"April is the Cruelest Month" - T. S. Elliot
If you'd asked me about this quote 7 years ago, I would have agreed with Mr. Elliot. I grew up in the Northeast and April was the month I often begged for spring, warmth, and sunshine but was more often than not dished up a meal of cold and grey with a random side dish of lake effect snow.
Now comfortably situated in Virginia, I'd argue against his theory and say that February - not April, is the cruelest month. It's dark, it's cold, and well into a winter we often wish was over. The warmth and congeniality of Christmas and New Year's are but a memory, and Easter is a long, long way off. Days are short; the patience for spring is shorter. This February was particularly cruel for me, the runner: it was the month I was rudely awakened from my dream of running this April's Boston Marathon. Running a marathon is often as much about conquering the distance as it is conquering the limits of the human body. But this also assumes that you can actually get to the starting line. In January, as I ramped up my training, the hamstring I so gingerly pampered in the Autumn again reminded me to not think too far ahead, to not be overly presumptuous. Various scans and medical visits confirmed my fears: if I were to be in Boston on Patriots' Weekend, it would be as a spectator.
I committed half-heatedly to my physical therapy and the realization that I was a goal-oriented runner. Without some noble goal, I couldn't seem to drag myself out of bed for the cold, dark morning runs. These runs, for so long, were my own beacon of light in my day: they provided energy, clarity, and a route to focus. But without some greater goal, I was laid bare and felt the basest of hypocrites: did I not love running for running itself? Was my ego and sense of accomplishment too closely tied to a finishers medal? Maybe. Possibly. Maybe I was like so many who preferred to hibernate in the cozy comfort of flannel sheets on the cold winter mornings. Or maybe I was just tired.
I sought for some kind of meaning out of my predicament, but found myself irritable and often times needing to pout. So often in my blogs I speak of relativity and gratitude; I wish I was as ardent a practitioner as a preacher. Like so many very members of this oh-so-human race, my words are easier to write than actually do. Hypocrisy: thy name is mine.
February is the cruelest month.
As a child, I welcomed the month - this month, February, the month of my birth. As an adult, I'm much more aware that this day is really one that parents celebrate. And if we raise our children right, they may eventually think not of themselves, but of those who put them on this earth. On my 46th birthday, I ran and thought so often of my mother and father, and threw out thanks and gratitude to them for their love, patience (LOTS of patience), and the gift of their example. The road I ran was one they had paved for me so many years ago. But as I get older, I find myself not so much dreading as minimizing the date the milestone represents. I joke about now being in "the back 9 of my 40's" and feeling caught somewhere in the purgatory that is youth and old age: I feel far too vibrant to say I'm 'old', but see all too well the history and it's footprint in my face and body to know I'm several years removed from the pinnacle of youth. And if my rational brain doesn't convince me of that, my body is happy to remind me that the fountain of youth is not even close to Richmond, Virginia.
If February has a color, it is red. Despite the darkness and cold and seasonal association with sacrifice and lent, there is still the mid-month celebration of love. I see the representations of the holiday: red roses, red boxes of chocolate, red lips, red hearts. I wonder about those newly twinned with love and the pressure this holiday evokes. I wonder about those whose love has become ambivalent and how the holiday was once something to be revered and treasured but has - somehow - evolved into another item on the 'To Do' list.
I found myself in an airport on February 13th, trying to get to Boston for work. The weather in the northeast caused delays, and I sat on a bar stool with an hour to kill, the battery on my laptop long since depleted. I chatted with a young lady in her 20's. She was from Toronto and was full of the energy and promise I remembered possessing at that age. When I heard the first call for my flight, I asked the waitress for my bill, and offered to pay for hers in a spirit of camaraderie that stranded and delayed travelers so often feel. As I reached for my credit card, I saw a man in army fatigues, and as I handed the card over to the waitress, said I'll pay my tab and hers.... and tipping my head in the direction of the soldier and his. He looked at me, and smiled weakly. Thanks a lot. I appreciate that. The glass of wine had made me magnanimous but there was something in his quiet answer that gave me pause. I thanked him for his service and asked him where he was headed. Paris, he answered. I jumped on his answer It's a beautiful city! How long will you be there? He looked at his beer, then answered quietly, Not too long. It's just a layover until I catch the flight to Iraq. I'll be there 2 months, and then I'm done. I didn't know how to respond; I knew there was nothing I could say that would ease his concern. I asked him where he was from, where his family was. Well, I'm from Tennessee, but my family... well, I don't have any family now. All of a sudden those roses and red hearts ceased to have meaning. His sadness was palpable. Stay safe. It was the only thing I could weakly muster. His quiet, humble way just made me re-think my own frustration at a delayed flight, bad weather. I thought that even if he did make it safely home in 2 months, to what kind of home would he return? I shook his hand, then left. I said a quiet prayer for his safety and peace of spirit. I never learned his name.
I made my way to the plane and boarded with the hope of a quiet flight and 90 minutes to read or sleep. I found my seat on the aisle. There was a woman on the window seat; I guessed her age somewhere between mine and 10 years older. She was very blond, a few pounds overweight, and nervously chatty. Her clothing was a bit rumpled and baggy, very 'Earth Mother'. She was reading a book I knew my daughter had read and we had polite conversation about it. The flight took off and I dove into my own book.
About 15 minutes before we were to land I set aside my book, and my row companion struck up a conversation. I don't know how it started. I remember complementing her on some her jewelry: it was interesting but I'll admit I didn't look too closely at it. She said Yes, I have on all my Pagan stuff today. I blinked and thought OK, this is a little weird. I'll admit it: I wasn't being exactly tolerant. Chalk it up to fatigue. I changed the subject, What brings you to Boston? This is usually the safest of questions, the answer almost always Business or Vacation or Family. She looked at me, then looked at her lap and replied I'm here to scatter my son's ashes. I'm a mother and at that moment a giant hand wrapped around my throat. For the second time that day, I knew there was nothing I could say that would help the wound heal. I'm so sorry. I'm a mother too, I'm so so sorry... I looked her in the eyes and saw nothing but the deepest regret. He died 14 months ago. He was 22... I was raised to not ask too many questions in situations like this, and she didn't offer an others with respect to her son's death. She did talk about her 2 daughters who both lived in Texas. She didn't mention a spouse, so I concluded there wasn't one. There were tears in her eyes. I reached over and held her hand I know there is nothing I can say. I'm so sorry for your loss. I hope that this trip helps you in some way... my voice trailed off. Thanks, she quietly said. I've been dreading this trip but I know it'll help. She stopped, then laughed and said I have his ashes in my carry-on bag. I was ready to put up a fight if they gave me a hard time at the security screening... She smiled and I weakly smiled back. We sat in silence and I held her hand until the plane landed. As I got off the plane, I turned to her and said Take care, be well. I thought that was the last I'd see of her. But I ran into her at Baggage Claim. She seemed hyper and a bit wired; I think she realized she was that much closer to letting go of her boy. She chatted on and I grabbed my bag to go. She looked at me, and I put my bag down and hugged her, one mother to another. She held on to me tightly and I whispered to her I know you'll never forget him. I let go of her. She looked at me and said Thanks. When I tell most people about his death, they change the subject. I smiled and said the same thing I'd said to the soldier: Stay safe.
