Showdown At the Okay Corral (Oh, The People You'll Meet Pt. II)

Yes, yes...I know it's 'O.K. Corral' but I'm a typist by trade.  And more importantly, it's REALLY the 'Okay Corral' here.  Trust me. 

There are some times in this life when if feels like the Universe has LEFT THE BUILDING.  The earth is spinning off its axis.  The inane is normal and the normal is clearly in hiding with Witness Protection.  

And at certain rare times the usual outlets for process, reflection, quietude are just as absent as the normal and all that's left to do is this: 

1) Put on loud music

2) I mean REALLY loud music

3) Put on running shoes

4) Abandon all the undoneness present 

5) Hair in pigtails

6) Open the front door

7) Run away from home

At these certain inexplicable moments, I've found prayers full of expletives to be particularly effective at eliciting a response from the Universe.  Mine usually sound like this:

(WARNING:  If you are faint of heart or opposed to swear words, don't bother reading on.)

"What the fuck?  You have got to be fucking kidding me.  Now if all this ridiculousness is REALLY the way this is supposed to be the way it is, then send a fucking sign."

And voila: 

I'm sure some just take this as a quarter.  They're free to.  I get a certain relief from believing that I'm getting reassurance -- everything is just fine.  

So today, I'm driving all around hell and gone.  And I see this bumper sticker:  Try Wait...  I don't wait for much.  I'm impatient.  I'm fidgety.  I'm efficient and I want the Universe to be efficient, too, goddammit.  

But it stuck with me.  And I thought to myself, today -- just today, I'm going to TRY WAIT.  

So time passes.  Miles pass.  Headed home.  I see, on the side of the road a few miles from my house, a person on a horse with two pack horses behind him.  I think a million thoughts all at once.  Who is that?  Where are they coming from?  Where are they headed?  How do they know they can pass on that property?  What the fuck?  Who does that?  I WILL NEVER KNOW.  

So time passes.  I -- having another day, like the few preceding it, that seems particularly Universe Left The Building-esque, so I do #1-#7 above and resolve to have a few more choice words with whatever or whoever listens.  

I'm in a state of NON-acceptance.  I'd prefer things to be a bit different.  And they're not.  There's a divide between the way things are and how I think they should be.  And so I'm in unrest.  And I let it all out in my run.  Whenever I got to the What the fucks? or the You've got to be fucking kidding mes...well, money appeared in my way.  

I rounded the corner to come home and who should I run into but Man On Horse With Two Pack Horses Trailing.  I WILL KNOW.  

I didn't find out this name.  But he comes from Montana.  Going to Big Sur, a few hours north of here.  Via Mexico, which I guess you can safely say is the scenic route.  I was intrigued.  A Johnny Appleseed among us?  Adventurer?  I got to ask all my questions and saved the best for last.  How long has it taken you to get here from Montana?  

He replied, 'Since 1993.'

Try Wait embodied.  

Be patient.  The Universe whispered it to me today.  The answers will come.  And furthermore, it will all be Okay (even outside the Corral).

And of course, it was clear, my magic money finds of the day -- well, they belonged to him.  

Confessions of a Non-Running Runner

I may not be a good runner.  Lord knows I'm not a great runner.  I wouldn't even consider myself a *real* runner.  But, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, I got up, moved my body slightly faster than walking, and therefore I was (am?  will be again?) a runner.

Injury.  The great derailer of my aerobic meditation/medication.

It's true, when I look back on the course of this injury, I could just be another unnamed 'runner' in some how-to/how-not-to run book or magazine.  I'm nauseatingly predictable in the way I chose to ignore, ignore, ignore (which, by the way, I claim as one of my great life strategies) the signs and symptoms along the way.  I chose to focus on the something else, push through, run in spite of pain.  UNTIL I was sidelined.

It's been T H R E E weeks since I lopped along.  Three.  Whole.  Weeks.

Right off, I see the good things.  Like I haven't killed my kids or myself.  I haven't flown off the handle or cried uncontrollably.  I haven't even made any rude hand gestures while driving.  All these things shock me because I thought I'd be a raving lunatic without my daily timeout.  I'm not any more lunatic than any other day.  That's good, right?

Second, I -- me -- I followed a practitioner's directions.  I feel like I deserve a medal for this.  I'm not a direction or rule follower by nature.  I'm a rule skirter.  There's a distinction.  I usually follow along just enough to be socially and legally acceptable.  Other than that, it's anyone's guess.

