Winter Marathoning

Last weekend I ran the Seattle Marathon on the first Sunday of Advent. And had I thought about it, it would have given me a clue. I certainly spent the day in longing.

Something about the trails this summer and fall has majorly shifted my mental. I keep inadvertently searching out ways to run that are, for me, more free and true. I love the push of a 5k, but that thrust exists within a box of expectations and there is little room to deviate from those expectations without disappointment-- and, because your head can be just that crazy, despair-- It does feel great. I caught the running bug in college when I PRed every weekend. It was the greatest feeling to know I could break those mental (and definitely physical as well) barriers. And admittedly, if I were a better athlete, more sleekly built or just faster, I would probably have stuck with it. The worry, the doubt, the extremely hard work, the intensity of an effort and the gratification of reaching a pace goal.

but somewhere along the line I got a distance bug as well. I wanted to go farther than I could imagine and I began to think about a marathon. My first marathon taught me that- for me- 26 miles is far too long to be in a pace box. So many do it, and I am truly amazed by them. They start with a goal, a focus and a mantra. They know how they'll feel and approximately what time they'll reach each leg of the race. And while I'm sure I could do this, it would take an enormous amount of time and effort and more than one transformation. At first, I think maybe I thought I would. But then I stumbled upon trails, and I'll never forget that first run.

There was over a foot of snow as soon as I turned up the path. 14 minutes later, we moved from the snowy road to the snow-laden single track trails up the mountain. On the path a spray-painted number 1 glistened on the snow. 1 mile down in over 14 minutes. And that's when the box shattered. I laughed, I slipped, I forgot about my pace, and all those expectations lay lifeless and powdered in the snow, dissolved by the raw joy churning through my bloodstream. The snow, the striking evergreens framing the horizon, the twisting uphill, our pink faces, clouds of breath exhaled all around us, huge grins on everyone's face. Is this for real? I remember thinking. Are we really going to try and finish this thing? And three hours later, I finished the slowest half marathon I've ever run. And I was hooked.

On August 6, five months and three trail races later (a 10, a 13, and a 20) I found myself at Grand Ridge attempting my first 50k. By now there were faces I recognized at the start with me, and I was offered advice and encouragement. I had two liters of water slung on my back, a ton of food stuffed in my pack, and not an ounce of panic (something that has plagued me since the first marathon) in my system. I truly just enjoyed the day. The course was set up as two half marathons out-and-backs and a five mile loop at the end. Unfortunately, each one of these legs begins with a monstrous climb. The first one was tough, but I finished in 3:05. I chatted with a friend, found a bathroom, ate and drank and then started up the mountain again. The second way out was lonely and extremely difficult. I walked a lot. On the way back I was mentally and physically bankrupt I slowed to a crawl. I crashed without the right sort of food and was afraid to eat more, but desperately needed it. Alone for hours at a time, I started seeing things in the trees. When I finished the marathon course at 7:44 (second half mar had taken me over 4:30!) I called it a day, and had no regrets. I had gone as long as I could.

The following week in an explanation of why I called it quits, I told my boss that after 20 miles I had started seeing figures running along side me in the trees. She grinned mysteriously and answered: How lucky for you that you could finally see them after all that time. :D

Two months later, Patrick and I drove four hours to Chelan so I could try it again. I won't go into it here, this post is already long enough... but I ate over 700 cal, I never panicked; I even pushed, I had the time of my life. The course was breath-taking, and when those swimming figures began to emerge from the trees once fatigue set in, I grinned and thought about what my boss had said. So many things you can't have at just any moment, but can only experience in the long, long run. How lucky.
Then I finished in 7:04, all 31 miles. And all this with only cross-training. (see last post)

So the marathon. I had forgotten what it feels like to shuffle for so long, using more or less the same motion the entire time and landing again and again- hard- on your heels. But now I remember. I remember the mental anguish, the panic (my throat closed this time at mile 24- how cruel), the demoralizing notion of pace. I think marathons are wonderful, and I think everyone should try and run them if that is what you want, but on that cold, sunny morning (if your luck is better than mine that is!) you won't see me at that particular start line. Minutes after I finished on Sunday I was on the phone with Patrick. What happened? he asked. It just felt less adventurous and more like a hamster wheel, I answered, in tears. And that's the best way I know how to put it even now.

I could tell you about and show you diagrams of the muscle groups you use when you change your pace and direction, and the ones you use on flat pavement; or tell you about joint health and the perfect stride. I could bring in a picture of the views of the marathon and contrast them with those of Lake Chelan, or try and convince you all just to try it. But, I won't. For now I simply will take all these things I have had the luck to learn and try to make the best of them. There is a lesson in the good race, there is virtue in the races that crush you to a pulp, but you finish anyway. And there is hope in what is to come this year.

Which brings us full circle. Happy Advent, and Happy birthday to my amazing sister, Erin. :)

DTR with Running

Tonight was just like the memory of so many others. Something-- a sentence fragment, an exhaled breath of air, the picture on the cover of a book-- inspired me to sink into my Asics and hit the road. Its nighttime in October, and cold, though the air still seems full with the memory of late afternoon sun. My breath comes out in little puffs as I open up past the campus and inhale deeply. It feels unspeakably good to be back here, in these first few blocks before the twinge in my left hip, the tightness in my calf, and weird strain on my foot all make themselves heard. But I soak it all in. The familiarity of this rhythm is like turning on the radio to an old favorite. Feet hitting the ground, breathing cold air, arms at my sides, swinging slightly. I think I could do this forever, but then the traffic light changes.

I cross the street and head to the track, jog a few laps and then time myself for several 400 meter laps. I haven't worn this many clothes exercising for months, haven't strayed out of doors in this weather and looking around at the many other runners on the track, I see I have been missing out. Its cool, but alive outside tonight. There's more electricity on this track right now than in my living room, though it whirs with the burden of our lights, refrigerator, and new 30-gallon fish tank. This is where I want to be.

So where have I been? Well.

