep on going.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

36 Years Old

Today I am in my later thirties. My husband was the first to congratulate me when we both woke up a 3 am for no apparent reason, beyond the hot weather. I have received cards, presents, hugs and kisses, along with the usual electronic happy returns. It is at first wonderful and then I get the pang of regret at not being a better reciprocator of well wishing. I am a bad friend around the small moments that matter, such as birthdays. Why is it so complicated for me to give and receive?

I have been confessing to a few friends that I am taking depression meds and always feel shy about it, because people act surprised, saying I thought the running made you happy or commenting that they did not know. I am not sure what they are thinking, but assume they are worried or disappointed for me. One recent opinion offered was that meds hide the real you. This is complicated as I don't want to wonder how to take the label or the defeat associated with something like prosac. I think that it has helped me get out of some negative brain talk, though this mornings post might prove otherwise. I still struggle with guilt.

My dad is a good example of change, in that he called me a few times this morning until I finally picked up and then he wished me a happy birthday and promised a visit in late April. It was nice. He is making time like he never did before.

After this many years, I can't tell if I am getting better or worse. Are my mental stocks up or down? Am I slipping further into the patterns that will leave me scared of my own shadow one day. Am I too frightened to use my voice? I want to live faith, believe in my husband, build up my kids and connect with you all out of freedom of language and not by withholding myself out of perceived self-protection.

In my version of being, I will never give enough, be enough and live expecting to fail. The truth is I am failing, but that history does not promote my further attempts at success. I am not good with saying Happy Birthday or sending Thank you's, but I am good at thinking about you on runs or while I sit watching my kids run around the yard. I love you and I want to be there and let you be here and I will continue to fight for that in this year.

So now I sit drinking my second store bought caffein drink and anticipate an afternoon of watching David and Isaac frolic in the hot Spring sun while I anticipate our next hug and real conversation.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Running Chicago


I am reviewing marathon training plans this week. In doing so, I anticipate the intensity of longer and longer miles, more two a day runs, and wonder what it will take to get faster. Why faster? Because I want to know that I can. I am worried about the obsession, but also grateful for it. The sense that I can fly up another big hill or push the group pace or finish in under 7 minutes here and there is exhilarating.  I still can’t fathom running under 7 minute miles for 26 though. I want to go fast, though I don’t know what for. I don’t think anyone in my current world would know the difference or care.

I am embarking on a road trip with kids to Chicago for a race, a friend and am planning to accomplish untold feats in social connectedness. I am telling people I am coming this time. I long for hours with my old co-workers, a chance to play with friends kids in the city, a few hours with my non-kid friends who I used to spend whole days with, and of course mornings of running with my racing companions. I would also love to shop and walk and sit alone in my old haunts and drink endless cups of great coffee. The idea translates so much better then the time and energy it takes to put my kids in the car and tell them that we are going to see another one of mommy’s friends or are going to play with some new kids, where I want them to play while I do "talking."

So I guess my prayer for today is that I live without expectations.  That I can be available and let people come to me or not, without worrying about pleasing or feeling guilt for my lack of trying. I am too full and too empty to manage it all, so just have to take on Chicago as it comes. I hope that all my friends know how much I love and long for time with them, despite my lack of contact. You are stars in my universe!

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Survival vs Surrender

In this season of warmer weather and longer hours in the sun, I am lethargic and uncertain. I ran my first 5K since 2007 and could not let go of the outcome or fight for a faster time. I watched three women pass me and then decided that I could catch them later, except that in this race, there was no later. I did 6:13, 7:02, 6:31 and finished with 1:02.

I can't help wondering why I race. Is it so I can brag, feel some sense of external affirmation or live in the disappointment of always knowing I could have gone faster. When I have run fast, the sense of euphoria has held me captive in its brilliance. Is slower ok, or a failed attempt at greatness? I am minutes slower then I used to be and wonder at my fear of commitment to the whole game.

My season of life feels slow. The days start early and I curl up in oversleeping exhaustion and physical fatigue. I am saying yes to everyone else, because it is easier then writing, or finishing my book club read.