I walked out of Logan Airport toward the Rental Car Courtesy Shuttle, and couldn't shake the last couple of hours, what I had seen in the eyes of these people whose paths randomly crossed mine. I thought about the nasty weather and travel delays and my griping about a hamstring and a missed race and balanced them against the soldier and this woman. The scales were most definitely tipped and not in their favor. I was the lucky one. My worries were nothing that wouldn't pass with time. In a couple of hourse I'd have forgotten about the hassles of travel. In a few months, I'd be ready to try and qualify for Boston. It would all be gone, forgotten. The soldier, however: would he return? I'll never know and I hope I remember him and the payment exacted from him for his service. And this mother, travelling to Boston to let go of her son on Valentine's day, the day of love. For her, it was, I imagine, a day of limitless sorrow. I sat in the dim light of the courtesy shuttle and thought how providence can shine one day and be absent the next, and we could never be certain what is around the next corner. I thought about the next day and the significance of the holiday. There would be people celebrating love. For these two people, they would be perhaps regretting it, missing it; They would have their memories and little else. I looked at my hands and turned them over - they'd shaken the hand of the soldier and held the mother of a dead son. They looked very small.
February is the cruelest month. But not for me, at least not this year.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Auld Lang Syne
Auld Lang Syne
Every year at New Year, I face the same demon, staring me in the face. No, not ‘I WILL LOSE that extra weight’, or ‘I WILL get in shape’, or ‘I SWEAR, this is the YEAR I get organized.’ No, this is the time when I feel the need to shed all my excess ‘stuff’. When the ball drops on New Year’s Eve ushering a new January 1st, we always hear “Auld Lang Syne.” My particular favorite version of this song is by James Taylor. I listen to the words and frankly, have no clue what they mean. “Auld Lang Syne”: what does this MEAN? No clue. So I looked it up. It’s translation from old whatever-it-is means “Old Long Time Ago”. Not unlike my closet. It’s the perfect seague: from toasting champagne to getting rid of all that stuff I haven’t used.
On my runs, I’ve been thinking about why I feel the need to “shed” at the new year. I guess I’m no different than all those other resolutionists, trying to shed weight, bad health, or destructive habits. I just shed old stuff, lighten my load, get rid of stuff that’s dated, old, no longer useful, or appealing. This year I’m also shedding the easy running of the fall, the sleeping in, the rehabbing from injury. I’ve 95% committed to running Boston again, which means crack-of-dawn runs, regimented training plans, attention to diet, and the limiting of – alas – my favorite evening glass of wine. During spring marathon season, Lent comes plenty early in this house. But what I most desperately want to shed is the dark.
I get restless in Januray. The 6 weeks before the New Year is constant motion, energy, things to do, deadlines to meet in both work and home life. Then the New Year comes and it’s the darkest time of year. The sun rises late and sets early, there is no festival of lights on the horizon and March seems a long way off. One of the weird little rituals I have is to look at the paper every day and see when the sun rises and sets, and each day a minute or two of daylight is added. Those hundred or so seconds a day add up to the hope of spring. I feel not unlike the caged animal waiting for the regularly scheduled meal. However, the nourishment I wait for is light. I don't like the dark. Oh, there are moments when it serves its purpose. On Christmas Eve, I ran after the sunset amid the luminaries of my neighborhood. But it wasn't the dark I embraced then, but the little points of light that lined the streets during my 5 mile jaunt.
Darkness is also a state of mind - depression, anger, hurt - that robs us of our precious energy. I'm fond of saying "It's a zero-sum game: we only have so much energy, so spend it well." I wish I could say I was an orthodox practitioner of my theory, but being part of the ever-so-human race, I often don't practice what I preach. I fret about the state of my house, my lack of organization, my anger at insignificant things outside my sphere of control... I pick my poison with seasonal punctuality. Maybe what I don't like about New Year's resolutions is that they focus on our personal failures, and at this dark time of year, this is not what I need. I like to think one can decide to make an improvement in one's life without it being dictated by the calendar. Maybe its my own need to exert as much control over my life as I can. For example, I gave up weighing myself daily years ago. In fact, I rarely step on my scale at home because I don't like to have my self-worth measured in mere pounds. I know I eat well, exercise far more than the average person, and my clothes fit me; beyond that, the number on this scale should - and does - mean nothing.
On New Year's Day, my 'Old Long Time Ago' is the previous spring, that moment when I'll step out of my house and be delightfully assaulted with the smell of the warming earth and see the dawn already in the sky.
My friend Franny and I have started the New Year with Monday track workouts, mine for marathon training, hers for fitness and to keep me company. That’s what my friends do: make meals when you’re sick, watch your kids when you’re in a bind, run insane intervals on a track before the sun rises just because. On a recent morning when we arrived at the oval at 6 am, it was still dark out. We stretched on the track and looked up at the bright constellations. “Yup, there’s the big dipper and we are a couple of big dips”, Franny sleepily cracked. Several hard intervals later we left the track, the sun on the rise, and a Starbucks latte in our very near future, our traditional hard track workout reward of choice. We both remarked that this hardest workout of the week leaves us feeling the most energized: we get out two-fold what we put in. I’m not sure it’s as much the workout as it is the companionship of good friends, the regularity of track, and the post-workout caffeine jolt. We drive home, laughing, in the best of spirits.
Maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe the New Year isn't about throwing out all that is old, but in weeding out the clutter and continuing to embrace all that is constant: love, friendship, the stars, and the seasonal challenge that makes me - in January - renew my love of the light.
Every year at New Year, I face the same demon, staring me in the face. No, not ‘I WILL LOSE that extra weight’, or ‘I WILL get in shape’, or ‘I SWEAR, this is the YEAR I get organized.’ No, this is the time when I feel the need to shed all my excess ‘stuff’. When the ball drops on New Year’s Eve ushering a new January 1st, we always hear “Auld Lang Syne.” My particular favorite version of this song is by James Taylor. I listen to the words and frankly, have no clue what they mean. “Auld Lang Syne”: what does this MEAN? No clue. So I looked it up. It’s translation from old whatever-it-is means “Old Long Time Ago”. Not unlike my closet. It’s the perfect seague: from toasting champagne to getting rid of all that stuff I haven’t used.
On my runs, I’ve been thinking about why I feel the need to “shed” at the new year. I guess I’m no different than all those other resolutionists, trying to shed weight, bad health, or destructive habits. I just shed old stuff, lighten my load, get rid of stuff that’s dated, old, no longer useful, or appealing. This year I’m also shedding the easy running of the fall, the sleeping in, the rehabbing from injury. I’ve 95% committed to running Boston again, which means crack-of-dawn runs, regimented training plans, attention to diet, and the limiting of – alas – my favorite evening glass of wine. During spring marathon season, Lent comes plenty early in this house. But what I most desperately want to shed is the dark.
I get restless in Januray. The 6 weeks before the New Year is constant motion, energy, things to do, deadlines to meet in both work and home life. Then the New Year comes and it’s the darkest time of year. The sun rises late and sets early, there is no festival of lights on the horizon and March seems a long way off. One of the weird little rituals I have is to look at the paper every day and see when the sun rises and sets, and each day a minute or two of daylight is added. Those hundred or so seconds a day add up to the hope of spring. I feel not unlike the caged animal waiting for the regularly scheduled meal. However, the nourishment I wait for is light. I don't like the dark. Oh, there are moments when it serves its purpose. On Christmas Eve, I ran after the sunset amid the luminaries of my neighborhood. But it wasn't the dark I embraced then, but the little points of light that lined the streets during my 5 mile jaunt.