After Lord Hill I knew I needed something, needed a push, a spark. Mileage is great- no- essential, but strength training is fundamental, and something I've somehow managed to fall behind on in the past. We definitely had our share of it in college, but the truth is, if you don't really want to do it, you probably won't. I did, in a sense, want to get the rotation in, but it didn't mean a lot to me. So many exciting things were happening on the road and track, why build biceps afterwards in the gym? So of course, I took short-cuts, I skipped parts I couldn't do (yet), I forgot to maybe do it twice a week. And the end of that story is that somehow I got through 25 years of my life without ever doing a pushup. Many adults don't require this sort of skill to get through the hum-drum of life. Pay bills, do the dishes, eat and sleep. But I knew I wanted something particular: to climb mountains. So.

By luck and a little bit of effort I found INSANITY, an appropriately (though possibly offensive) named workout series designed to be the 'most difficult workout series ever put on DVD.' I'm not usually one for workout videos, but several points appealed to me.

1. It's a 60 day program. Obvious goal, obvious end point (or so I thought...)
2. It's really, really hard. Definitely would challenge me, not a waste of my time.
3. It does not require any weights or equipment. Like running, it's simple, just me and the space and my own mind.

So just a few days after my first attempted 50k (of which I ran only 26 miles in 7 hours and 42 minutes-- totally brutal climb) a little shoebox arrived in the mail and the fun began.

The first day was a fit test, just to see where you're at, nothing too crazy. I almost threw up. The second day was a 40 minute workout that almost destroyed my entire body. I often do this workout now and cannot believe that this was what I did on the first day. It still leaves me on the floor, positively dripping with the sweat. And it only gets tougher from there. After the first month, you exchange the 4 workouts you've been rotating for 4 more, and what you thought was the max becomes just the beginning. The second month literally made me cry more than once. The workouts stretch out to about an hour and the moves get more technical and complicated. There is still one or two that I haven't figured out how to do yet. But many, many heart-breakingly early mornings later, I finished. I did the whole 60 days.

A week before I finished the program, I ran another 50k. I hadn't run much in the meantime, during the weeks of INSANITY-- a couple 3-6 milers on the weekends (you get Sunday off), and a half-marathon in the middle-- so I wasn't sure what to expect. Do jumps and push-ups and floor sprints really prepare you for mountain running for 7-8 hours? I suppose I can't be sure. But here are the facts: On Aug 6 I ran a 7h 42m trail marathon. On Oct 1 I ran a 7h 4m 50k. That's 5 miles more in almost 40 minutes less, so... I think I'll stick with it!

I was so pleased after the 50k, that I actually let someone talk me into considering a 50 miler this spring. Considering, anyway.

So my goal for this round of INSANITY? Run in the evenings a couple times a week. I have really enjoyed the workouts, pushing and breathing hard, and beating the mental barrier are all things I love. But running is what its all for, and I haven't lost sight of that. In the first few days of INSANITY, hobbling to work and cringing when I had to squat or sit, I couldn't imagine running, but I'm ready now.

Marathon on the 24th of November, about a month away! Then I'm in for a tough winter, and maybe another marathon in April. The 50 miler is in May. Stay tuned, we'll see just how crazy I get...

Lord Hill 20 Miler

Yesterday I ran the Lord Hill 20 mile trail run (check it out here)and it was the most educational run I've gone on in a while. Going into it I had mixed emotions (all of which I explained in great depth to pat the whole way there. Thanks, dude:)), the first of which was a lot of worry. The fact is, I have been running more or less every day for the past three weeks (is that all?!) and working out at least twice a week (a puny 15-minute routine of the mainline runner stuff), but nothing more than 6 miles- maybe 7, but a short 7 and usually a tired 7 that left me irritated the next day. I haven't even taken my confidence-building 10 mile joy run that I usually turn to in preparation for things like this. I've just had a lot of other things on my mind. And then suddenly the race was here. I took Thursday and Friday off because I was sore from Wednesday's 20 minute shuffle through my neighborhood. It did not look good.

And this all is very telling for me. I do need a lot of long run prep for longer races; I just do. But I have always suspected that the preparation was 40% physical and 60% mental. When the gun goes off (or the man hollers "GO!")and I start to panic my brain needs to know empirically that I can do what I have set out to do. Empirical data has been my MO for staving off panic for years and years in a plethora of situations. It's funny when I really consider it and think about me as a person and how I tend to behave in most situations...

but everyone has a place they go in panic and its not always something they're proud of. For me, the place I go is called 'frantically searching for hard proof that one can restabilize.' And running seems to be the only sure-fire way of encountering this sort of panic. I suppose it thankfully doesn't happen too often in my life and usually if it does, I can quickly disengage from whatever has brought it on. But races aren't like that. Somehow the thunder of footfalls, the upward twisting of the path, the warmth of the sun and my own gasping lungs transplant me to that prehistoric time when running meant survival. And here my own evolutionary code locks me in my place in the middle of the pack, and there's no turning back.

THE RACE- ONLY THE BEGINNING
Yesterday was no exception. It didn't help that the first 2 miles of the course were the worst, but before we'd even gotten into the woods, I was bottoming out. Why did I think I would be able to do this? I haven't been training, I haven't run this intense of hills (even the ones in Queen Anne just don't compare). The sun was already warm,I hadn't hydrated properly or eaten much. And I'll just be honest with you- I started my period on the way to the woods that day so those horrible stomach pains hadn't just been anxiety; they were here to stay. No one would blame me for dropping out. The the animal instincts kept me locked to the trail for a few more moments, but I felt bulky and strange, unused to running. My legs were already full of lead, and I was hardly able to catch my breath. Every time I heard the words '18 more!' in my head the panic was so huge I almost started to cry, my breath became so ragged that I thought maybe my old friend panic attack was back and my throat got tighter at the thought. Then we turned into the woods. This is where you relax, I told myself. This is where you find your peace.

And the woods were beautiful, and calm and the hills rolled out beneath me, little climb, little descent. I looked straight ahead and hung on.