I would like to pin it on the anniversary of my mother's passing, or the fact that I am moving into my late thirties this month. I know in my gut that I must move forward and race again, blow out my candles and choose to face the face in the mirror. I might run in the Chicago Shamrock 8k, because I can't get a bib and because then I could run my heart out with no strings. You don't need to ask my how I did and I don't need to decide how to respond, because it is for me alone and no one else has to know about it.

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

My First Race

I am in the strange emotions today, claiming my identity as competitive female runner. I want to run faster then my peers, to prove my worth in speed. I am approaching my first 5K race March 10th and anxious about the outcome. I will either fail to break 20 minutes and feel disappointed or break 19 and create a new bar to live under.

Yesterday I did my second week of speed workout alone, while my core group was joined by a new girl, who creamed them. I haven't had to deal with this since my team racing days and wonder at my jealousy. Will I now have to fight for a position, or can I appreciate her talent and work off her?

There is a sense of how fully committed and engaged I must be to manage. I can't let myself off the hook and still compete. What I must do today is 1) Accept that each run is just a run and if I stop half way through, nothing will happen and I can run again tomorrow, 2) Remain positive the entire time. No matter how much I might think I hate heat or hills or faster racers, I have to chant, I love hills, I love the people ahead and behind me, I can do this. For me it is willing my legs to turn over at every step and letting my body be in the moment.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

In the middle of a long hill

In the last two weeks of long runs, I have felt like I can finally push the hills and sprint the finish, even going the extra 2 miles beyond the group when someone needs a companion for their marathon training. In both runs, two different runners who usually lead the pack have had to drop back or out, due to physical issues (symptoms like GI, lack of sleep, etc.). One of the others running made the comment, "I hope he is ok, this must be so hard for him to be behind." I responded with, "No, he has been running for over 20 years so he knows it is just a bad day and that next week, he will be back in front pulling us all."

For my first two months of training, I was in the back, wondering how the faster runners would perceive me as I huffed up hills and fought to keep then in sight. I shared my times, but could not come close to proving my speed. I fought to say internally, I have nothing to prove and this is all ok. I have been running for 25 years and it feels easier and more hopeful to tie my shoes and hit the road then to write or parent or plan my husband's birthday celebration (he is turning 35 tomorrow).

My hard thing for today is surviving a full week of sick kids, with a recent exposure to a new stomach illness (no symptoms yet, so pray!), all just before we are scheduled to travel to Florida. My 19 month old is hitting and crying and often inconsolable, and I feel it must be my fault, that I am not doing what I should. My 4 year old plays alone a great deal, because I put him off and look for any physical task like dishes or laundry to avoid being a fighting super heros. It is like I am the older sister being forced to play with my kid brother. I know that there is a balance in it all, that I love being with my kids, and that I put too much on myself, which makes me feel dark, especially as we are stuck at home.

So yesterday I did a long pool run and took the printed verses I received at my mom's group to memorize. This week it was Psalm 103. It is all about God's forgiveness and love if we fear him. That his righteousness even extends to our children. It is an amazing thing to know that he does not repay us for what we have done or remain angry forever and that his love is as big as the distance from earth to heaven. It mentions several times my role is to fear him. This seems to make my actions and inactions a little less critical, knowing the Lord is my father and he loves in spite of me. Today I may have to slow down and walk the hills or call for a cab on my run, but tomorrow I will step out again, and chances are, the hills will feel a little more manageable.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

"Do not despise the day of small things."


I am wondering today about pain and the choices I make in support of personal comforts.

This lady, Druckerman wrote a book, Bringing up Bebe, about how the French raise children, accomplishing balanced adult lives and creating the boundaries for their children can become independent. In her view, the authority is clear, there is a rhythm for eating, sleeping and playing and that it is a win win for parent and child.

I wonder what people take out of this book? Is it a desire for kids to be quiet at meals, a freedom from tantrums, children who go to bed on demand or a better chance to take care of themselves? It all sounds really nice, honestly.

Am I selfish for wanting adult conversations, getting tired of playing super heros and wishing I did not have to entertain? Does it mean I don’t love my kids? I might prefer not to hear kids at meals, not carry bags of food, or alternatively, I might actually enjoy legos and Candyland once in a while.  