Darkness is also a state of mind - depression, anger, hurt - that robs us of our precious energy. I'm fond of saying "It's a zero-sum game: we only have so much energy, so spend it well." I wish I could say I was an orthodox practitioner of my theory, but being part of the ever-so-human race, I often don't practice what I preach. I fret about the state of my house, my lack of organization, my anger at insignificant things outside my sphere of control... I pick my poison with seasonal punctuality. Maybe what I don't like about New Year's resolutions is that they focus on our personal failures, and at this dark time of year, this is not what I need. I like to think one can decide to make an improvement in one's life without it being dictated by the calendar. Maybe its my own need to exert as much control over my life as I can. For example, I gave up weighing myself daily years ago. In fact, I rarely step on my scale at home because I don't like to have my self-worth measured in mere pounds. I know I eat well, exercise far more than the average person, and my clothes fit me; beyond that, the number on this scale should - and does - mean nothing.
On New Year's Day, my 'Old Long Time Ago' is the previous spring, that moment when I'll step out of my house and be delightfully assaulted with the smell of the warming earth and see the dawn already in the sky.
My friend Franny and I have started the New Year with Monday track workouts, mine for marathon training, hers for fitness and to keep me company. That’s what my friends do: make meals when you’re sick, watch your kids when you’re in a bind, run insane intervals on a track before the sun rises just because. On a recent morning when we arrived at the oval at 6 am, it was still dark out. We stretched on the track and looked up at the bright constellations. “Yup, there’s the big dipper and we are a couple of big dips”, Franny sleepily cracked. Several hard intervals later we left the track, the sun on the rise, and a Starbucks latte in our very near future, our traditional hard track workout reward of choice. We both remarked that this hardest workout of the week leaves us feeling the most energized: we get out two-fold what we put in. I’m not sure it’s as much the workout as it is the companionship of good friends, the regularity of track, and the post-workout caffeine jolt. We drive home, laughing, in the best of spirits.
Maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe the New Year isn't about throwing out all that is old, but in weeding out the clutter and continuing to embrace all that is constant: love, friendship, the stars, and the seasonal challenge that makes me - in January - renew my love of the light.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
The Glass Half Full
Does anyone else have a problem with radio stations that play Christmas music on Thanksgiving? I do. To me it’s the invited guest that shows up 30 minutes early. I’m still trying to get the desserts cooked and I’m forced to fast forward beyond the moment. I want to scream "Wait! We're not done with this holiday yet!" But every year, the musical ghost of Christmas Present comes about 24 hours too early. I think its there to help the retailers who need people in an instant holiday mood - the mood that makes people so willing to part with cash on stuff they would never - ever -buy at any other time of the year. When I walk into a store, I chuckle at some of the stuff that is for sale. I mean, how desperate must someone be to purchase a Homer Simpson Chia pet? Is there nothing better to give as a gift than a wall-mounted fish that sings? The fact is, if you can't find anything more meaningful to give than that, then the person you are buying for is clearly not in need of anything!
Every kid's mantra is "What I want for Christmas is..." Don't get me wrong: this is not going to be some anti-consumerism screed. Au contraire. On my runs of late, I've been thinking particularly about this particular season and how it's quite contradictory. While the lesson of the season is that it is better to give than to receive, I see it as a season of "want". What do you want for Christmas? What's on your Christmas list? Little kids are quick to rattle off the items that'll make their hearts flutter on Christmas morning. But when you get older, I think it’s harder to answer. At least it is for me. What do I really need that can be bought in a store? It's the time of year when we focus on what we don't have, and replace it with stuff that we really don't need. It just kind of fills a seasonal void.
Even with that quasi-morose thought, I still find myself drawn to the season. Just after Thanksgiving, the dark morning or early evening runs become a voyage of discovery - to see which house has but up lights this day. On Christmas eve, I load up my iPod with Christmas tunes and hit the roads, a smile on my face and cheer fueling my legs. Later that evening, our neighborhood has a standing tradition of placing luminaries on our respective properties, on the road. The roads of Salisbury are lined with thousands of glowing candles - truly beautiful. Perhaps this isn't the right time to mention our first Christmas here in Richmond, when I set out our luminaries, lit the small tea candles inside the white paper bags, and retreated to our front porch to view my handiwork. What I saw was truly remarkable, and quite different than expected: several of my bags were going up in flames. I had a moment of panic that I would become the Richmond equivalent of Mrs. O'Leary's cow, and was certain, somewhere, that Martha Stewart was having a seizure.
I love making the magic for my kids on Christmas. I remember one year - in a fit of alpha-mommy grandeur - I made a home-made Gingerbread house, recipe and architecture courtesy of Martha Steward and her Turkey-Hill elves. It was a work of art, truly, and took 2 days to make and assemble. It was pure gingerbread, with a thatched roof of shredded wheat, and caramelized sugar window panes. On Christmas, I had the brilliant idea of - during dinner - putting a tea light in the house to light the windows. It created a lovely glow. I expected a miniature Hansel and Gretel to come dashing out of it at any moment. And it smelled heavenly: The candle heated the gingerbread and it smelled fairy-tale like. The heat of the candle, however, melted the glass windowpanes, something that never, ever happens in Martha Stewart land.
I probably should have saved that house, sprayed it with lacquer and brought it out year after year. Maybe given the roof a quick refurb with a new set of frosted shredded wheat tiles, replaced the window panes. But I didn't. I pitched it after the holiday was over. Why? It was a labor of love; why would I discard it so quickly? I don't know. Maybe the magic that it cast expired after the New Year. Like decorations for sale in a store, they look faded and tired once the holiday is over.
My kids are getting older and wiser, and they don’t ‘buy in’ to the magic as much. I find myself trying to protect them more from the rampant consumerism, and to remind them – as a friend recently reminded me – to not forget ‘the baby’.
The season comes too swiftly and leaves equally fast, and I find myself often left feeling a bit empty when it’s over. I’m selfish: I want the glow to keep going. I often tell my kids that it’s good to not always get what you want; if you did, how boring life would be. I guess things aren’t as special if they are always guaranteed to be had.
I wish for the same thing every year at Christmas. It’s something very personal, and very simple, and mine and mine alone. I’ve learned some wonderful lessons this year and will – instead of wishing for anything – be thankful for having lived and learned those lessons. In hanging on to what I don’t have I’m not living in the season of doing for others before myself. Instead, when someone asks me what I want for Christmas, I’ll say nothing, and smile, to them and to myself. In my own way, I’ll reclaim the beauty, simplicity, and joy of this season, to hear the music, to smell the pine, to live the miracle and be true to my mantra thank you for this day. For a myriad of reasons, this year, it will be more than enough.
Every kid's mantra is "What I want for Christmas is..." Don't get me wrong: this is not going to be some anti-consumerism screed. Au contraire. On my runs of late, I've been thinking particularly about this particular season and how it's quite contradictory. While the lesson of the season is that it is better to give than to receive, I see it as a season of "want". What do you want for Christmas? What's on your Christmas list? Little kids are quick to rattle off the items that'll make their hearts flutter on Christmas morning. But when you get older, I think it’s harder to answer. At least it is for me. What do I really need that can be bought in a store? It's the time of year when we focus on what we don't have, and replace it with stuff that we really don't need. It just kind of fills a seasonal void.
