Doors

Teachers open the door, but you must enter by yourself.

All. Week. Long.  This lesson.  Over and over again.  Not in a bad way.  Just in a reminding kind of way.  We are constantly walking through new doors, aren't we?  If we keep breathing anyways.  Then we quit breathing.  And we walk through that final door.  Alone.


My son's school is wise enough to schedule a conference at the end of the year, a wrap-up of sorts.  Just to check back in, see what was accomplished, examine the goals, see where they were met, what still needs improving.  It's a really sound, well-organized, mature process.  It teaches the value of reflection and self-assessment.  And allows for both the accolades and the let's-keep-working-on-its.


Among other things, this quotation was discussed.  The reminder that the foundation can be laid, the ingredients can be available, but if there is no effort, no attempt, no walking through the door....well, then there's just an open door.  Flies coming in, cool air going out.


Here I must note that this quotation flies in the face of one of my favorite sayings, which happens to be:  When the student is ready, the teacher appears.  Really, this is not true.  The teacher can be there, and the student can balk.  Trust me.  I've had many teachers.  I've done a lot of balking.  (Which, if you're like me, balking just sounds a lot like, "Yeah, but..." -- fill in the blank.)


The truth is, seeds are planted.  Ideas are introduced.  Doors are opened.  And when we are ready? scared enough? forced? willing? we walk through.  But only we can do the walking.  Or running, as the case may be.


I received a gift this week.  New trail running shoes.  They are very smart.  It's a brave gift to give, running shoes.  It implies their usage.  Kinda presumptuous, right?  Like give a person a present that requires effort to use?  But I think it might be the best gift I've ever received.  Here's why...


Trail running is divine.  It's in the great outdoors and there is a certain type of freedom in the expanse of nature.  It's slower than road running, which suits me just fine.  It uses totally different muscles.  It tests your agility, your responsiveness, your aliveness.  You cannot wander off in your mind.  You have to be watching for terrain changes, obstacles, animals.  You have to be present.  You have to be aware.  You have to be awake.  It's a different skill set than road running.  It challenges me in different ways.  And it rewards me in new ways, too.


You see, I've been running -- road running -- for years now.  Running from something.  Running from confusion, disturbance, heartache, fears, chaos, loneliness, quiet, my home.  On particularly difficult days, it feels as though I'm trying to outrun the Four Horsemen.  It's exhausting, this running from.  You can easily see why.  When my time was up or my legs were tired or the run was over, I was right back where I started.  It just required more running.


However, I've been fortunate.  Running became my backdoor to a type of meditation, and through that, it laid a foundation for an essential kind of faith.  And that was the beginning of my running to.  I might have been running from confusion originally, but then I started running to clear my mind.  I might have been running from the quiet, but I started running to hear the silence.  I might have been running from my home, but I started running to feel at home inside of me.


So the shoes were the door.  And only I could enter.  It was as if I was being invited to run from the me that was (in the past and doing) to the me that is (in the present and being).  It was a welcoming of sorts into the next phase of this running journey, my life odyssey.  It was as if someone said to me, "It's okay.  Run.  Run to.  Run to be.  Run to be free."    

And I did. 

Loose Strife

I remember distinctly riding in my aunt's RV.  It was only a few years back.  She had just come off a stunning blow -- the revelation of a husband's infidelity.  They were embroiled in a contentious divorce.  One of the items at the center of their disagreement?  Said RV.  She'd captured it, taken it hostage.  Perhaps as an effort to take back what was stolen from her -- her life.  I can't blame her.


Riding in that RV felt Thelma and Louise-ish.  The recreational vehicle is such an amalgam of competing interests -- rest and relaxation in a body made for mobility; safety in size, yet revolving front seats with seat belts that seem truly optional; the sense of gypsy life with enough room to bring your entire home life along for the travels.  It's a cluster f*%@ if ever there was one.  


My aunt was giddy being at the helm.  I was delighted at her humor.  As we tooled along, I remarked about the beautiful purple flowers on the side of the road.  "Loose Strife," she responded.  "Invasive, aggressive, a true pest."  Really?  It seems so innocuous, so pleasing.  "It's carried on tires, mostly long haul truckers.  It's spreading all over the country.  Like disease."