I think about how I self –select all my radio shows via podcasts. I avoid politics, would rather not waste an hour on science Friday, but say yes to Meryl Streep on Fresh Air and American stories and to Culturetopia.

I continue to struggle with the idea of being happy vs trying to live up to my friend’s expectations, because life is supposed to be hard. I wonder at my joy in memorizing scripture, talking with my 19 month old in words that he understands and repeats back, about how much my four year old loves hearing the story of Adam and Eve and them being naked and how I manage to fit in daily runs. I am running hard and getting my miles into the forties, getting hard workouts in, that I think will kill me until I am finished and feeling higher than life.

I guess I have not worked out the perfect French balance and so I will go with what my pastor said this morning in referencing Zechariah 4:10, “Do not despise the day of small things.” I believe my days are made of bits and pieces and we get the chance to see God in them if we just look up. 

Wednesday, February 01, 2012

Elixer of Change

I am wondering today about the habits that allow us to be BIGGER then our minds imagine. The simplest example I can think of is training for a marathon with a group. This is a journey I have embarked on many times, to get to a place where I am faster then I can imagine. Today I registered for the Chicago marathon with a goal time of breaking 3 hours, because I will never run that fast unless I decide to and tell you about it.

The irony is that I can barely sustain the under 7 minute pace for one mile, and wonder how I get to that speed over 26. I am being supported by the Ann Arbor RunningFit store, which also makes me nervous, as I am uncertain about how fast I can really go, six years after my last Chicago race.

As I ponder change, physical and mental, I can't help but think of my husbands work. He is focused on how to support sustained weight loss and feels that those who are most successful seem to have a switch flipped where they all of the sudden realize what they need to do and then go out and do it. The new lifestyle becomes a part of their routine and they own the changes.

I wonder about this ability to shift habits as I contemplate things beyond health and running. The areas I am most challenged in are relationships and faith. I don't prioritize these connections, even though I believe they are important. I fear that interactions mean I will have to do something or agree to something that I don't want to. It might mean not running, or not writing or playing with my kids for the tenth hour in the day. I feel this self preservation button kicking in, and become consumed by the idea that everyone else is infringing and I must shut down, clench my fists to hold onto my sanity, my identity, my,  my,  my. . .

So I want it all. To run easier. To talk about books and people and internal conflicts that are real. I don't want the guilt of choosing my time, but the raw moments while on a run with a friend. I want stories where we see God through each other. I want to connect with you, me and God on the ground, through doubt and hope and forgiveness. Is this possible?

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Power to Save

As I read more of Count of Monte Cristo, I am tense about what mistake Edmond (the Count) might make in his anger. I love him and want him to be saved from his anger. I wonder if he could see himself as better off for having been in prison? He did lose everything, though. Does that mean he has lost his soul or gained it? Sigh.

There is a situation that arrises where he has the power to help another man or allow the man to be ruined (and commit suicide). I somehow can't stand the moments where you watch and fear the man will kill himself, because the Count is too slow or calculated. It makes me feel like the Count will be responsible for his death and hate himself for it. Why can't the Count just pay the bills at the start? I know faith is much more complicated then quick fixes and what he is giving the man is both his life and dignity, over charity, but what if he swooped in too late or his plan missed the desired outcome by a 5 minute window. I guess that is the tension of good literature, but it leads to this question. . .

How am I sitting with wealth or opportunity right now, knowing someone will be devastated if I do not act. How many coffee's might feed starving kids? It is it's own overwhelming dilemma. The first step for me is to do something. I have never been able to tithe 10%, so I am going to start with 2%. It sounds so pathetic, but I would rather do something then nothing. I get stuck in the bigness of how much or how little it all amounts to, but something is my sum for today. I pray I can begin to open my fists in the places God shows me.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

I am not nice


It is strange to have a few weeks go by where everything seems alive. I keep looking over my shoulder like Edmund in The Count of Monte Cristo, because this is a day that is to perfect. I wonder if I should create some disaster or break down, because I don’t trust myself. Am I forgetting the problems in the world? Am I being selfish in joy? Is God in it?