Even with that quasi-morose thought, I still find myself drawn to the season. Just after Thanksgiving, the dark morning or early evening runs become a voyage of discovery - to see which house has but up lights this day. On Christmas eve, I load up my iPod with Christmas tunes and hit the roads, a smile on my face and cheer fueling my legs. Later that evening, our neighborhood has a standing tradition of placing luminaries on our respective properties, on the road. The roads of Salisbury are lined with thousands of glowing candles - truly beautiful. Perhaps this isn't the right time to mention our first Christmas here in Richmond, when I set out our luminaries, lit the small tea candles inside the white paper bags, and retreated to our front porch to view my handiwork. What I saw was truly remarkable, and quite different than expected: several of my bags were going up in flames. I had a moment of panic that I would become the Richmond equivalent of Mrs. O'Leary's cow, and was certain, somewhere, that Martha Stewart was having a seizure.
I love making the magic for my kids on Christmas. I remember one year - in a fit of alpha-mommy grandeur - I made a home-made Gingerbread house, recipe and architecture courtesy of Martha Steward and her Turkey-Hill elves. It was a work of art, truly, and took 2 days to make and assemble. It was pure gingerbread, with a thatched roof of shredded wheat, and caramelized sugar window panes. On Christmas, I had the brilliant idea of - during dinner - putting a tea light in the house to light the windows. It created a lovely glow. I expected a miniature Hansel and Gretel to come dashing out of it at any moment. And it smelled heavenly: The candle heated the gingerbread and it smelled fairy-tale like. The heat of the candle, however, melted the glass windowpanes, something that never, ever happens in Martha Stewart land.
I probably should have saved that house, sprayed it with lacquer and brought it out year after year. Maybe given the roof a quick refurb with a new set of frosted shredded wheat tiles, replaced the window panes. But I didn't. I pitched it after the holiday was over. Why? It was a labor of love; why would I discard it so quickly? I don't know. Maybe the magic that it cast expired after the New Year. Like decorations for sale in a store, they look faded and tired once the holiday is over.
My kids are getting older and wiser, and they don’t ‘buy in’ to the magic as much. I find myself trying to protect them more from the rampant consumerism, and to remind them – as a friend recently reminded me – to not forget ‘the baby’.
The season comes too swiftly and leaves equally fast, and I find myself often left feeling a bit empty when it’s over. I’m selfish: I want the glow to keep going. I often tell my kids that it’s good to not always get what you want; if you did, how boring life would be. I guess things aren’t as special if they are always guaranteed to be had.
I wish for the same thing every year at Christmas. It’s something very personal, and very simple, and mine and mine alone. I’ve learned some wonderful lessons this year and will – instead of wishing for anything – be thankful for having lived and learned those lessons. In hanging on to what I don’t have I’m not living in the season of doing for others before myself. Instead, when someone asks me what I want for Christmas, I’ll say nothing, and smile, to them and to myself. In my own way, I’ll reclaim the beauty, simplicity, and joy of this season, to hear the music, to smell the pine, to live the miracle and be true to my mantra thank you for this day. For a myriad of reasons, this year, it will be more than enough.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Gratitude
Thanksgiving day is upon is. It's a day where we give thanks by eating everything in sight except for maybe the table cloth, linens, and silverware. It's a day of happy oblivion, a day eat more than is wise, drink more than is necessary, think less than is required.
I'd like to say that everyday I'm grateful for what I have, but there are moments where the mundane distractions of life overtake the grounded reality where I'd prefer to be planted and I find myself whining about broken microwave ovens, gutters that are peeling off the house, and the dishwasher my daughter has again forgotten to empty.
Today was the ultimate reality check. My dear friend Mickey - and his warrior of a son, Cody - is the check I wish I didn't have. Cody is in remission from neuroblastoma, a hideous form of childhood cancer with a high rate of recurrance and not a single iota of compassion. He has been through chemo that has diminished his hearing, stem cell transplants, and more pain than any one person should live through in a lifetime. Cody is 5 years old.
And, on this eve of the day when we all give thanks, my dear friend Mickey and his wife Diane, are staring into the abyss once again with a diagnosis on their dear son that is grave: the cancer has recurred.
It's days like this where you reevalutae where your feet rest. What is it that you gripe about, and in the grander scheme, is it really all that big a deal? My shameful answer is a resounding "NO". I have 3 beautiful, healthy childern. I am not a single mom, and I live a life that 95% of the world doesn't live. I don't worry if I have enough money to feed my kids, if I have enough to pay my mortgage... or worse: I don't have to worry - at present - that there may nothing to save the life of one of my childern.
I'd like to be able to write something of hope and grace for this day of thanksgiving; with news of Cody, it is harder than ever.
So, I'll offer up a simple prayer of hope that at this time next year, we are thankful for Cody's good health, good friends, and the days with which we have been blessed.
For you, Cody.
Monica
I'd like to say that everyday I'm grateful for what I have, but there are moments where the mundane distractions of life overtake the grounded reality where I'd prefer to be planted and I find myself whining about broken microwave ovens, gutters that are peeling off the house, and the dishwasher my daughter has again forgotten to empty.
Today was the ultimate reality check. My dear friend Mickey - and his warrior of a son, Cody - is the check I wish I didn't have. Cody is in remission from neuroblastoma, a hideous form of childhood cancer with a high rate of recurrance and not a single iota of compassion. He has been through chemo that has diminished his hearing, stem cell transplants, and more pain than any one person should live through in a lifetime. Cody is 5 years old.
And, on this eve of the day when we all give thanks, my dear friend Mickey and his wife Diane, are staring into the abyss once again with a diagnosis on their dear son that is grave: the cancer has recurred.
It's days like this where you reevalutae where your feet rest. What is it that you gripe about, and in the grander scheme, is it really all that big a deal? My shameful answer is a resounding "NO". I have 3 beautiful, healthy childern. I am not a single mom, and I live a life that 95% of the world doesn't live. I don't worry if I have enough money to feed my kids, if I have enough to pay my mortgage... or worse: I don't have to worry - at present - that there may nothing to save the life of one of my childern.
I'd like to be able to write something of hope and grace for this day of thanksgiving; with news of Cody, it is harder than ever.
So, I'll offer up a simple prayer of hope that at this time next year, we are thankful for Cody's good health, good friends, and the days with which we have been blessed.
For you, Cody.
Monica
Friday, November 16, 2007
The Theory of Relativity
I was never the best science student. I took two years of it in college - biology and chemistry - before concluding that this particular course of study and I would be acquaintances but never lovers. I could appreciate its precision, work hard at the discipline, but like a pianist who is all thumbs could do a great rendition of 'Heart and Soul' but would never, ever be mistaken for Mozart. I still take pride in understanding the 'Heisenberg Uncertainty Principal'. OK, 'understanding' might be a bit of an overstatement; I can spell 'Heisenberg' as long as I enable spell check, and can remember that it’s a statistical probability of the location of electrons orbiting an atom. Or something like that. I have used it to describe the location of my children during the course of the day: I may not be able to say precisely where they are at any given moment, but I have a pretty good idea. See: esoteric scientific theories do have application in everyday life.
I can barely begin to understand Einstein’s "Theory of Relativity". I know that people often mistake it to mean E=mc^2, which I think – but am not certain – is a product of the theory. I know very broadly that one facet of it is about how time behaves with respect to motion and gravity - or something like that. I turned to Google for a more precise definition and found that the time/gravity behavior – Time Dilation – is a consequence of this theory. This definition, in its simplest form is:
Moving clocks tick slower than an observer's stationary clock
I read this and the first thing that came to mind was: Albert Einstein was full of shit.
I had plenty of proof to contradict his theory.