MILE FOUR
And then a miracle happened. Though there were about 200 runners, the first brutal climbs had spread us so thinly that I was already mostly alone. There was the occasional flicker of color through the trees or the sound of crunching behind me, but mostly just the sound of my own breathing. Out of nowhere a woman came up beside me. We commented on the brutal hills, I asked her if she'd run with Evergreen before. No. Well, they don't mind throwing them atcha. We talked about races we'd run before. She's done a handful of marathons and even a few 50ks. Today she was running the 20 just like me. The light became beautiful through the trees and we pitter-pattered along, scrambling up single track hills, enjoying the wider fire roads. We talked about shoes, the state of washington, the stinging nettles on the trail. Then we hit the aid station. It had only been 53 minutes and here we were at mile 5! (I actually think the first aid station is about 4.5 miles in, but still) Could I do this three more times? I asked myself. And the answer was emphatically yes. The trail was beautiful and I was flushed with... not competence or even relief from panic, but just the happiness of being out there, of doing that animal thing: running through the woods, and doing that human thing, too: meaning.

MILE 7.3
And this is only possible because my running friend (I never learned her name) had one of those fancy watches that tells you how far along you are. Looking at my watch (which was counting minutes for me, but nothing more) I thought we might be nearing the ten mile mark. The course was set up as two ten mile loops which meant that when you finished the first loop you were right where you had started but also right where you would eventually finish. I wasn't looking forward to the temptation to pack it up and get out of there, but at the moment I felt hopeful. Anyway, I asked her if she thought we were almost there, and she told me we'd run only just over seven miles. This was a very helpful piece of information. I did not, therefore, spend the next three miles exhaustedly searching for the parking lot. I knew I wasn't going to see it any time soon. And I felt fine about it.

MILE 10
[side note: Patrick ran the 5 mile course. When we got there and he saw how pretty it was, and realized how long he would be waiting for me, he signed up. Dressed only in a jeans and t-shirt, he was determined to do it anyway, but a nice man took pity on him and gave him an extra pair of shorts. So sweet. It took him somewhere between an hour and 1:15 to finish and guess what? he got all of those brutal climbs in the beginning. Poor guy is sunburned and unhappy now, but I think pretty proud of himself also.]

So when I came down the hill to the parking lot there he was, in a billowing pair of shorts and looking awful. Kristin, I feel like shit! was his greeting and I hugged him hello. Good job! I said and rushed over to get a drink of water. Sadly my running partner decided to call it a day since her boyfriend and friend had already finished and were waiting. I told her that I couldn't have done it without her, and it was true. But another thing: I was not even remotely tempted to end my race here. I actually felt pretty fabulous. Pat had collapsed; I couldn't find him to say goodbye and start my trek back up into the woods alone, but I didn't mind. I set off. I had rolled in about 2:12 but with the bathroom and eating, it was about 2:20 when I left.

MILES 10-15
Here were the same climbs, the tiny paths twisting endlessly upward, and yeah, I walked most of the uphills the second time around, but I was totally transformed. HERE is where I relaxed. Every sense was glowing with peace. It might have helped enormously that Pride and Prejudice began playing on my iPod. Sweet minimal piano music that seems set to trees and flowers. I ran when I got to the woods, aware the my body was much weaker, but that feeling- that sort of broken feeling was gentle, even luxurious as I allowed myself to look up, around and just enjoy the scenery. Being alone was a luxury- being alone and not panicked was even better. This is what I love about running: how it totally breaks your heart and leaves you with compassion for yourself and the whole world. The kindness it allows you to inhabit.

MILES 15-19
Here is where I met the beast. After the aid station I felt pretty good. Mentally I knew I was nearing the end, but the trail was still pretty strenuous. It was amazing the loops I had glossed over chattering with a friend that totally exhausted me now. I followed a creek bed straight up for about a mile and a half and said to myself 'Okay, yeah, I probably shouldn't have done this race. I'm done and I can't really do any more.' At that point I looked down at my watch- it had been 4 hours exactly. And I laughed. Behind all that panic, I had four hours of running in my lungs and bones before I really felt done. And behind that I apparently had another hour of pushing some more. And this point the trail dipped down onto a fire road and I passed a lot of hikers. I rocked out to Regina Spektor on my headphones, a little Patty Griffen and before I knew it, I came upon the meadow where we started. I had about a mile left to go.

MILE 20
It was peaceful walking up the rolling hills, pattering down, shuffling along and watching every step carefully- I was very light-headed and prone to tripping. I was also extremely thirsty. Then suddenly ahead of me there was a man. He had hiking poles and got them out for every uphill, then picked them up and slung them in his pack for the downs. He looked totally cool, totally hydrated, like he could do this all day. I caught up with him. Are you done? I asked. No, he replied, I've got another loop. This didn't seem to bother him. You? Done, I said. Congratulations, he said so warmly that I almost choked up. I was feeling very, very relieved. He gave me some advice on running longer distances in the heat, I told him he looked very cool for having such a long way to go. Honestly,he said, I feel great, I'm just relaxed. I might go around two more times.

We ran in together chattering about the course and crossed the tape without a fuss. There were the remnants of the Evergreen support people offering us chips, watermelon, bagels and burgers all on reusable plates. Are you done? they asked me. Yes, I told them, and looked at my watch: 5:08:56. Just 56 seconds longer than my worst marathon time. Also 56 seconds longer than I've ever been out there before. But I've literally never felt happier after a run.

To sum up, the things I learned:
1. I can actually run 4 hours, so relax!
2. salt tablets are a must on warm days
3. a little chit-chat can go a long way

I recommend Evergreen to anyone. They are a great group of people who really care about their sport.

A discovery

So today while looking everywhere for our second set of car keys I made a discovery. This is one of those findings that is so embarrassing that you don't tell anyone, but at the same time, too interesting and just kind of amazing to- at the moment- keep to myself. I'll just get right down to it: anyway, here I sit on the cushion-less ledge of my garage sale la-z-boy couch while beside me sits the mound of things I found here. Essentially every night when we snuggle up to watch TV, here the are things we have unwittingly been snuggling with:

headphones
a sock
four pens
four pencils
innumerable crumbs (including one almost whole chip and the cliched piece of popcorn)
a wine cork
a plastic sign cover (one guess where that's from)
an actual large pair of scissors
$1.66 in change, $1.50 of which were quarters! (and to think, the number of times I've searched frantically for bus fare!!)