I can’t remember when I was last like this and I can’t help but mine for personal failures. Tell myself things like, “you didn’t respond right away to a baby,” or “you will forget to pay a bill” or “Someone is only being nice because you are wearing make-up.” I can assure myself that there are lurking evils to help adjust me back to the feeling that life is “just okay.”

Why? Why not sit in awe of God; accept that someone else’s struggles are their own, that I can laugh and find my way even in darkness. I am capable and alive and ready for more colors of hair, more improvised songs, and even the rough moments of screaming kids.

Maybe my well is full, or Julia Cameron is getting under my skin or I am ready for something bigger then me to provide me with direction. I am running the Chicago marathon, I am taking depression meds, I am listening to God and I am writing. It all feels overwhelming, as I let go of people’s smirks and give in to saying the wrong thing, so others will no longer think I am nice.

Thursday, January 05, 2012

Forging Ahead as a Writer


I love the idea of sitting in another Creative Writing Class, because professors magically work us through reading and writing and a direction that gets at the soul of creating something bigger than me. Now I know the cost, $1700 is too expensive for my head to justify after Christmas. Childcare and coffee are hard to stomach these days, taking me back to my childhood roots of worry about how we would survive.

I would not take back this fall’s Lyric Essay class, however, as I start to uncover a bigger picture of language. I had the chance to be outside of my history or identity and to journey deeper into my story. In it, I received real input, that allowed me to undress and redress into something more fitting. It was also isolating as I tried to remember names and looked to see whose eyes were pinning me to a wall, besides my own.

So I want all that, weekly three hours of talking and hours of reading and writing and feeling the strength of my stride over three months. I want the few hours to release demons, to breathe and not become burdened with every possibility, to dream of brilliance, or just to scribble words. Is it a calling or a joke or an extravagance? Is there anything tangible that can be nailed down, beyond the encouraging interest of strangers when I tell them I write. I keep wishing I could earn $1700 to justify myself.

So I blindly plot a path for my week, Tuesdays, 2 hr, Wednesday 3 hours, Thursday’s 3 hours and Saturday’s 3 hours. That is my time, though if I can squeeze hours in the morning or at night, then I will feel the traction of a daily pursuit. The next challenge is direction. I want to steal the syllabus, the secret codes of the class I would take, Poetics of Prose out of the professor, by going to the first class and pretending I might take it. I want to take it, but know if I go, that I will be too hooked, forgetting about costs until I am finished and looking at more bills.

I need to commit. To say I need to be at class at 5, like I need to get on an airplane when the flight is scheduled to take off. I want the deadline of finishing the book or story, so that I print and turn it in on time. That is an artist task, beyond being a student or dabbler. My son is great at asking over and over or insisting on things, so I need his language to scream, “must write now,” like my husband heading off to the office.

I set out alone this round. Well, there are writing groups and book discussions and such, but my real work as a writer is in reading and writing and going at it despite the other demands. 

There is a guy doing something like me that I follow, because there is not so much out there on the do it yourself MFA, which I am mulling over with my friends and acquaintances. 

David Eric Tomlinson's Blog: http://daviderictomlinson.com/


Wednesday, January 04, 2012

A Poem


I am reading about writing and feel the overwhelm of possibilities. I could read all the books on anyone’s list, or the long list on my own. I could read poems, because Ray Bradbury says to read a poem a day. I want to write short stories, but don’t read them, so Stephen King might say, what is the point. I don’t read much poetry, but the pieces I have memorized hover over my days with new connections. Hopkins is my favorite! The words jump up with joy in the dead of winter. They are short and full of faith, which makes me feel big.

This is a two-second poem to scratch at my world. Writing motherhood and moments are what I settle with today.

Babble “Me-Me,” or “Mommy” from the top step
“No dropping,” I say as he again strikes fist forward
We look together and then I turn away

Your eyes, Izzy brown
Look bigger than Christmas
As you circle the house falling by purpose

Spots of juice dribble dry from your lips
All crying more and wipe and see and no more NOs
And I pause to feel my shoulders grip my ears

I frozen and Christ spilling open
Pulled in two yet steadied by a Voice and some nails
Witness a memory and how he endures.