"Busy" is an understatement of an adjective to describe my typical day. With 3 involved kids, a full-time job, and a husband who frequently travels, my day is thin-sliced into small fragments of time. I know I can fold a load of laundry in 5 minutes, unless its whites. In that case we're talking HOURS of trying to match socks, and that Heisenberg principal comes into play again: I think I know where the match to this sock is… I swear I just saw it in this pile, I know its here somewhere… When I’m on a deadline, I’m praying for another 15 minutes. I race the clock on my morning runs, when I’m hosting book club or a party, or trying to get dinner on the table at a reasonable hour on weeknights. I have more than enough memory to know that when I’m racing through my day, my moving clock – unlike Einstein’s – ticks faster, not slower. When I try and remember moments of my days, they register more like a blurred photograph – the F-stop too wide and the shutter speed too slow - than a discrete image.
Last weekend my dearest friends, Robin and Franny, challenged my crossed-armed certainty of my own theory of relativity when they ran the Richmond Marathon.
I’d signed up for the race – the 30th Anniversary! - the year before, on the same day I’d staggered off the course just shy of mile 18, a victim of dehydration and the unseasonably warm temperatures. While hooked up to my second bag of fluids in the hospital’s ER, I vowed to wreak vengeance on the course the following year. It was not to be: 10 weeks before the race, a pulled hamstring derailed my plans.
Have you ever had this moment of clarity where you realize how lucky you are in one particular aspect of your life? I’ve been blessed in this regard when it comes to friends: I may not have a lot of them, but the ones I have are the best on the planet. I have a handful who are indelibly imprinted on my heart: they know who they are without my telling them. Robin and Franny are two of them.
Robin swore off marathons forever; she’d done many – maybe 10? – and she had convinced herself that she’d done more than her fair share. Franny had done two: we’d been inspired by Robin and vowed to run our own, and trained together and finished the Shamrock Marathon in 2005. We followed up quickly – the three of us – with the 30th anniversary of the Marine Corps Marathon in October of that year. In both events, Franny and I started together but finished apart. As friends, there are few better. Robin is type A++: hardworking, organized, hard-charging, loyal. Franny is equally accomplished but with a different style: gentle, thoughtful, and with the patience of Job. I tease her and say I’m riding her coattails to heaven and I hope like hell they don’t do baggage screening at the pearly gates. She always finds the best in people, and in turn, people see the absolute best in her. These two friends of mine are rarities: without even trying they make everyone around them better.
On race day in Richmond, it was supposed to be Franny and me running this race. With my injury, Franny soldiered on, and Robin stepped up her training to keep her on pace as Franny wanted to qualify for Boston. A week before the marathon, she entered the race to guide Franny through the course. Think of that commitment and friendship: to run 26 miles with your friend for your friend’s sake. It boggles the mind, but is no surprise for those who know Robin.
Days before the race, I agreed to pace Robin’s husband, Carlton, through the 8k race run in conjunction with the marathon. It was loads of fun running with Carlton and their 12-year-old son Michael. I tried my best to navigate them through the crowd of 4,000+ participants. It was a nice change of pace, to be a coach, to think of others and be blissfully unaware of the ticking clock.
After the race and a quick cup of coffee, I ran the several blocks to my car and raced to mile 19.5 all the time thinking I wish I had 15 more minutes. Time was speeding by; I could not be late and let them down. I parked and ran on foot to the agreed upon meeting place. Within 15 minutes, I saw them approach in tandem, stride for stride. Shortly before they reached me, Franny’s brother, Joe, jumped in to accompany his sister; he’d drive in from Washington, DC that morning.
I was screaming and cheering and getting them pumped up. I jumped in with Robin who said Run with me. Franny has Joe. I told her I’d run her to 23, then run with Franny the rest of the way. It was my own way of playing King Solomon for the last 6.2-ish miles. I quizzed her about Franny’s current state: Did you keep her slow for the first few miles? Did she hydrate well? How did she handle the dreaded Lee Bridge? Robin gave me the run-down, and was chatty and smiling. More than once I remarked on how effortless and smooth she was after running 20-something miles. At one point I took a look behind me and Franny and Joe were nowhere to be found. I started to fret. At mile 23, I sent Robin on her way to the finish. The time and miles were flowing by. I had no concerns about her finishing; her stride and mood were light and fluid. I turned around and ran against the flow, cheering the other runners I met Looking good, you’re almost at 23, hang in there, keep it smooth… until I saw Franny and Joe.
I can barely begin to understand Einstein’s "Theory of Relativity". I know that people often mistake it to mean E=mc^2, which I think – but am not certain – is a product of the theory. I know very broadly that one facet of it is about how time behaves with respect to motion and gravity - or something like that. I turned to Google for a more precise definition and found that the time/gravity behavior – Time Dilation – is a consequence of this theory. This definition, in its simplest form is:
Moving clocks tick slower than an observer's stationary clock
I read this and the first thing that came to mind was: Albert Einstein was full of shit.
I had plenty of proof to contradict his theory.
"Busy" is an understatement of an adjective to describe my typical day. With 3 involved kids, a full-time job, and a husband who frequently travels, my day is thin-sliced into small fragments of time. I know I can fold a load of laundry in 5 minutes, unless its whites. In that case we're talking HOURS of trying to match socks, and that Heisenberg principal comes into play again: I think I know where the match to this sock is… I swear I just saw it in this pile, I know its here somewhere… When I’m on a deadline, I’m praying for another 15 minutes. I race the clock on my morning runs, when I’m hosting book club or a party, or trying to get dinner on the table at a reasonable hour on weeknights. I have more than enough memory to know that when I’m racing through my day, my moving clock – unlike Einstein’s – ticks faster, not slower. When I try and remember moments of my days, they register more like a blurred photograph – the F-stop too wide and the shutter speed too slow - than a discrete image.
Last weekend my dearest friends, Robin and Franny, challenged my crossed-armed certainty of my own theory of relativity when they ran the Richmond Marathon.
I’d signed up for the race – the 30th Anniversary! - the year before, on the same day I’d staggered off the course just shy of mile 18, a victim of dehydration and the unseasonably warm temperatures. While hooked up to my second bag of fluids in the hospital’s ER, I vowed to wreak vengeance on the course the following year. It was not to be: 10 weeks before the race, a pulled hamstring derailed my plans.
Have you ever had this moment of clarity where you realize how lucky you are in one particular aspect of your life? I’ve been blessed in this regard when it comes to friends: I may not have a lot of them, but the ones I have are the best on the planet. I have a handful who are indelibly imprinted on my heart: they know who they are without my telling them. Robin and Franny are two of them.
Robin swore off marathons forever; she’d done many – maybe 10? – and she had convinced herself that she’d done more than her fair share. Franny had done two: we’d been inspired by Robin and vowed to run our own, and trained together and finished the Shamrock Marathon in 2005. We followed up quickly – the three of us – with the 30th anniversary of the Marine Corps Marathon in October of that year. In both events, Franny and I started together but finished apart. As friends, there are few better. Robin is type A++: hardworking, organized, hard-charging, loyal. Franny is equally accomplished but with a different style: gentle, thoughtful, and with the patience of Job. I tease her and say I’m riding her coattails to heaven and I hope like hell they don’t do baggage screening at the pearly gates. She always finds the best in people, and in turn, people see the absolute best in her. These two friends of mine are rarities: without even trying they make everyone around them better.
On race day in Richmond, it was supposed to be Franny and me running this race. With my injury, Franny soldiered on, and Robin stepped up her training to keep her on pace as Franny wanted to qualify for Boston. A week before the marathon, she entered the race to guide Franny through the course. Think of that commitment and friendship: to run 26 miles with your friend for your friend’s sake. It boggles the mind, but is no surprise for those who know Robin.
