not running

if i had just registered in time for the half marathon on october 27th, i wouldn't be here forced to make an obvious decision. i would be on the other side of the race now with whatever significant thing that is left in one's hands after a physical test is passed. if i had registered in time i'd be done. victorious. fulfilled.

but i didn't. and last wednesday, a week and a half before my second-choice date {registration safely completely long ago}, my right foot started aching. it was a weird sort of ache, something stretching seemed to have a temporary effect on—annoying but not painful. so the next day i ran my 5 miles and spent the rest of the night limping in what was now something to pay attention to.

so i took it seriously but firmly held on to the goal of running on the 17th. i iced. i stretched. i went to the chiropractor twice in one week. i practiced yoga. i stayed off the foot and iced some more. and it was working. today, less than a week later the ache was quieter now than when it first appeared. things were looking up. my chiropractor hadn't said no yet and was even still saying might and could.

but this afternoon found me face down on the table in his office as he so very gently tore through the painful muscles and ligaments up and down my right side, enumerating all the factors that have added up to one sore foot: adrenal fatigue and stress to the body {training for three months}, not sleeping enough {guilty}, mental/emotional stress {in spades} and chemical imbalance {see mental/emotional stress for easy justification of indulging my usually in check sweet tooth}. now an increase of any one or two of the above would have been fine, but all of them combined was the perfect storm. so here i am, waves of reality crashing against me as i cling to my life raft called hope. hope to run, hope to achieve. hope to find something out there in the race to hold on to right now.

and in the quiet of the chiropractor's office, as we both concentrated on listening to what my body was saying, a few simple, obvious questions bobbed to the surface right under my nose: if i ran this weekend, why? and how could whatever i have in my hands after the race possibly be worth more than my longterm health and recovery?

yes, i'm aware that i'm not being asked to give up the olympics or a chance to qualify for the {insert prestigious name} marathon, but this isn't about the rest of the world or its standards, but about me and my life, my goals. me. i am drawing to a close one of the more intense years of my life, hoping to transition into a new decade with ease and strength. the past three months of focused training have helped me move toward that end. they have helped me find a physical fitness i have always longed for and a slimness i always doubted i could achieve. and above and beyond anything, the time, the focus, the goal, it was all for me. about me. in my life that is so busy, very little of it is actually about me. it's about earning money, making art, connecting with others, writing emails, sending postcards, preserving and understanding moments, cleaning my apartment. the list goes on. it's exhausting sometimes to think about it.

so the pressure to run isn't just because i'm a completionist, and the disappointment in the face of losing this chance isn't just about crossing a finish line. it's not just about about the act or the proof that i really have achieved the physical and mental space needed to run a solid race—it's about the surprises the test would bring, the discoveries i know i would make. in not running on saturday, i am losing one of those rare opportunities to live at the very edge of myself at a moment in my life so marked by a strange blend of transition and grief and progress. my first half marathon {posted here} still features largely in my personal narrative, and this time i am so much more prepared, so much more ready to focus all 13.1 miles, push myself harder. more than anything, i wanted to see what is out there at this particular moment of my life, what is just beyond my sight and understanding of myself, and most importantly learn what she has to teach me.

but if i have learned anything this year, it's that sometimes the strongest decision is to embrace the imperfections of the moment rather than plowing boldly {and occasionally recklessly} on toward what my brain/ego/hope/optimism sees as possible. so here, with you standing in for the friends i had {rather vulnerably} asked to stand along the race course for me, you invisible, silent witnesses are cheering me away from the route i should not run.

i surrender the race, surrender the hope, surrender the experience and insight and epiphany i might have had for a cost i am deciding i cannot afford: my body.

my body. my hope. my soft machine. you have carried me so far, so fast. i will give you the rest you ask for and we will try again soon. we will try again soon.


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on the topic of milestones, this is my 900th post.

clarity

i have been waiting for clarity to find me. but all the while, i have been holding it in my hands.

at last

you know that thing that is the scariest thing you can imagine asking yourself to do {emotionally speaking, of course}? that thing that defies all the defenses you've built up for yourself, that thing that would break down the illusion of control and safety in this wide wide world of ours?

well i'm going to go do it. give it up. bust it open. and i'm writing it here so i hold myself to it.

i can do this.
i can.
i will.
i am.

lonely & me

i recall loneliness from my childhood like a dear friend. we spent a lot of time in each other's company tucked away in a bedroom, meandering about our alabama-backyard, telling secrets, listening to whatever stillness we could find, and always and forever hoping for more.

as an adult, however, i'm proud to report i'm a bit estranged from my old pal, lonely. but he does come to visit on rare occasions, sidling up to me in a dark car parked in front of the apartment, fog insulating me from the world, my mind milling about around me like a flock of birds. and then suddenly he's there, quietly expectant, noiseless and persistent, scattering my thoughts as they take refuge in the sky.

tonight was one of those nights it was just lonely and me, sitting in the cushioned quiet of jasper – but rather than intruding on the space i had just made savoring the final measures of a song, he joined me without taking anything away. my heart was pierced by his tenderness as he perched sideways in the passenger seat staring back at me with calm eyes, listening to every silent sentence running through my mind.

sadly, he never seems to come with answers in his pocket, merely a little space and always and forever hope.