This will never happen again, I swear it to myself.

This weekend

Lord Hill 20 miler this weekend! Report to come.

Jumping the Log

Disinclined as I am to leave intellectual offerings of belief at the feet of any God, I am spangled with irrational superstitions that patch together the hastily-sewn fabric of my inner intuitive mind, a tie-dye of overlapping, nonsensical faith. If it rains today, then it won't tomorrow. If I roll the dice again I'll see what I would have gotten. If I concentrate enough, the traffic light will change when I come to it; or one better: If I let my intuition pick the route, the traffic will be all in my favor. Yeah, okay, I never speak them aloud, (and thank goodness I now realize) but they are real to me. They function; they are a tint in the glasses I wear.

So it seemed right and fair this week that it rained, that inconsistent, shifty sort of smattering that chills you, making you feel that you are being punished. My co-teacher must have felt the same way I do because on Wednesday at lunch she told the children:

"My dear friends (the first three words are sung, a little tune that I hum to myself all day long), not today, not tomorrow, but the next day we won't come to school, instead we'll go to the park. And our owls, the 5-year-olds will be jumping the log for kindergarten. Now I've been talking to the rain fairies, and the sun fairies and telling them: 'you may rain today, you may rain tomorrow, but please, please, please sun fairies, we want to be with you all day on Friday so that our children may play in the dry green grass with their mommies and daddies or two mommies or two daddies and feel the warm sun on their faces all day long.'"

So of course this morning I woke up to cloudless skies (an almost impossibility in this city!) and trees green with the wash of sun. Did you know that everything, everything looks different in the sun? Sensitive as I have become to light, I've learned to start, actually gasp at the sight of a shadow or a dappled leaf. And then I turn and search for the source, wary of trickery and like my life depended on it, like a strange-but-not-total inverse of the poor soul who sees that little red dot of light that means a sniper is trained to its target. Ah, the sun. An altogether more benevolent source.

And jumping the log. It seems to me a brilliant stroke of ingenuity that in a school where the basic course goals are putting on your own shoes and rain pants, climbing up nets and trees, stacking wood and tying ropes tight enough to swing from, the mark of world-readiness is not reciting the alphabet, not even singing in Spanish (the latter of which we will do today), but jumping over a hunk of felled tree. This is Waldorf; this is what I've learned. It's all about learning to be in your body, finally after all this time of holding onto heaven.

Being in your body means you've done just what we've tried to teach you. You have two strong feet on the ground, you can greet the dear earth, you can greet the sun; the stones which rest, the plants which grow, the beasts which run, you can greet your neighbor in all I say and do and you and I on earth are one. And if you can do all those things, you can jump high if you want to.

And oh, you do, because when you do, just today, you will receive a golden key from one of your teachers, and you won't know what it opens until you grow up, and then you'll see. It opens everything.

So today I greet the light myself with a buoyant heart, shaking my head at the myself all the same, but happy to be here at the end of the school year, with dear friends and the sun, no matter what the fairies had to do with it.

Grand Ridge 10 Mile

Well, here's the latest in relentless participation. I ran the Grand Ridge 10 mile last night, the easiest of the trail races to come and I definitely learned some lessons.

1. while I can possibly not train for a 10 mile road race, the same is not true on a mountain.
2. trail running is really, really, really, really hard.
3. find out which leaves are poisonous.
4. or pee ahead of time.

wooooooooo, here we go. Already signed up for the 20miler in July. Perhaps the family reunion will power me through. I leave a week from yesterday!

Relentless Participation- responding to blessings

'... people universally tend to think that happiness is a stroke of luck, something that will maybe descend upon you like fine weather if you're fortunate enough. But that's not how happiness works. Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it, you must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it.
...
The search for contentment is, therefore, not merely a self-preserving and self-benefiting act, but also a generous gift to the world. Clearing out all your misery gets you out of the way. You cease being an obstacle, not only to yourself but to anyone else. Only then are you free to serve and enjoy other people."

I found this passage in a novel that shall remain nameless since there's a good chance you would judge my reading choice... it wasn't a book I planned on reading, but as I did (by a set of circumstances that eventually led me this over-hyped tale)I found several gems that were- though not overly poetic- well worth considering, and here's the one that's been on my mind over the last few days. 'You must participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your blessings.' Its been clunking around in my head since I read it and something tells me I needed to hear it.

What is it about post-collegiate life? I was just so used to succeeding- not succeeding; for sure, my grades were just a notch above the average. I passed most classes with As, not A+'s, and I don't even remember my GPA anymore. But there was a success all the same. I was- how do I say it?- liked. I didn't have to dole out any special effort to communicate to the world that I cared. My professors wanted to hear what I said, looked forward to reading my papers, let me stay after class to pepper them with questions and scooted me out hours later with grins on their faces. It's not that I was the smartest, but everywhere I went they said generally the same thing: It's clear to us how much you care. And there you had it. I was not the best, but I cared a lot, perhaps more than most. And it sailed me through most difficulties. Most things that were weaknesses (preparations, unbiased research, mile splits in XC) were forgiven because I cared.

Then I moved to Seattle. Now let me be clear, this is the west coast and all; everything you've heard about passive-aggression, cynicism, and snobbery are, in many respects, true. But it wasn't just that. I will never forget arriving at my first review in the grocery store. I walked into the back room with a bounce in my step because- well- I associate feedback with affirmation. I've never before known what it was like to be so hugely misunderstood. It was a small strike in my ego, then, to hear that I had a bit to work on, that I came off as negative at times (me?! how?!?!), that they wished I was quicker. But I care so much! I thought desperately. (In my defense, when I was hired I was told it would not matter how quickly I could get through my routine; what counted was my attitude and customer service. This never, never was repeated to me again-- but that's another story, and an old, dead one at that...)