Third, it was suggested and I balked, that in place of running, I take up silent, still meditation.  The good here is -- well, I haven't done it yet, but the idea of it now, today, doesn't make me want to barf near as much as when it was suggested three weeks ago.  That's progress.  I'm not a stranger to silent, still meditation.  It's just nothing that appeals to me these days.  I like my life on the go, two birds-one stone-ness of running in a meditative state.  

Fourth, I've had time to refine my updated 2013 Running For My Life Playlist.  I've chucked tired tunes and included new ones.  Even purchased a few.  My life is changing and it's time for many of my used-up, over-played, yesterday things to move on out the door.  I need space for the new goodness that I see right before me.  

Fifth, ego-check, AKA humility...I signed up for a race, and didn't run it.  I'm having a hard time knowing what to do with my bib...the unused one.  I've never had an unused bib before.  It seems unsightly and to signify freedom all the same time.

Sixth, patience.  Virtue, so I'm told.  Not. My. Strong. Suit.  I'm fidgety and don't make a good caged animal.  But P A T I E N C E has come to sit in my lap and I haven't had to braid her hair with my restless fingers or do a rendition of "Carry Me, Marry Me" with her jiggled on my knees.  We've sat together long enough that I finally got the OKAY to WALK outdoors.  Walk slowly, with intention with focus, paying attention to my footfalls and my stride.  

This practitioner told me, and I believe him, that I'm going to have to learn how to walk again before I learn how to run.  And that's what it feels like I'm doing in this life, at this time, in these days of slow and slowed down and (kind of) stillness...I'm learning to walk before I run.   

Living Lessons

I'm a goal person.  Single-minded when it comes to accomplishing something I set my sights on.  Self-serving and selfish, really.  When I buckled down and decided to finish school and sit for my exam -- well, my kids only saw the back of my head for months as I poured through books, studied online, ran out the door, just one more time, to pull another  marathon 'well woman' clinic day.  I got tired of hearing myself say, "Just one second.  I'm almost done with this question."  I told all my boys we were taking time off sports and extracurriculars -- there wasn't time for their interests and mine.  I remember amid that chaos, when I decided to take a weekend off, one of my boys baked a cake in celebration.  

For what it's worth, my boys seem to have not acquired this trait of mine.  Perhaps it's best they haven't.  I can't imagine a house where everyone (or even more than one) is focused to the point of exclusion and delay.  We'd never eat dinner, I guess.  We'd all be hunched over whatever the object of the day was ignoring each other and perseverating.  
  
And so it is with this in mind that I'm happy to announce the come-full-circle, cross-the-finish-line moment of my latest running odyssey:  The 50K.   

Every run -- training or race -- is chock full of lessons for me.  I think that's why I love being out there...my body is busy enough and my mind is quiet enough that I can see, hear, experience the lesson life lays out before me.  And almost without fail, what my MIND tells me the lesson will be before I start -- well, it hardly ever ends up being the lesson.  My mind does not know all apparently.  It is not a crystal ball.  

So this run, it didn't disappoint.  Lessons were everywhere.  

I think I asked no fewer than five people if they had any interest in running part of the race with me.  I'm NOT that way.  I'm a lone runner.  I don't run with people for a reason:  I like quiet.  So for me to ask was odd.  For me to find NOT ONE PERSON available or willing?  Well, it seemed harsh.  I've always had boys at the end of a race or people I knew in the race or something to keep me tethered.  This race had none of those things.  It was far from home.  I was anonymous.  And alone.  More alone than I was thinking I'd like or could stand.  50K...that's a long time to be by oneself.  Even for me. 

I stayed with a friend the night before the race, and as I was walking out the door that morning I was expressing my fear about being alone with my thoughts all day.  Her response?  "You're going to be running 31 miles.  I'd think your only thought will be, 'Please, don't let me die.'"  I had to laugh.  

And so I left the house, traveled to the race, believing my lesson would be how to endure 50K alone.  How to endure my mind for hours and survive.  How to travel 31 miles, up hills and down, and not quit -- in spite of wanting to.  And doing it all alone.  A lesson in meditation, solitude, aloneness.  

But as luck would have it, or maybe because the Universe is Kinder than I expect, I wasn't alone.  And at times -- hey, lady in the bright orange shorts, I'm talking to you! -- there just wasn't ENOUGH quiet.  