{thank{s}taking}

i had a hard time giving thanks tonight sitting in a bath grown cold despite the numerous refills of scalding water. i think i was hitting hour number 3.5 or 4 when my comfort read was done. my skin was cold when i moved against the water. but if i was immoble i didn't notice the lack in temperature and so i just sat. still. temporarily anesthetized but knowing that it's only while the words of someone else's story lingers. but they end. they always do. and i am left to think about how the universe seems to tell me to look closely and pay attention. but while i can see what it's saying i can't make out what it means.

in a one week span late this past summer i learned that three men of varying significance to me had "another woman" in their lives. a man from my past, a man from my present and a man i had hoped might stretch out a while into my future.

and now, the fall has cupped within it a similar story, through a different vein, and i am left to mourn the probable loss of not one, but two amazingly-incredible-resonating!!! friendships that toed the line of more, all the while pushed up against me with generous and full interest, only to flicker out again and dim abruptly, leaving the faint whiff of a dying fire and sincere words of kindness that only somehow make the burn go a little deeper.

so the bath gets colder, the books get their happy endings and even ophelia gets hamlet, despite the fact that the world kept them apart.

and i am left. here. not knowing what to make of the reoccurring themes and only wishing for myself that i could live in emotional abstinence for a while. not care, no matter how sweetly i am asked. not give, no matter how generous my heart feels. just sit a while and steep in solitude and knitting.

so tonight, universe, i give you thanks for the lovely house i have been able to create for myself, thanks for the lovely people who choose to stay in my life, year after year, despite {because of!} the vivid being i am, the fact that today, i gave some poor boy sitting on a cold, frozen cement sidewalk not just that first $1 bill but then a minute later, when driving past, a rolled down window and a line from a movie 'hey kid!' repeated until he turned, took the steps to my car, saw the measly $5 i then passed through the window and gave back at me the soft, surprised words of genuine gratitude and appreciation as though it were a $50. and i am blessed. blessed that i not only have the money to spare $6 but to buy the food i did today, as well as the growth in my spirit and bank account that i can spend $100 without using guilt somehow against myself. gratitude that in my heart, in the face of all my years of heartache and doubts, i know of a secret place i pretend not to believe in that truly knows in that deep internal trust sort of way that this whole wide world is capable of producing one fucking man capable of not being afraid of risking for me. for something. for anything. and eventually for a future. for the life we want to glean from this world and the kids we want to bring into this world. and that will be a scary place. and we will navigate it together. and it will be beautiful as only he and i can see now, apart, and one day we can envision together.

no where to put things

i forget that it's not just healthy babies that are born into this world. or, it's not that i forget, but i am luckily allowed to know it only from the words NICU* written next to a family's name, or the success stories as they are being discharged a month or three later. healthier. or at least healthy enough.

and i've been very lucky, as much as i am ready and willing to step up, in that i have never yet been asked to photograph a fetal demise.

so it came as a surprise to me how hard it hit when there was a code blue emergency and a nurse tore out of a room with a baby in her arms saying not again! not again! the grandma trailing worriedly after, pacing the halls as another nurse ran into the room looking for the baby and then back again out to the nursery. dad in the doorway. disappear into the room. more running.

i stood in our office door trying not to gawk. helpless. wanting to walk up to the grandma and rub her back or hold her hand. wanting to know what was happening but also knowing that's not my place.

the baby ended up in NICU under the careful care upstairs and the floor eventually calmed down. but i found myself feeling lost and weepy at unexpected moments throughout the day. the image of the little bundle held away from the nurse's body as she looked down and ran surprising me as i went about my business and walked the halls.

just another reminder of life's fragility left to linger some where in my body.



*neonatal intensive care unit

i already know how it ends

i gave myself permission to desire today.
like sails set to wind, my heart opened up for the space of one city block
unfurled itself
and beat a fluttering rhythm of hope.

alone

this came to me by way of my dear friend, s, who left seattle right about the time i moved into my new place. she was heading home and through her own transition, and here we are, states apart, moved by this lovely piece about loneliness.






you can also see it by clicking here.