How prophetic.


Loose. Strife.  Love these words.  Loose -- not fastened, not contained, unrestrained.  Strife -- discord, violent dissension, rivalry.  Or more randomly, strife -- earnest endeavor.


As far as I knew, at that time, I'd never seen Loose Strife in my own neck of the woods.  But Loose Strife is like that, isn't it?  You can't necessarily see it coming.  One day things are fine, the next, not so much.


Over the course of the last month, I've noticed something.  On one of my favorite loops, just after I cross the fence that prohibits trespassing (it's not a great run unless at least one law is broken), I'm suddenly struck breathless.  My mind takes a few seconds to catch on.  It takes me by surprise each time it happens.  Then I look around, same spot every time, and lo and behold, I'm in a sea of Loose Strife.  Unrestrained Discord can take your breath away.


And I'm transported to that day in the RV, and I'm again witness to a woman coming to terms with the life that was versus the life she wanted.  I understand.  


My life feels like I'm at the top of the roller coaster right now.  I know what's coming next -- that sudden, stomach-jarring drop.  And I know it's unavoidable -- there's only one way down and it's through the fright.  And I know it was my own great ideas that got me to the top of the roller coaster in the first place -- I'm the one that stepped foot on the ride.  


I feel unprepared.  I'd rather not proceed.  But life isn't like that.  Life isn't pick and choose.  It's a go forward type of endeavor -- an Earnest Endeavor, if you will.


Which brings us back to the real topics of conversation:  Loose Strife.  From Unrestrained Discord, life as I want it, to Unrestrained Earnest Endeavor, life as it is.  And more importantly, loose teeth.


My littlest has his first loose tooth.  His baby teeth are making their exit.  And with them, goes this phase of my life.  I'm reluctant.  Recalcitrant.  Resistant.  I long to hold his small sweetness for eternity, and yet he's small no longer.  Bigger everyday.  


I watched him wake the other morning, his finger making its way to his tooth before his eyes even opened.  I'm sure he was feeling to see if it was still there, if it had become looser overnight.  He's like me, frightened and excited all at the same time.  He's on his own roller coaster.  

One of my favorite passages comes from youth fiction.  It's one of those passages that requires you to keep reading, even if up to that point, you hadn't much liked the book.

Six is a bad time too 'cause that's when some real scary things start to happen to your body, it's around then that your teeth start coming a-loose in your mouth.

You wake up one morning and it seems like your tongue is the first one to notice that something strange is going on, 'cause as soon as you get up there it is pushing and rubbing up against one of your front teeth and I'll be doggoned if that tooth isn't the littlest bit wiggly...   

You tell some adult about what's happening but all they do is say it's normal.  You can't be too sure, though, 'cause it shakes you up a whole lot more than grown folks think it does when perfectly good parts of your body commence to loosening up and falling off of you.

Unless you're stupid as a lamppost you've got to wonder what's coming off next, your arm?  Your leg?  Your neck?  Every morning when you wake up it seems a lot of your parts aren't as stuck on as good as they used to be. 

                                                                        Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis 

Loose Strife.  Things not stuck on quite as they should be, not like you thought they were, not as you hoped they'd be.  Bits become untethered, unfastened, unbound.  The parts of your life you thought you could count on become wobbly or maybe even disappear.  And the aftermath is only to be dealt with.  The hole in the mouth, the missing spouse, the absence of babies.  


Loose Strife.  The great divide between how I imagined life to be versus how it actually is...it's as simple as shifting from Unrestrained Discord to Unrestrained Earnest Endeavor.  

Titleless (and proud of it)

Packet pick-up isn't my favorite activity.  It's exciting, but also nerve wracking.  I feel like a fraud.  Surely, one day I'll be found out and some race official will pluck my race bib from my hands, and excuse me from the event.  I'm a wannabe runner in a non-runner body.  Oh, well.  


But this packet pick-up had an extra surprise for me.  In the packet was a lovely book containing the names of all the people who had signed up for the event.  YOU HAVE TO BE KIDDING ME.  I devoured it.  Looked at all the people I knew.  People I know who are good runners.  Fast runners.  Real runners.  