Days before the race, I agreed to pace Robin’s husband, Carlton, through the 8k race run in conjunction with the marathon. It was loads of fun running with Carlton and their 12-year-old son Michael. I tried my best to navigate them through the crowd of 4,000+ participants. It was a nice change of pace, to be a coach, to think of others and be blissfully unaware of the ticking clock.
After the race and a quick cup of coffee, I ran the several blocks to my car and raced to mile 19.5 all the time thinking I wish I had 15 more minutes. Time was speeding by; I could not be late and let them down. I parked and ran on foot to the agreed upon meeting place. Within 15 minutes, I saw them approach in tandem, stride for stride. Shortly before they reached me, Franny’s brother, Joe, jumped in to accompany his sister; he’d drive in from Washington, DC that morning.
I was screaming and cheering and getting them pumped up. I jumped in with Robin who said Run with me. Franny has Joe. I told her I’d run her to 23, then run with Franny the rest of the way. It was my own way of playing King Solomon for the last 6.2-ish miles. I quizzed her about Franny’s current state: Did you keep her slow for the first few miles? Did she hydrate well? How did she handle the dreaded Lee Bridge? Robin gave me the run-down, and was chatty and smiling. More than once I remarked on how effortless and smooth she was after running 20-something miles. At one point I took a look behind me and Franny and Joe were nowhere to be found. I started to fret. At mile 23, I sent Robin on her way to the finish. The time and miles were flowing by. I had no concerns about her finishing; her stride and mood were light and fluid. I turned around and ran against the flow, cheering the other runners I met Looking good, you’re almost at 23, hang in there, keep it smooth… until I saw Franny and Joe.
Purgatory happens in the latter part of a marathon. The strength of the mind has to overcome the fatigue of the body and when I looked at my dear friend, her face was a study of pain. At mile 23, I re-evaluated Einstein’s – and my own – Theory of Time Dilation. She was moving, but according to my theory, the clock should be moving with equal or faster speed; I should have known better. When you run a marathon and you are beyond mile 20, you don’t so much count down the miles as you do the minutes: 4 miles to go… that’s about X minutes… and suddenly time slows to a crawl.
I join her and Joe. I hear her feet slapping on the pavement and issue my first command: You’re overstriding, shorten it up. Relax your shoulders. Think smooth. I ask her questions and her breathing is labored; she is in the long dark miles. She tells me she can’t really answer and I know what I need to do: distract her for about 30 endless minutes. I tell her about my running with Robin, I ask her questions that require nothing more than a single syllable. At mile 24, Joe and I start telling jokes; the look on her face tells me she’s hearing nothing. Joe strays a bit in front of us, and I bark an order at this Coast Guard Captain: Joe! Get right next to her! I’m on one side, you’re on the other. We’re guiding her in. We hit a hill and Franny starts to fade. I know how strong she is; I can’t bear to see her succumb. C’mon Franny: use your arms! Pump your arms! This is where is all comes together! This is where all those miles pay off! All those 800’s come home! Remember them all – every one of them! This hill is nothing – you OWN this hill! I look at her face – I think she is going to cry. I have a moment of fear: She can’t give up now. We’re almost at mile 25. She can do this. I say See the top of that building Franny? That’s the finish! You can see it! 15 minutes Franny! It’s over in 15 minutes!
It’s here that my time theory is turned on its head: I understand with perfect clarity just how long 15 minutes can be. On any given day, I beg for 15 more minutes. In these waning moments of this race, Franny wants this over now, but she keeps running on, with little or nothing in the tank. We hit another hill, and knowing nothing about these last miles I say with all confidence This is the last hill! This is it! Work it, use your arms. We turn a corner and in the distance I see the mile marker Look! Up there! 1.2 miles to go! That’s 5 laps of the track! I’m yelling, I can feel my throat getting sore. I want to believe that I’m helping, but have been in Franny’s shoes enough to know that my efforts are nothing short of window dressing. Look Franny, it’s just a couple of blocks, a couple of turns. A zig and a zag. You just need to get to that final turn. It doesn’t end at the finish, it ends when you can SEE the finish. The rest is gravy. We turn a corner and face another hill. Damn. I’ve lied. Franny’s face crumbles. I’m afraid she’s going to break down. DON’T YOU QUIT ON ME NOW! Alright Franny, it’s time to ANSWER THE QUESTION! Answer it, Franny, Answer the FRIGGING QUESTION!!!
One of my friends on a running forum has a little acronym that he uses in the latter stages of the marathon: ATFQ. Answer The Frigging Question. I guess it applies to any stressful point in life, and the question is pretty fluid: How bad do you want it? How much are you willing to pay? How much does it matter? Each of us has to answer that question, and the truly brave replace the easy answer that comes naturally with one whose price is more difficult to tender. I watched Franny do just that: she gritted her teeth and took that hill. She even tried to jokingly punch me out as I continued my useless loud bootstrapping. And when we turned that final corner, the finish line a quarter mile down the road, time ceased to exist: her 3 children were there with her husband at the top of the last hill. Her 10-year old twins took off, running their mom in, and I was laughing and screaming Leave it here, leave it all out on the course! She heard nothing: She saw only her kids, felt only the surge of joy and love that their presence gave and in that found her legs and another gear. I stepped off the course and marveled at my friend, cheered, laughed, cried. I knew Robin was already in, and could see this moment, was feeling the joy of what she had fostered with her training and last-minute race entry. And, as with all good friends, I realized that in my weak efforts to inspire Franny and Robin, I was the one left inspired and renewed. Franny flew down that last hill toward her best time ever. She may not have met that qualifying standard for the Boston Marathon, but it didn’t matter: She’d conquered the distance and her doubts in those last terrible, wonderful miles. My quiet friend loudly answered that question I had put to her and in that final sprint to the finish joyfully raced with her children and - in those short two tenths of a mile - left fatigue, despair, and Einstein’s theories in her wake.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Second Chances
Do Over.
Is there any more glorious phrase? When you're kid, there is nothing more redeeming than the coveted 'do over'. Isn't it blessed relief when things don’t count, when you get that trial run to figure it out without anyone looking or keeping score? Think of high school and the exam you KNOW you bombed, and the teacher announcing that the scores weren’t what she expected so there will be a retest? Is there any sweeter bliss? You get a pass, a chance to do it right this time… Often we think If only life were so generous, so forgiving and believe that it isn’t. But more often than not, it is. We read about them daily: the addict who has found new life in recovery, the high school sweethearts who rediscover their long-ago love at a 50th reunion, the rat-race career hound who changes jobs and finds meaning and purpose in teaching or helping others, the profoundly depressed person who claws herself to the light and embraces life with new vigor and hope. Second chances abound, if we are lucky enough to recognize them, grab them, and hold them close: second chances at life, at love, at doing it right, at fill-in-the-blank. It’s that ‘Lazarus moment”, that sweet moment of ecstasy at discovering your ultimate point of do over. Do you have one? Can you pinpoint it? Some have the epiphany, the profound moment that changes the life. For others, it is in the act of atonement that they find their second life. For the most of us, that moment is much more subtle, and that first step is discovered in looking back. It doesn’t matter that hindsight provides the clarity.
When you think about it, is the moment given as much as created, taken? That sublime do over is there for anyone to seize. It comes from a tiny ember that lives in all of us although too-often deprived of light and oxygen from fear and life experience. This thing? HOPE.