And perhaps because I associated much of my negative experience at the grocery store with being misunderstood and (in my opinion) mistreated, the lesson I should have learned slipped through the cracks of my frustration, entitlement, etc: that being 'likeable' and caring a lot will not always allow me to avoid my short-comings. But then I started work at the preschool. It is, in almost every way, a different job than the store, but only a year into it (sooner, actually, though I didn't realize it at the time), I was told the same thing. Sometimes they wished I was, well, you know, a bit quicker in the kitchen. I was shattered. No way, man, this is my job, this is _my_ job, the one that found me, the one where I- just as I am- fit perfectly. How could this horrible accusation follow me? A bit of turmoil followed in which I applied for a morning position, was told I didn't have what it would take and spent the subsequent days in a puddle of self-pity and despair. How, why, and what next? But after a little soul-searching I realized my problem- I noticed that I was raised to love myself (a huge blessing!), that I have friends and family who thing I'm great (an equally wonderful realization), and that I was lucky or blessed enough again to be appreciated academically, especially within my soul-searching major. But.

These luxuries in some way have left me unprepared (or rather my own interaction in these luxuries) for the fact that life is work. I don't pretend that I have a difficult life and that the blessings that make up my daily/weekly/monthly/yearly routine require my constant diligence (as they might for so many, I am sad and embarrassed to say). Rather, it is the very richness of these blessings that make it so important and so difficult for me to remember that blessings without careful, creative, and industrious response are just good luck. Life will just happen to me if I let it, and unremarkable time may pass. 24 hour days don't need my excellent participation, my astounding creativity, my humble greatness of soul, my exotic kindness to all beings in order to come and go. I am ashamed and humbled to realize that when this job happened to me (and despite all my hard work and countless resumes, it truly did just _happen_), I thought it was fate, and that, well, karma or God or the Great Benevolence of the Universe had brought it to my feet, that somehow I deserved this break without much effort on my part. I thought if I just showed up every day, it would come together beautifully. It is worth saying that I may have had a similar idea about marriage. I mean, maybe not, but probably.

Anyway, after that long puddle-of-self-pity week I got up (because I had to) and went to work on Monday morning. I went to the library and found books on the job I wanted to do, I went to the hardware store and bought tools, and because I enjoy what I do immensely, I was blessed enough to work from joyfulness every day. About six days later, they called and said I had turned a page and could have the job, if I wanted it.

When I came across this passage in my book, I was shamed and in love at once. Yes. You must participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your blessings. You may notice that I used that word a lot in these paragraphs: blessing. And its one I don't toss around. But its high time that I look at the stuff that makes up my life and acknowledge how lovely it is. Surely there is a lot I would love to change, many things I dislike, so much I struggle with, can't wait to see improve-- but next to the friends, family, coworkers (not to mention small things like an apartment and money to buy food)the complaints grow small and feeble, paled by the glow of blessings. But acknowledging them, throwing out my hasty gratefulness doesn't seem enough. Showing up doesn't cut it anymore. I must 'fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it...' So I'm going to roll up my sleeves.

In other news, Kyrianne started to crawl last weekend. Oh, the things we can learn from the tenacity of infants. The insistence on growing stronger every day, their mighty participation.

For Mother's Day :)

Race schedule spring to winter 2011:

April 23rd: Squak Mountain half marathon
June 1: Grand Solstice 10 mile trail run
July 2: Lord Hill 20 mile trail run
Aug 6: Grand Ridge 50k
Sept 10: Dash Point 10k
Oct 23: Ft. Steilacoom half marathon
November 27: Seattle Marathon
January 8: Bridle Trails 10 mile trail festival
March 6: ???

Why I love trail running: this whole thing costs ~$260! (Including the 70 dollar road marathon)

And of course not counting the last one. Much remains to be seen, the wheels are turning.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you!
-P

January

feeling so bleak since its January, and though, yes, almost over, I'm glad to write one small thing from within the tall, damp walls of this uncomfortably chilly month.

It's impossible to catch your breath, to feel warm, to get enough hot liquid down your throat. Sure, I'm no longer an inhabitant of sub-zero Chicagoland, but the clinging wet of coastal winters clings and sops inside and out leaving everything saturated, without the possibility of consolation. To run is one's only hope.

I took a second shift at another school (same director, but for babies) over Christmas break and I knew the extra work meant running was going to shift in my life. It would be in or out. I have been slowly backing off, letting it get pushed to the last place- like vacuuming or reading books on philosophy. When I get time. You know, so I basically quit except for 3/4 times a week, a three mile guilt run. So I chose to make it work, to turn over a new leaf, and on T/Th I attept to run to Greenlake (now a 3.5 mile jaunt as opposed to the twelve minutes from my old neighborhood)with my gear slung over my shoulders, change, work four hours, the change back and run to Fremont for the last five hour stint. I think I've only made it work one day a week so far. And this morning after running one of my worst two-milers yet (no. 4 in a 6 race series) I decided something had to change. First stop was to joy run 6 and a half this evening, and now I'm going to try and look for a coach. I'm 25; I have the best years ahead of me apparently. And a half this march, a full in april and a 50k in August. That is, if it doesn't conflict with my big sister's wedding which obviously, beats the hell out of anything else. There's going to be a feast and dancing (cross your fingers) and so much joy. We're already all full to the brim with it. As they say, Tic Tac Toe.

Work is... triumphant. I sometimes look up and see that two hours has gone by, and reflecting on my old life, know that two hours might have passed much quicker at a register, numbly scooping groceries across a scanner and into bags, pleasantly chatting on the good days, exchanging the niceties every time else. And yet, all that I've been preoccupied with: the passing of time as a gift instead of a countdown is possible here. At school time doesn't pass quickly; it passes _well_. We are taught to move slowly, to excude satisfaction in our work, to savor our sewing projects and hum while we roll yarn into balls. In the yards we take donated Christmas trees and tie them with ropes to wet, gnarled branches to make forts. We scrub the porches, haul logs and feed the animals. I walk in thinking, 'hope this goes quickly today' and then step into a world of rhythms in which I am invited to take part. It is the liturgy of the home and of the classroom and I don't need to leave- what is there to run to?

This is not to say that I am never dying to rush around the corner and get a coffee or that I haven't (from time to time) wanted to lock a child out of the house. But generally I couldn't be happier. My co-workers are dear and there's always something to learn.