The effect was exactly like when I get those effing magazines from my high school or university, detailing the amazing accomplishments of other alumni.  So-and-so is the head of a multi-national corporation.  So-and-so cured cancer.  So-and-so saved a little girl and a kitten from a burning building.  Or the ones that stab even deeper:  So-and-so got married, has been married for an eon, just celebrated a century of wedded bliss.  


My response to this:  Bed.  Ben and Jerry.  Covers.  Bad movie on the iPad.  I can't cope.  


And such was my response to the stupid magazine with nauseating list of other runners.  Except for I'm a single mom with four boys, so I couldn't retreat to bed; there was too much to do.  I couldn't drown my sorrows with Ben and Jerry; I don't share well and those containers are too tiny for one person let alone five. I couldn't watch some bad movie; they all have to be PG-13 or less around here.  This was no time for Snow Dogs.  It was serious sad movie, feel my pain type of movie time.  


But none of that could happen.  So I contacted my race day partner instead.  Asked about the details...the pick-up, the drop-off, the food, the hydration.  You know...the stuff.


He's single, no kids, dedicated to the art and science of exercise.  An seasoned marathoner, ultramarathoner, trail runner, triathlete, Ironman.  He's serious business.  He's a guy who goes to bed at 7 PM the night before a race.  He's a guy who consumes things like "nutrition" and dextrose.  


I eat bananas.  And go to bed immediately after my little ones are asleep.  And the dinner dishes are done.  And the laundry is folded.  


But I just love him for his down-to-earth approach.  His centeredness.  His curiosity about the events, the sports, the body, the life.  


So he reminded me the night before and the day of, it's just a morning.  A few hours of exercise.  Fun.  Have a good time.  


So we set off at 4 AM.  Started running by 630 AM.  


The half marathon.  My favorite distance by far.  Long enough to be challenging.  Not so long that you're wrecked after.  It's enough time to run, but also enough time to experience the rest of your day.  It's as close to perfection as this life comes, I think.  (That was hyperbolic, but I'm allowed.)


Running teaches me something.  Every time I do it.  And this day was no different.  I had two hours and six minutes of glorious introspection and nothingness.  Just the one foot in front of the other.  Just the keep going.  Just the be here now.  It doesn't get any better than that. 

My Mother's House is Full

I believe my car could find its way home even if I forgot.  If I was blinded, I could see the path clearly laid out before me.  If I was struck memoryless, I'm certain the cells of my body would pull me along, straight back to that door.  


Arriving to see blooming bulbs in the middle of a desert is odd to say the least.  For the most part -- except for the stunning sunrises and sunsets -- the palate of the desert is muted and bland, camouflaged from itself.  But there they were in the front yard greeting me, an entire bed of irises.  Color is not part of my early memories.  


I can walk in that front door all these years later and feel a sense of belonging.  It is still my house even when it's not.  


We wordlessly orbited, a silent ballet -- mother, son, daughters -- artful movements set to the music of life.    It calls to mind instantly the cleaning and packing of years ago, before I set off abroad.  My sister and I singing our way together up to the point of departure. Working together and apart in different rooms, walking towards and past one another, humming the same tune, singing along with the same song.  Ships.  Stars.  Satellites.   

Intuitively, our togetherness migrated immediately to the backyard, the strong sunshine, the garden that survives the harshest environment.


I see another silent ballet in my mind's eye -- tables, chairs, decorations all laid out for big birthday or remarkable retirement.  We work well together.  We speak the language of people who share a common past, one that centers on silence and understanding. 


Lilacs.  Talk of their origin.  Their quick blooming and passing this year.  Their tendency to want to shrivel up as soon as they are separated from their roots.  We are so like them.  "Hammer them as soon as they're cut, otherwise they won't absorb the water," my mother warns.  "Hammer them?" "Yes." 


The irises in the back rival the ones in the front.  Yellows.  Purples.  An almost brown....the deepest of dark purples.  


Roses.  Blooms that go on for days.  Long stems.  Sharp reminders of the pains of life.  Trimmed buds.  Delicate and showy.  