Hope lives in all of us – we are born with it. Through the course of life, childlike precociousness is tempered by the fear of experience that becomes adult wariness. That fire that burns deep inside each of us is – if not extinguished – tamed by the oxygen-deprivation of life experience. The ember keeps burning, it’s there, whispering in our ears, begging to be fed.
I was a runner in my early through late teens. I lived it, breathed it, ate it, drank it, slept it. I measured my seasons by ‘cross country’, ‘indoor track’, ‘outdoor track’, and ‘summer track’. Those were my seasons, the ebb and flow of my life. The sport was the barometer, the science by which I ate, rested, and worked. It filled the empty space between waking, school and dinner. It metastasized in my summers so that days were spent not at a pool slathered in sunscreen or shopping at a mall but at a track running intervals timed with absolute precision. My days were measured in hours:minutes:seconds. Then there was injury, followed by ennui, reinforced by marriage, job, and children. My seasons took on a much different tone, color, pace. I buried my running career and moved on down the life.
For me, running wasn’t the ‘do over’ itself as it was the route to the ‘do over’. It created the ability to believe in something bigger than my life, to expand the boundaries of what I believed was possible, the opportunity to push beyond the colloquially acceptable. But at a more gut-level, it extended beyond running to life, work, motherhood, family. It gave me the stamina and courage to change what was fundamentally broken, to break through the wall of inertia, and to charge through life with vigor and determination. Running didn’t make me a better person; hope did. My hope was expressed through the simple exercise of believing I could go one more step, one more block, one more mile. And while my natural impatience was tempered and humbled by the distances I ran, the confidence to overcome my perceived shortcomings were shored up in the belief and hope that maybe – just maybe – if I dared to believe in something well beyond what I thought possible, the trickle down would be contentment, clarity, and happiness. And when I crossed the finish line of my first marathon, I looked at the bright blue sky and thanked the heavens for having had the courage to throw down the gauntlet, to challenge the distance and not bow to fatigue, pain, or disbelief.
Grab hope wherever you find it. Be it a tiny, flickering ember or the white hot blaze of realization, capture it, harness it, take the leap of faith and believe. If you want that second chance,don’t wait for it to surface: mine it, find it, make it happen. That is the essence of hope: it exists on the tiniest sliver of faith, desire, and childlike belief in the simple ability to dare to try, to take that first step. Hope rarely dies, doesn't have a shelf life, and to sustain it requires very little but the smallest idea of a dream. The dream of something different: to break the addiction, to find love, to claw out of the dark toward the light, to believe in something bigger than oneself. Hope is the best of all things.
Run with all grace and audacity.
Is there any more glorious phrase? When you're kid, there is nothing more redeeming than the coveted 'do over'. Isn't it blessed relief when things don’t count, when you get that trial run to figure it out without anyone looking or keeping score? Think of high school and the exam you KNOW you bombed, and the teacher announcing that the scores weren’t what she expected so there will be a retest? Is there any sweeter bliss? You get a pass, a chance to do it right this time… Often we think If only life were so generous, so forgiving and believe that it isn’t. But more often than not, it is. We read about them daily: the addict who has found new life in recovery, the high school sweethearts who rediscover their long-ago love at a 50th reunion, the rat-race career hound who changes jobs and finds meaning and purpose in teaching or helping others, the profoundly depressed person who claws herself to the light and embraces life with new vigor and hope. Second chances abound, if we are lucky enough to recognize them, grab them, and hold them close: second chances at life, at love, at doing it right, at fill-in-the-blank. It’s that ‘Lazarus moment”, that sweet moment of ecstasy at discovering your ultimate point of do over. Do you have one? Can you pinpoint it? Some have the epiphany, the profound moment that changes the life. For others, it is in the act of atonement that they find their second life. For the most of us, that moment is much more subtle, and that first step is discovered in looking back. It doesn’t matter that hindsight provides the clarity.
When you think about it, is the moment given as much as created, taken? That sublime do over is there for anyone to seize. It comes from a tiny ember that lives in all of us although too-often deprived of light and oxygen from fear and life experience. This thing? HOPE.
Hope lives in all of us – we are born with it. Through the course of life, childlike precociousness is tempered by the fear of experience that becomes adult wariness. That fire that burns deep inside each of us is – if not extinguished – tamed by the oxygen-deprivation of life experience. The ember keeps burning, it’s there, whispering in our ears, begging to be fed.
I was a runner in my early through late teens. I lived it, breathed it, ate it, drank it, slept it. I measured my seasons by ‘cross country’, ‘indoor track’, ‘outdoor track’, and ‘summer track’. Those were my seasons, the ebb and flow of my life. The sport was the barometer, the science by which I ate, rested, and worked. It filled the empty space between waking, school and dinner. It metastasized in my summers so that days were spent not at a pool slathered in sunscreen or shopping at a mall but at a track running intervals timed with absolute precision. My days were measured in hours:minutes:seconds. Then there was injury, followed by ennui, reinforced by marriage, job, and children. My seasons took on a much different tone, color, pace. I buried my running career and moved on down the life.
For me, running wasn’t the ‘do over’ itself as it was the route to the ‘do over’. It created the ability to believe in something bigger than my life, to expand the boundaries of what I believed was possible, the opportunity to push beyond the colloquially acceptable. But at a more gut-level, it extended beyond running to life, work, motherhood, family. It gave me the stamina and courage to change what was fundamentally broken, to break through the wall of inertia, and to charge through life with vigor and determination. Running didn’t make me a better person; hope did. My hope was expressed through the simple exercise of believing I could go one more step, one more block, one more mile. And while my natural impatience was tempered and humbled by the distances I ran, the confidence to overcome my perceived shortcomings were shored up in the belief and hope that maybe – just maybe – if I dared to believe in something well beyond what I thought possible, the trickle down would be contentment, clarity, and happiness. And when I crossed the finish line of my first marathon, I looked at the bright blue sky and thanked the heavens for having had the courage to throw down the gauntlet, to challenge the distance and not bow to fatigue, pain, or disbelief.
Grab hope wherever you find it. Be it a tiny, flickering ember or the white hot blaze of realization, capture it, harness it, take the leap of faith and believe. If you want that second chance,don’t wait for it to surface: mine it, find it, make it happen. That is the essence of hope: it exists on the tiniest sliver of faith, desire, and childlike belief in the simple ability to dare to try, to take that first step. Hope rarely dies, doesn't have a shelf life, and to sustain it requires very little but the smallest idea of a dream. The dream of something different: to break the addiction, to find love, to claw out of the dark toward the light, to believe in something bigger than oneself. Hope is the best of all things.
Run with all grace and audacity.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Requiem
Requiem
11/5/07
Thank you for this day.
These 5 simple words typically start every one of my runs. In the early morning, even before the sun may be up, I’ll look up at the sky and whisper these words. It’s a small prayer, a mantra, a habit, my talisman of good luck. It is my verbal charm, my small something to remind myself in the busy swirl of this life, how lucky I am to be standing there, at that moment.
This past Saturday morning was a lazy day, and as I drank my coffee before I was to run, I got caught up in watching the US Men’s marathon trials live on my laptop. Those runners were something to see, the grace, the effort, the speed. As they sped throught the miles, it was Ryan Hall who awed us all with the apparent ease in which he conquered not only the unforgiveable distance and the hills of Central Park, but a field as deep in talent as this country has ever assembled. I got caught up in the battle for 3rd place, and alternately cheered for the dark horse Brian Sell - whose mustache and sideburns made him look hauntingly like a blond Steve Prefontaine – and Dan Browne, who would muster challenge after challenge before succumbing to cramps and the spirit of Sell to fall out of contention. It was exhilarating to watch, inspiring, wonderful. They were something to see. You can’t help but breathe deep and exhale, and feel the energy of possibility. It again reminded me of the lesson that if you do the work and believe in yourself, you can do the extraordinary. I took this and the images of those valiant runners with me as I went out on my familiar 8.1 mile loop.