Kyrianne is almost seven months old- which means that we are only days away from being out of the six month woods. Have to say, I'm quite relieved to have made it this far.

Love this

I am a Hindu because of sculptured cones of red kumkum powder and baskets of yellow turmeric nuggets, because of garlands of flowers and pieces of broken coconut, because of the clanging of bells to announce one's arrival to God, because of the whine of the reedy nadaswaram and the beating of drums, because of the patter of bare feet against the stone floors down dark corridors pierced by shafts of sunlight, because of the fragrance of incense, because of the flames of arati lamps circling in the darkness, because of bhajans being sweetly sung, because of elephants standing around to bless, because of colourful murals telling colourful stories, because of foreheads carying, variously signified, the same word-- faith.

I became loyal to these sense impressions before I knew what they meant or what they were for. It is my heart that commands me so. I feel at home in a Hindu temple. ... Truly I am in a sacred cosmic womb, a place where everything is born, and it is my sweet luck to behold its living core.


-Life of Pi, p47-8

A year

Every year the sun tucks in behind a cloud; every year the wet winter draws curtains closed and night time closer; every year I am surprised: Is it really already August... Septe-- October? This time last year I was parading Erin around the streets of Seattle, carving pumpkins and making pie. I lived on the crowded, rowdy streets of the U-district, said hello to the folks selling Real Change at the Safeway, made my way to banks and coffee shops and the Post Office, all mercifully within walking distance, all tucked in the space between Greenlake and Lake Union, north of the bridge, south of the suburbs, right off campus where the parties never end and the stores don't bother to open their doors until 10 AM. Last year I worried about walking the Ave passed 10pm and ran the four blocks to work at 5AM half because I was late, and half to avoid trouble. I tip toed by the door way where a homeless man snored. I pounded my way through the neighborhood, around the university and ran in their community races. And this year.

I can't get over all the changes taking place. My neighborhood is quiet and woody, sweet with neighbors who know my name and stop by with offers of produce. The closest grocery store is a twenty minute walk away, and though they care about local produce and ethical companies, charge five bucks for a box of cereal. Patrick makes an... altogether different roommate. I work a day job. I spend long Saturdays doing chores, and planning for Sunday school. At night I write grocery lists and if its a good one, we walk to 7-11 to buy beer before we watch Lost on Pat's computer. Or read John Irving under the lamp Christy left us when she moved to England.

Christy moved to England one week ago yesterday. This is perhaps the biggest change of all. The little pieces of her that are missing surface all the time. Sometimes I want to send her a text. I see a movie, a book, or smell the coffee in the U-district, as I did last night, there again for the first time in a while-- I touched the lamp post on 11th, one I used to run by every day, that I have clung to at the end of a 20-mile run just to feel something solid and cool. Oh, Christy. This is our Seattle. The skyline at night from Capitol Hill. The morning kayak-ers under University bridge. It all meant that we were together and on our own. Now just on our own-- but I am excited for her too- I picture her drinking wine and reading a novel in a cozy, crowded pub, or walking in the rain.

So, it is October again- this is the month where the preschool looks normal to me. Where the days consist of rainy boots and 30 pairs of rain pants and hot tea and buns baking shaped by children with miniature rolling pins and aprons. Where the outdoors require long johns and wild imaginations. And this time last year I was beginning to form the plans that would end in a freezing cold night on Fremont bridge (over while I commute daily this year) and a ring on my finger.

Speaking of that.

from this day forward

Ever since that day- the last day of July- my head has been full of vows. And it never really hit me, though I had typed them out line by line on this same computer just how serious they are. 'Sure,' I had thought while scanning them for offensive misrepresentations of our relationship or our faith, 'these seem appropriate.' Fitting. The same old words I've heard a million times before. Yet the shock I felt upon hearing Dr. Hartley request those words of me on that day- It's worth saying that I never thought I'd really be standing in that place.

Getting engaged in the first place is an exercise in drawing attention to yourself. And no, you really DON'T have to do it, and that's what takes so much practice if you decide marriage is something you want. Many unwed couples have respectable, beautifully interwoven lives together. Furthermore, many wed couples spend less time and hooplah that we did. Yes, we actually want you to spend money on a plane ticket. Yes, we actually want you to buy an outfit, drive for hours, do your make-up, watch us say some ridiculous vows that are- let's face it- mere words, words we could say to each other in our living room and then email you about later. To admit you want to go through with it can actually be somewhat embarrassing, and you walk around in an apologetic posture for weeks before you learn to take yourself seriously. But the bottom line is: we believe in community, and in public vows and it is something we wanted. Marriage, the wedding (you know, within reason), the whole enchilada.

And so I was beginning to get used to the fact that when the photographer barked, "And everyone now move in around the bride," he was actually talking about me. I didn't really do the whole hide-from-the-guests thing and as I've mentioned, Patrick and I had already seen each other, so one of my favorite parts of the day was easily greeting friends who came in while we were taking pictures or while I was rushing around the sanctuary, clutching my massive train in my left hand and talking a mile a minute. I had seen their names on paper, but it was wonderful to see my dear friends file in and the family I had only seen for a minute or two the night before.

Moments before the ceremony I think it hit me for one of the first times what was actually going on- not just the festivity, but he MARRIAGE and when Erin said- here we go, you and Pat are going to get married now, all I could do was whisper loudly, 'Holy Fuck!' which at least won the favor of Pat's best friend Josh.

In the end, it is a beautiful thing to say vows while people are watching. It creates witness for the words you do exchange in your living room. Sure you're nice when you're wearing white, but later, a month later when the money is scant and the lights are left on all night? But we said those vows, those things and everyone knows it, and it would be to dishonor their presence for us to give in so quickly to impatience, bitterness, despair.

So thank god for the vows, for the witness, for the hooplah. It is now not only sweet, but prudent (financially if nothing else) to make some attempt to remember them.

Oh, the places

My brain:

1. pasta and sauce to make for the preschoolers today, and Jennifer, Julia and I are determined to make lunch a calm affair. The fragrance of new wood chips in the backyard, an afternoon with little p.