Races can mess with my head.  I've said this before.  And I'll say it again.  It is like a high school reunion or one of those alumni magazines where people parade their accomplishments and greatness.  Running is no different.  I purposely showed up just in time to grab my number, trying to avoid those horrible conversations.  But, alas, I couldn't avoid them altogether.  I heard people all around me -- men and women -- comparing previous race results, listing races they'd run in, speaking casually in pseudo-humility about their challenging training schedules or their rugged racing line-ups.  It's enough to make you want to vomit really.  Trust me.  

But it gives me a priceless opportunity to refine and fine-tune my focus and my mindset.  You see, I'm just there for me.  To be.  To be in the minute.  To put minutes together to make hours.  To put steps together to make miles (or kilometers in this case).  I'm not there for glory or greatness or cash or prizes.  And so these minutes, enduring people's egos and grandiosity, it gives me a moment to re-group.  To remind me to be right-sized and right-minded.  

I have to pare down all the arguments in my head about my lack of...lack of training, lack of experience, lack of endurance.  I have to carve away the weight of your greatness, because I'm only strong enough to carry me, my body, my doubts, my mind across the miles (or kilometers in this case).  I don't have enough nutrition or hydration, strength training, or mental fortitude to carry the onus of your accomplishments along for my day.  

In the first few miles, as all the runners filed through the singletrack, overhearing people's nauseating conversations was unavoidable.  I wished desperately for loud music and earbuds to drown out the lunacy.  I couldn't decide if I should fall back or push harder to get away from all the talking.  And yet, as Universal Kindness Rules, the talkers disappeared.  And what was left behind was just a lone woman.  A lone, quiet woman.  And she wasn't me.  

We introduced ourselves somewhere before the 4-mile mark (or 6.4-kilometer mark in this case).  I asked her up front how long it would take her to complete the race.  Her response?  She had NO IDEA.  She was just out to have a good day, have some quiet time, do some running.

Sole-mate.

I learned a fair bit about her over the miles.  We jockeyed back and forth, sometimes even moving along together.  Other times, one of us ran ahead while the other fell back.  She was casual.  Humble.  Quiet.  We ran along with each other for miles (or kilometers in this case) hardly saying anything.  She was graceful and rugged and common-sensical.  She barreled through water-crossings -- knee-high, frigid water-crossings -- without batting an eyelash.  She hiked up hills with incredible speed.  She jogged along, sipping water, eating salt tablets.  

We separated for good around the 20-something mile mark (yes, or the 32-something kilometer mark in this case).  And while I ran along this thought occurred to me:  The Universe is Kind.  If I'd had my pre-arranged running mates, I'd have missed this angel on the trail.  I had to have the missing to have the finding.  And so it is...and is often...the thing that looks like loss is actually the open space for gain.  The thing that looks like emptiness is really full of living...overflowing life.

Life is good.

And PS...if you are a blogger and you leave an unpublished post on your desktop on Valentine's Day, you might find this from one of the loves of your life:

mom, i love you no matter what. thank you for being my mom.

I say again...Life. Is. Good.  

High Clouds Kill Runner

High Clouds Kill Runner.

I keep imagining this as the headline in the paper when they find my body.  High Clouds Kill Runner.  It's the lesson of this winter so far.  Or one of the lessons anyway.  

I've headed out several times in the last few weeks to run, bundled as much as I can stand -- gloves, beanie, tights, two shirts.  I run for freedom, so being bound up in winter-weather-wear -- well, it's anathema.  

I go out the door and start on my way as the sun is coming up.  The skies are clear.  The morning is coming alive.  It seems full of possibilities.  And then.  High.  Clouds.  All hope of warming temperatures...gone.  The idea of sunny rays penetrating those frigid mornings...gone.  The only thing alive is the reality of miles ahead in the dimmed light of a muted morning.  What was once full of promise turns to something that merely exists.  And what was anticipated -- a run in the sunshine of a new day -- becomes something more like work -- logging miles because miles need to be logged.  I'm sure I'll freeze to death.  Hypothermia.    

So what keeps returning to me is this:  High Clouds Kill Runner.  The haziness of life.  The in-between.  The undefined.  The lack of direction.  The failure to set a sight.  The haphazard wandering.  The absence of a plan.  The point where clear-sightedness succumbs to the high clouds.  Vision suffers.  Energies are spent.  Movement without going anywhere.  Life loses purpose.  Temperatures drop.  The body takes the brunt of the reality, but the spirit and mind are not far behind.  