My mother's house is full.  Five bedrooms full of furniture, tools for living, pictures.  My mother's house is full of outdated everything, garbage to some, the onus of years.  My mother's house is full of the accumulation of lives well lived.  And vases.  


The gathered bouquet set inside a sturdy, rectangular, glass vase.  Surely the remnant of some past arrangement -- something I would have donated to a worthy cause.  Something my mother saw fit to keep.


Corals. Yellow.  Pale purple.  Bold purple.  A fragrance unlike any store-bought, florist-delivered bouquet.  


We have done this dance before together.  We know the steps and the tempo of the music.  We are studied in this area, have practiced, keep practicing.  


The ride in the car, my mom as driver, her full grown children as passengers -- just like a childhood trip, except for the lack of complaining, "Are we there yet?"  No jumping over the backseat into the way back.  No mother with her hand flailing in our direction trying to make contact.  


Our togetherness stood out among the others...its vibrant sense of life, that just pickedness of it, the scent.  It took its place with the rest, but I heard people talking about it.  "What is that great smell?"  "Oh, look, lilacs."  "Those roses are gorgeous."  Our togetherness.  There in the midst.  


We've done this before.  


My mother's house is full.  I am so fortunate. 

The Day After, The Day Of

Yesterday I was headed out of town and stopped at the middle school to get one of my sons.  As I was walking to the office, my phone rang.  I stepped off the paved path to take the call.  As I was looking down into the bark chips, I noticed this:

Since I wasn't going home, I put it in a safe little spot in my car, went on about my day, and didn't think of it again.


When I got home late last night, I cleaned out my car, threw some stuff in the trash, threw our spent sunflower seeds in the planter bed.  Didn't think anything of it.  Then all the sudden, I felt sick.  I scrambled back and looked for my found penny, but it wasn't there.  I fumbled for my phone, found my flashlight app, looked in the car.  Nothing.  Looked on the path to the trash.  Nothing.  Looked through the planter bed.  Nothing.


I got up this morning kinda feeling sick.  I have a tradition with my found money.  I keep them all together.  Some of them are so recognizable, they're like old friends.  I can tell you where I was when I found them.  Some of them are so unrecognizable that you have to trust they're actually even money at all.


I went out and retraced my steps in the daytime.  I looked in the car.  Very. Closely.  I retraced my steps to the trash and peered in.  Not very closely.  Ick.  I went over to the planter bed and poked through all the bark chips.  It looked a lot like the picture above, except without the penny.


Now I'm not superstitious, per se.  But I do value tradition.  And I do like to keep tabs on special items.  I was a little sad.  I'll be honest.  My found pennies are worth so much more than one cent to me.  They're priceless.  I'm not fanatical about them.  I understand they are THINGS.


So I turned to get in the car and I rolled the events around in my head.  


Perhaps I'm not supposed to keep the found money?  Turn the car on and put it in reverse.  Perhaps I'm supposed to be giving it away to people who need it?  Put the car in drive and head down the street.  Or perhaps I should be chucking it out my window as I drive so other people can find it?  Head out of my neighborhood.  Perhaps there's a reason why my latest found penny is found no more?  Drive out into the wide world to my littlest one's elementary school.  Perhaps I should just be open to the idea that everything is in perfect order, that all is as it should be, that there hasn't been a mistake here.  Park at the school, get out, walk across the street, and look down.

And Then...

So two weeks ago, I ran a little race.  It's the only race I run for time and placement.  I run to get in the top three for my age group 'cause I want the prize.  The prize is to die for, in my opinion.  Cash?  No.  Fame?  No.  Coffee cup?  Indeed.  Handmade, gorgeous, travel mug.  You'd run fast, too, if you thought you could put your grubby hands on one.  Isn't she a beauty?  

I want to start a collection.  Top three for my age category...I can do it.    

It was a week full of rain.  And a cold front.  But did that stop me?  No, it did not.  I got to the race at 6:30 AM, froze my ass off, pretended to "warm" up like all the real runners were -- small, tenuous stretches, railing against a body that wanted to be cuddled up and warm in the hotel room.  The moments before a race are laid with snares, pitfalls for someone like me.  I will never measure up to the real runner.  