2. Laura and Jeremy's lovely wedding last weekend, and the spectacular reception.

3. Jonathan Safran Foer coming to town hall on the 20th!

4. the half-marathon in Euguene, visits to portland.

5. Kyrianne's baptism- November

6. visiting an old friend tonight- cleaning my house and finally getting everything organized

7. letters from a VERY old, very young friend in distress-- and yet the day-today is overwhelmingly beautiful...

and all of this last week has reminded me how much I want to write and remember the wedding which means something new to me every day- especially this tricky puzzle called actually being married, how it feels like trying to see the world through a kaleidoscope- all those constantly changing and bleeding colors of authority, rightness, fairness, intimacy, determination, and destiny...

Meanwhile, reading Peter Singer and John Irving and running on a hip that's ruined from miles and dancing the night away...

Part III

I have just woken up from what has been my third wedding dream. Everyone told me I would dream crazy things in the weeks leading up to the big day, but much to my disappointment, I didn't see so much as a sugarplum. I happen to be a lucid dreamer; I dream in spy movies and apocalyptic events- I couldn't wait for the big show! But the wedding came and went and I continued to dream of unborn Kyrianne, of work at the grocery store and of course, the occasional meteor-destroying-earth-and-the-resulting-evacuation-bus scenario. However, since the wedding, I have dreamt thrice of white dresses and orange bouquets only to wake up melancholy that it is all over. But the sweet memories persist.

After Erin and I finally made it back to the hotel and showered, our buddy, the photographer came over to take some shots of us getting ready. Erin fixed my hair, which I loved and Shea even found a window in feeding times to stop by the room and say 'we' (to the hair-doing that is). We scrambled to get our things together and make it over to the church where my lovely friends were waiting. Al: making the communion bread. Laura: scratching out a misprint in the program (OMYGOSH, that's another epic tale) And Christy: setting up parking signs and waiting with my much-anticipated soy latte. Our buddy, Mike got some shots of us slathering my face with Mary Kay and before I knew it, it was time to pass out the bouquets and take one helluva lot of pictures.

I've witnessed the moment before where the bride and groom see each other for the first time- it always feels like an odd thing. Like the emphasis becomes the outfit, the surprise of seeing each other in that old, traditional garb: the white, the tux, the shiny cheeks and foreheads. In fact, I have loathed this moment to a lesser scale: when going on dates or to formal dances, that horrible precarious moment of walking down the stairs, thinking- am I trying to hard? Is this justified, its only a dance? But when Mike told me its time to see Patrick, I looked up at the door to the sanctuary and somehow I didn't feel any of it. It is a testimony to how close we've gotten over the past couple months that I burst through the door with a grin and we smiled like it was Scott field and we were going to the antique store with a stop at the vegetable stand.

And, for the tables...

Its the third day of my new full time work and for the first time, I'm not deliriously tired. In fact, it is so serene and cool sitting here in the living room this morning that I feel the ability to throw together a few more details. Though the morning of the wedding held this feeling of calm sweetness, I can't say the weather was cool.

My mom and sister, Erin had thrown together these table ideas: white clothes with beautiful pink runners and since Laura and I have worked tirelessly (with Patrick, too, of course) to sew orange napkins out of bedsheets, we stuck those in the drinking glasses- the cherry on top. Each runner was set with potted herbs (some of which Erin transplanted into the garden last night)and stuck with a table designator. After some debate we chose fabric prints: stripe, checks, hound's tooth, paisley, argyle for all the professors. The bridal table was eyelet.

We had been there days before, almost all of Thursday, marking in our memories the most shady spots, and though I had envisioned all the tables in some beautiful continuous half-circle, I eventually came to my senses and we clustered them in groups beneath the trees. As it was, several tables all picked up and moved a few times during the party to chase the tree-cover, making me feel that the gesture was appreciated.

Though heavy and humid, there was still a light breeze at around 8 o'clock when I arrived. Erin, her mysterious friend, Robert, my cousin and her best friend, my faithful aunt and of course my mom (my dad and uncle were in St. Louis picking up the sound system) and I went from table to table, laying out the plan, carrying heavy stacks of freshly washed dishes from the barn to lay at each place, trying desperately to keep track of the seating chart, 10 paisleys, 6 polka-dots, 8 plaid. At 9:15 I hurried Erin to the car and we raced back to Greenville to get ready. At 9:30 I had the treat of meeting the caterer! She was staying in our hotel and we found her eating breakfast. What a delight.

It's gonna be so great

"It's gonna be just like my wedding day," someone wise once said, and then went on to describe a car trip filled with cigarettes, truck stops, and singing out the window. This morning as I sit here in the one blessedly tidy space in this hazardously cluttered apartment, all I can think about is packing up the car and heading for the cowboys. Our cooler is clean and waiting, two bags of ice are perched in the freezer and our backpacks hold two sleeping bags, a tent and 12 new peaches from Trader Joe's, where I get a discount now because I have a ring on my finger. And while I can't wait for the miles of driving ahead or the sweaters and loose change, it was all really nothing like my wedding day.

But its so close that if I reached out behind me, I could still swipe it with my outstretched hand, a little soft around the edges now, but bright, full of meaning. So anyway, I wanted to write down a few memories before the now-vivid pictures in my mind thin to fragments and float away into the whirl-wind everyone describes in which they ate nothing and spoke to no one, because at the moment, when I think about that food, I still feel full...

The morning of the wedding day dawned hazy, with an appropriately complicated sunrise, blue swirled with amber, streaked with pink giving us the sense that the weather wanted to be on our side. Erin and I lay in bed, giggling at Mom and Dad who had assumed their normal postures at 5AM: scurrying around the room, calling out lists to one another, thinking out loud through vehicle options. We relived the night before in which we'd each drank several beers in our buddy's hotel room down the hall with as many friends as we could pack in the place, then listened to everyone offer Pat sex advice as the night drew to a close. When we finally gave into the fact that sleep would not come again, we rose, dressed, and went downstairs to eat breakfast, where she filled me in on the details of her week so far: an adventure so epic, so downright surprising it deserves its own blog entry. I ate oatmeal and we watched the buffalo. At 6:35, I grabbed the car keys and walked out into the day.