And then a friend sends this article about searching for happiness versus searching for meaning, and I'm reminded of the value of purpose in one's life.  And I'm again remembering the hazard of high clouds, hazy vision, lack of clear-sightedness.  

I remember reading one of the books referenced in the article -- Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning -- a few years back.  The book was a product of his time as an inmate in a concentration camp in World War II.  It's serious business about the nuts and bolts of humanness -- what allows us to survive, persevere, make it through impossible conditions, difficulties, unimaginable horrors.  

I read it  at a time in my life when I was in the midst of the redefinition of self.  It feels lonely in those times when all the usual landscape has lost its markers.  When your life has high clouds.  It seems as if the great expanse of unknown will surely drop you into the abyss.  You'll never be found (by yourself or anyone else) again.  You'll lose you.  

And I remember a passage from the book...Mr. Frankl recounts a cold, dark nighttime journey.  While he marches through the darkness, he remembers his wife.  And as the sun comes up, and darkness turns to light, and hazy vision gives way to clear-sightedness,  he finds purpose and joy and contentment even amidst those most horrible of conditions.  He writes, "Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love."  And it isn't the romantic kind of love.  It's the giving kind of love.  And if he can find it there, in that minute, in those conditions...I can certainly find it here in my high clouds.

And so I'm reminded that even my days of nearsightedness or farsightedness or no-sightedness will give way...I bet to an Orange Sky. 

Triangulation

The transit of Venus this week taught me quite a few lessons.  I learned that in 1716, Sir Edmund Halley tried to measure the distance between Earth and Venus by using the transit.  Captain James Cook was sent to a far off land, Tahiti, which was literally the end of the flat earth at that time.  They surmised that by observing the transit from two separate locations and compiling their data, they would be able to finally put to rest some of the time's greatest questions.  Although in theory their ideas were correct, pesky things like crappy equipment, Venus' shifty outline, and foggy conditions put a damper on their success.  About a hundred years later, after the invention of the still camera, when the transit of Venus happened again, the experiment worked.  


Disclaimer: I am not a historian, mathematician, or astronomer, so if any part of my story is inaccurate, I own it.  Call it literary license.  And please don't rain on my parade by correcting me.  Read on and see why...


There is a phenomenon known as parallax.  It's best demonstrated by extending your hand in front of you with one finger upright, against a definitive backdrop.  Look at your finger against the backdrop with both eyes open.  Then close or cover one eye and see where your finger is in relation to the backdrop.  Then cover the other and see your finger shift positions against the backdrop without your finger moving at all.  You can gain all sorts of information from these measurements -- how far your eyes are from one another, how far to the finger, how far to the backdrop.  At least as I understand it, you can.  In theory.  Although as previously stated, math's not my strong suit, so I'm not sure I could personally figure the true measurements.  


To me these lessons this week were all about the shifting nature of relationships and perspective.  I sat in a room full of people, people I've known for a while, people I've never met, people who have been good friends to me.  I sat there and watched the shifting geometry of souls.  I felt like Halley and his failed experiment.  I could have gauged the distance between bodies, but not the distance of the interior lives of the people in the room.  I knew some married people sat next to each other, but were miles apart.  Other sat apart as strangers although the trappings of their friendship were deep and proven. 


And it was only that second.  Then it shifted.  There were children in the room, growing my the millisecond.  No longer how tall they were yesterday.  We were all growing -- growing older, growing wiser, growing up.  Hopefully, some of us were being reborn -- growing younger, growing more undone, growing in appreciation.


So measurements of bodies can only delineate one aspect of relationship.  It's not an effective means to delve deeper.  


But triangulation can be used in the soft sciences, too.  We can study and learn about many aspects of one subject and see what this holistic approach adds to our knowledge base about a single phenomenon.  It lends to the veracity of theories and outcomes if a subject is double or triple checked this way.  It allows not only greater understanding, but more reliable results. 


And then there's me.  I realized this week, I'm the person who sits with both her eyes open.  And take what I see as being there as it is.  I forget to sit still and close one eye to see the situation from a little different perspective.  I forget to sit still longer and close the other eye to see from even another perspective.  I forget that measuring distances between bodies is only one tool in whole arsenal of life's toolkit.  And I forget the fleeting, almost inconsequential, nature of those measurements.  For today the arrangements of yesterday are a thing of the past.

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. 

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. 

It's O Week

It's O week in Kindergarten.  This creates trouble.  Because when your assignment is "come up with a word that starts with O," and your own rule requires you to not use a word that your classmates have already shared....well, you can see where we're going.  