The race gets underway and the conditions are less than friendly.  It's cold, windy, cloudy, muddy.  Much of the course is off road in slippery, gritty mud.  I could feel my hips working extra hard to keep me from sliding.  I shortened my strides and slowed my pace.  I felt the bits of cold, hard mud fling on to my legs and back, saw splatters on my glasses.  All was going fairly well into the last mile, when I tired out.  Really tired out.  

***Insert a completely random aside:  The one song that seems to fit this race the most is this.

I'm not sure why, but I love to sing it loud and proud along my way.  I think because I'm working something out -- something about the value of words versus the words of value.  Exit completely random aside.***

The finish to this race is half a lap around a track.  As we entered the arena, a woman came up alongside me.  I looked quickly.  But I could not tell her age.  She wasn't young.  She wasn't old.  Was she my age?  I watched her pull ahead of me and I let her go on.  I was done.  And then, I heard my very own self say to me, "If you don't try, if you let her cross the finish line ahead of you, and she's third place, you will hate yourself later.  You have to try.  Just try."  So I kicked it into high gear, not sure I had much more left in me.  Pulled past her.  Crossed the finish line exactly one second ahead of her.  I was third place.  I did it.  

She told me when we crossed that all that mattered to her was that she had "negative splits."  I don't even know what those are.  I'm sure I could look it up, but why would I?  I don't run with a watch or any form of timekeeping.  I'm not out there for that.  I don't think.  

So I hung around the race, although there were other places I needed to be.  I stayed and waited for them to hand out the prizes.  Freezing.  In the cold windiness.  It was frigid.  I was elated.  Life was good.  

Until it wasn't.  You see, this year, they decided to NOT hand out prizes to the top three finishers...only first place.  Second and third place finishers were treated to some made-in-China crap medal.  Mine with a sticker on the back that read, "Third Place."  I was shocked.  Speechless.  I ran my ass off, placed, and walked away with it freaking medal.  WTH?

I won't even get into the fact that the run is for charity and a religious organization.  My dismay stretched far that morning.  I cursed everyone from the ground up.  I can shock myself with my reactions...the thoughts that cross my mind. 

I brought that medal home.  It felt like it weighed a ton.  It was weighty and inert.  It just sat there.  No function.  It was NOT my prized prize.  It was a medal with a sticker stuck on that read, "Third Place."  My mind could not compute.  

I walked in the door and hung it in the kitchen.  That's where I spend the bulk of my home time -- in the kitchen -- in some form of food procuring, creating, or cleaning up after.  The kitchen is the center of my home life.  I had something to work out with this medal, so she joined me in my kitchen.  I wasn't sure what I was working out.  But she and I were going to do some serious talking.  And we did.  Mostly me.  I cursed her all week.  And she took it.  Like the lifeless blob of nothingness that she was.  She just sat there all week long and took my stares, my snide comments, my lack of respect.  She was like a doormat, a wet noodle, a peeled zero.  She was so not a coffee cup.  

One evening, one of my boys, picked her up and held her in his hands.  He remarked about how proud he was of me for placing.  He asked about the emblem on the front.  "Why is Texas on here?  I don't get it."  "It's not Texas," I explained.  "It's a dove and a cross.  It just looks like Texas."  For my Texas-sized anger, I thought to myself.  My sweet boy replaced that medal, Texas side out -- no more "Third Place" staring at me.

The very next morning I came out and I doled out my morning glare in her direction, and I was shocked at what I saw. She must have been telling me all week.  But I was too busy talking to listen.  She was just laid open there, defenseless, with her true message.  

Run for Relief, the medal read.  On the Texas side, that is.  Run for Relief.  Oh. My. God.  Run for Relief.  

Of course.  I had it all wrong.  I don't run for prizes.  I run for relief.  I run to run.  For the time spent doing it, not the whittling away of seconds off my time.  I run for relief, to work out life's troubles, to mend the broken places in me.  I run because I run, not because of negative splits or the competitive spirit or the outcome.  I run for the journey.  The miles of roadway and trails.  The scenery.  The quiet.  The measured pace of my breathing.  The using of my able body.  The aloneness of it.  The peace.  The dove.  The faith.  

I run for relief.  The run IS my prize.  I get it.  I. So. Very. Much. Get. It.