A friend of mine (whose adventures are also epic) had managed a free ride to Greenville, IL the night before from St. Louis and having come across the Econolodge in her travels, decided to stay a few nights. "Great, now you can run with me!" I told her when she texted me the night before. "Oy," was her response when I told her the time, "See you then." We caught up on the car ride to campus; it could have been any other day, which I loved. She's not from the midwest like I am, so she was thrown by the humidity. "But its morning!" Yeah, here in Seattle, mornings mean sweaters and socks and uncomfortably chilly breezes. In Greenville, the sweater hangs in the air.

We wound our way to the rec center and met my old running pal who was just married about two months ago, though two years my junior. We rolodexed through our running friends, catching each other up on the details. "if it seems like everyone we know is married with babies, its because they are," we explained to the northwesterner among us. Three miles later, we panted around Scott Field like the old days and ran into Christy, ecstatic with the morning. Seeing her walking up the road to Jo's Java like that made me feel like we were still in college. She ran to me, kissed me on the cheek, yelling, "the bride!" and we talked through the day. I checked my watch and we hustled back to the car. I dropped off my pal at the Econolodge and made haste for the barn where my aunt and cousin and mom were already tirelessly setting up the rest of the tables and unpacking the various table clothes.

And then she flew the coop

I wish I had the time to sit and unpack all of the ways I am feeling about what happened last Tuesday, just a week ago today, but I don't. Around me there are family and phone calls, flooded apartments and photographer timelines. Outside their are porch swings, grills sizzling in muggy air; in our car there are stacks of plates-- 110 in total. Tomorrow there are appointments and airports, meetings and cups of coffee and soon there will be cars to juggle, babies to meet, people to visit and with whom to reunite, schedules to organize, cakes to decorate, and then hair, make-up, rehearsals, outfits and last minute rentals, ironing and a lot of --gulp-- praying for the rain to stay away. I am thinking about meeting my niece, dreaming icons with my sister, all our matching outfits, cleaning the barn, running all my old college routes, mile after sweet-smelling mile...

when all I really want to do it sit down and think about what happened which is that I quit last Tuesday, the 20th of July. I quit the grocery store, and it's all over.

Kyrianne: growing

We are all more alive now. We are all more than we were. Somehow we are all reproduced, but not as duplicates, and not as the sum of our parts. She is Mom and Dad, but also Vicki and Brooke. She is Drew, of course, but all that is in Sarah and their brother is in her also. And I feel most profoundly that she is Shea, and yet Erin and I are new in her also. We have new toes, untouched by pavement or trails, teeth without cavities, hands that haven't been scraped or covered in mud, knees that haven't been skinned.

And yet, there is something 'other' about her also. Although she profoundly is the collection of all of us, she is also mysteriously profoundly herself. She will cry and it will make us smile. She will drift off to sleep in the afternoons while we are awake. She'll hunger, desire, be comforted, discover-- and they will be hers alone. And our doting witness will be the confirmation of the greatest of all miracles: she is unique!

We are more, we are multiplied, not just in quantity but in the space between us, which mystically links us all afresh: family again.

Going home

Even though I usually come out to be alone in the mornings, it is nighttime now, and I feel the same unexplainable stirring I do at 5am. What is it about being alone with the dark world that makes you examine your life?

I'm afraid there's just too much I haven't considered.

I found Caballo Blanco; he's on facebook, can you believe it?! He is the burnt-out, beat-up ex-kick-boxing champ in Born to Run that I mentioned in an old post. He leads tours now in Mexico and training camps for runners. I wrote and asked him a question and to my amazement, he wrote back. It is utterly unnecessary to explain how compelled I feel to start saving my nickels and joy-running every chance I get.

Two days ago I set out ten minutes before five in the morning and ran thirteen miles in my Vibrams [barefoot running shoes] just to see if I could. For two days since then I have hobbled and winced. But sometimes there is just so much I need to do before I get where I'm going. I need the miles of dirt and sidewalk winding ahead. I need the sudden pain or the rain storm that might chase me, or that little corner of my running slipper that's worn through to the toe. And if running 13 miles brings you face-to-face with all your fears and demons, running 13 miles barefoot allows you to meet those same demons in your feet. Today I tried to run again, but its so hot now that I walked home 3 miles in, shaking.

I read my friend's blog tonight and she mentioned home-coming. It is a particularly interesting discussion as she is coming to the close of a year-long stay in Kenya, and though she will be boarding a plane soon to reunite with old faces, this is not the 'home' to which she refers. Instead, she describes the long-awaited assurance of her place in the community where she currently resides in Africa; it is a different sort of home-coming: A coming-into-herself that will inevitably lead out again.

As I read her lovely words, I found myself sitting with a longing-bird flapping its scraggly wings in my gut. There is so much I love in the world (and more particularly so much I love about being alive) that somehow what I really want for myself has become muddled. I have always been quite happy, and yes- easy to please. But what does it mean if happiness is so effortless? that I am thrilled by the waking-sleeping-eating-discovering-weeping-meeting drama that is the mundane? Is my content a testament to the place I've found in my community or just my insatiable taste for sturdy, functional rhythm? I just can't help but wonder if maybe my lack of criticism has devalued the life I have built for myself- or rather the one I have stumbled upon and accepted as suitable. I am so overstimulated by routine-- whatever routine it may be-- that suddenly I am heart-broken by the idea of leaving the grocery store because so much of what I believe is good and right is tangled in getting up everyday and clocking in.

It may be that the most true thing I did was admitting to my supervisor that it was time for me to move on. And yet in the end, I don't really believe it matters whether or not I stay at my job or leave, so don't mishear me on that point. I am happy. I don't begrudge a good thing just because it comes easily: I love my family beyond words, I have sweet, supportive friends and a beautiful city to explore and enjoy. I just hope I've been brave enough- that though I haven't really traveled the world, I've learned how to face the foreigner who lives in my chest and hold up the torch until home appears.

Right now, it feels safe and true to admit that there are still miles and miles to go.