Upon my return, I hopped back on the laptop to check the results of all the finishers and was stunned to read the news that Ryan Shay had died. How could this be? How could one as young and fit as Shay DIE? IN A RACE? Every year there is always a story of someone dying at the end of a marathon – the rigors of the race provoke weaknesses in the body which have – until that moment – gone unnoticed. But Shay was a proven product, someone who pushed his body to the limits of its endurance, a world-class athlete. Suddenly, Hall’s triumph was muted by the tragedy. And runners around the world struggled to make sense of his death.
The thing about running is that it makes you feel so alive. You feel good, you feel bad, you sweat, you’re hot, you're cold, you feel like you could run forever, you want to stop NOW. You ache, you fly, you want to do this forever, you wish you were doing anything but this. It is an impossibility to fit Shay’s square-pegged death in the round-holed life affirmation that is the marathon trails. I can’t believe it…How many times did we hear this repeated? I thought of his wife of only 3 months, had they even finished writing thank-you notes for their wedding gifts?
He was young, seemingly healthy, infinitely talented. Overlay death on this description and you have the essence of tragedy. It’s not a new scenario: it happens, every day. Killed in a car accident… In a roadside bombing… from cancer. We’ve become immune to the descriptions. We all feel a palpable sense of loss when we read of someone’s child, snatched from this earth too soon. But typically we’re far enough removed where that the sense of loss is – for better or worse – fleeting. Those of us who run felt more than just a momentary jolt when we read of Shay. He was ‘one of us’, a fellow runner. I couldn’t help but wonder what his last moments were like, as he stepped off the course and staggered toward the boathouse in Central Park. Was he confused or disoriented? Was he afraid? Did he know something terrible was happening? Did he look to the sky and wonder if this was real? Was his heart pounding wildly and did he somehow think be still my beating heart without fully understanding the devastating precision with which his prayer would be answered?
The running forums were jammed with threads of disbelief. A petition was started for Shay to be on the cover of a prominent running magazine. I thought about this: What do we celebrate here? Hall’s triumph? Shay’s death? Shay’s life? I’m pretty sure a cover on a magazine will not be adequate homage to a young man of such gift and talent, but in our effort to assuage our own sense of grief and loss, it is the best we can muster. The cover of this running magazine may well be our idea of Elysium for him. We will wonder if his equally talented widow will be able to train while carrying the burden of such heavy loss on her heart. And our own sorrow will pass like smoke in the wind; We will leave the true grieving to those who loved and knew him best.
We may not acknowledge it, but Shay’s death reminds us of how lucky we are in comparison to those whose lives are cut short. From a dusty road in the middle east to a 26 mile swath of pavement in Manhattan - and all the places in between -we need to memorialize the loss of all those whose middle age is their teens. Lofty thoughts, for sure. It begs the question how do you reconcile these deaths, these lives? The best you can: by lacing up your shoes, looking to the place where your soul finds meaning, and humbly giving thanks for the simple ability to participate in the endurance sport of life.
11/5/07
Thank you for this day.
These 5 simple words typically start every one of my runs. In the early morning, even before the sun may be up, I’ll look up at the sky and whisper these words. It’s a small prayer, a mantra, a habit, my talisman of good luck. It is my verbal charm, my small something to remind myself in the busy swirl of this life, how lucky I am to be standing there, at that moment.
This past Saturday morning was a lazy day, and as I drank my coffee before I was to run, I got caught up in watching the US Men’s marathon trials live on my laptop. Those runners were something to see, the grace, the effort, the speed. As they sped throught the miles, it was Ryan Hall who awed us all with the apparent ease in which he conquered not only the unforgiveable distance and the hills of Central Park, but a field as deep in talent as this country has ever assembled. I got caught up in the battle for 3rd place, and alternately cheered for the dark horse Brian Sell - whose mustache and sideburns made him look hauntingly like a blond Steve Prefontaine – and Dan Browne, who would muster challenge after challenge before succumbing to cramps and the spirit of Sell to fall out of contention. It was exhilarating to watch, inspiring, wonderful. They were something to see. You can’t help but breathe deep and exhale, and feel the energy of possibility. It again reminded me of the lesson that if you do the work and believe in yourself, you can do the extraordinary. I took this and the images of those valiant runners with me as I went out on my familiar 8.1 mile loop.
Upon my return, I hopped back on the laptop to check the results of all the finishers and was stunned to read the news that Ryan Shay had died. How could this be? How could one as young and fit as Shay DIE? IN A RACE? Every year there is always a story of someone dying at the end of a marathon – the rigors of the race provoke weaknesses in the body which have – until that moment – gone unnoticed. But Shay was a proven product, someone who pushed his body to the limits of its endurance, a world-class athlete. Suddenly, Hall’s triumph was muted by the tragedy. And runners around the world struggled to make sense of his death.
The thing about running is that it makes you feel so alive. You feel good, you feel bad, you sweat, you’re hot, you're cold, you feel like you could run forever, you want to stop NOW. You ache, you fly, you want to do this forever, you wish you were doing anything but this. It is an impossibility to fit Shay’s square-pegged death in the round-holed life affirmation that is the marathon trails. I can’t believe it…How many times did we hear this repeated? I thought of his wife of only 3 months, had they even finished writing thank-you notes for their wedding gifts?
He was young, seemingly healthy, infinitely talented. Overlay death on this description and you have the essence of tragedy. It’s not a new scenario: it happens, every day. Killed in a car accident… In a roadside bombing… from cancer. We’ve become immune to the descriptions. We all feel a palpable sense of loss when we read of someone’s child, snatched from this earth too soon. But typically we’re far enough removed where that the sense of loss is – for better or worse – fleeting. Those of us who run felt more than just a momentary jolt when we read of Shay. He was ‘one of us’, a fellow runner. I couldn’t help but wonder what his last moments were like, as he stepped off the course and staggered toward the boathouse in Central Park. Was he confused or disoriented? Was he afraid? Did he know something terrible was happening? Did he look to the sky and wonder if this was real? Was his heart pounding wildly and did he somehow think be still my beating heart without fully understanding the devastating precision with which his prayer would be answered?
The running forums were jammed with threads of disbelief. A petition was started for Shay to be on the cover of a prominent running magazine. I thought about this: What do we celebrate here? Hall’s triumph? Shay’s death? Shay’s life? I’m pretty sure a cover on a magazine will not be adequate homage to a young man of such gift and talent, but in our effort to assuage our own sense of grief and loss, it is the best we can muster. The cover of this running magazine may well be our idea of Elysium for him. We will wonder if his equally talented widow will be able to train while carrying the burden of such heavy loss on her heart. And our own sorrow will pass like smoke in the wind; We will leave the true grieving to those who loved and knew him best.
We may not acknowledge it, but Shay’s death reminds us of how lucky we are in comparison to those whose lives are cut short. From a dusty road in the middle east to a 26 mile swath of pavement in Manhattan - and all the places in between -we need to memorialize the loss of all those whose middle age is their teens. Lofty thoughts, for sure. It begs the question how do you reconcile these deaths, these lives? The best you can: by lacing up your shoes, looking to the place where your soul finds meaning, and humbly giving thanks for the simple ability to participate in the endurance sport of life.
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