So we burned through oval, ovoid, ocelot, orangutan, orange, octagon, oak, oatmeal....on and on and on and on. 


We settled on ostrich.  


This was a compromise, as someone, he was certain, had already shared about the lovable ostrich.  He made a concession and we proceeded.  Picture drawn.  Word guess-spelled out on the paper.  Done. 


Except he's six.  So he's rarely done with anything when I think he ought to be.  


As I'm clearing breakfast dishes away this morning, he says, "What if the ostrich wants to fly?  I know they can't, but what if one day one wants to fly anyway?"


I hate to admit it, but I've installed a certain filter on my ears.  I might hear all of what my kids say, buy I listen to only a portion.  It's some sort of mom-filter for self-preservation, I'm sure.  If I had to take in all they said, every one of them, every day, I'd surely perish.  Or my head would explode.  Ears can't absorb that much sound and brains can't process all that information, most of it -- in a house of boys -- having to do with bodily functions and superheroes.


So I'm guilty, as charged.  Only some of what they say summons my senses.


This was one.  


PAY ATTENTION.  INCOMING.  WAKE UP.  ALERT. 


What if you want to fly when everything says you can't?  What if your body's not designed for it?  What if your social circle devoutly believes in its inability to fly, no questions asked?  They devoutly believe and want you to pray at that altar, too?  What then?


Wait for a friend.  One that has the know-how.  They always appear.  They'll lead the way.    


We've been sick, really sick, in this house.  It's been endless.  That's for another post, one on endurance.


But last week there was a pleasant surprise in the midst of all that illness.  A mysterious envelope in the mail.  Its contents mysterious as well.  It looked like this:

Puzzling.  Pleasantly.  A puzzle letter...picture on one side, letter on the other. 

Put it together and you get this. 

Which can only mean one thing.  It's from my friend, Missy.  Last year, out of the middle of nowhere, Missy invited me along for a 'small' hike.  In gallant fashion, we two single moms left our gaggle of boys behind, packed our gear, and headed out one afternoon.  We got to the park in the early evening, crashed a campsite for a few hours (yes, I found a penny on my way to the bathroom in the pitch black of night), started out before dawn on the hike of a lifetime.  One day, out and back.... 

...to climb this behemoth.  It was a bold venture.  

And yet, by midday, here we were...that's really us.  Out there on the diving board.  Those little specks.

The lessons of the day were many for me.  So much of my life is about endurance in the face of challenge and overcoming my beliefs about limitations in order to access the Universe's limitless bounty.  Through the miles and miles of hiking, the altitude gain, the physical fatigue I was blessed to move past those ideas of what I thought I could do, achieve, and be and catch a glimpse of what was really available to me.  

I'm at one of those places again these days where I'm standing on the precipice.  I know I'm on the path to that certain kind of freedom that comes from surrender and letting go.  That freedom that comes from uncovering and honoring my inner truths.  That freedom that comes from actively practicing faith.  I know the freedom I'm looking for is the one found by boldly jumping off into the abyss.  

And so, in answer to my sweet six-year-old's question this morning...if you want to fly and you can't...

...you skydive. 

The Value of Work

Written while I was working, but not posted then, as I had to rush off to work some place else. And such is life being lived.


I have a few different jobs, none of which has set hours. They're all on-call positions, usually with pretty pressing time limits and demands. I never know when I might be working or off. I'm always ready, and sometimes called.


I love this kind of work. It allows me to re-focus my attention in a minute's notice to something other than I had been focusing it on. It calls for my mental preparedness, my intellect, my attention to detail. Since it comes at random times, it often feels like it's a direct message from the universe, "Quit worrying about that. Look over here and be useful."I have a tendency to get fixated -- on my kids, my interests, the goings on in my life. Then I get a call or an e-mail, and I have to quit thinking about whatever I was thinking about and attend to the business at hand. 


My work life gives me respite. It clears my head. It re-centers me. It gives me much needed perspective when I'm being far too subjective about my own life. I'm thankful for the reprieve I get from dealing with the day-to-day life of single-motherhood, personhood, citizenship. I'm thankful for the re-direct, the cue from the universe to let things go, be patient, take a breath, let it ride for now.


I'm not sure how people with set schedule jobs view their work-life. Mine's an interactive path. It's alive and lively and constantly shifting. I'm thankful for the variety and I'm thankful for the people in my life who understand last minute plan changes. I'm thankful for being able to work from home. I'm thankful for working away from home. I truly love it all.