Maybe it is the season, but it seems the fog is slowly lifting. The weather has shifted into a tolerable sixty degree range (though supposed to warm to 80 by Christmas), the kids are jubilant, reactions are reacting for Marc at work, and I feel alive again. I can run.
Of all the things and people that carry me through turbulent times, no one understands me like my running shoes. They don't challenge my sanity with how many miles I want to run injured. They never complain about the heat of the pavement or the wet of the puddles. Somehow, my shoes are always just there for me without judgement or criticism. Running will always be my therapy and simple pleasure. How grateful I am to be alive and with two legs to run on.
With little enthusiasm, I am trying to decide which race to sign on for. I am having trouble with the excitement part because I worry my feet will fail me. They still cause me great misery, but even without running I am in pain, so off I go. My new approach to this injury, much like with other facets of my world as it were, I am going to ignore the negative. I am not going to feed into the blue and dismal, but love and nurture what is good and positive. I'll let you know how this works once both feet are casted and I'm on crutches, but until then, I am going to enjoy the endless bridge loops.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Memory
I am over the moon that my family is coming into town. I am so ultra excited, I can't hardly take it. Memory is such an amazing thing, such a precious gift. I hold on to the fabulous memories I have from past Thanksgivings when we would celebrate in Malibu and enjoy the meal on a chilly winter evening. I have never cooked a turkey before, so tomorrow is going to be interesting, to say the least. Why they chose to come to the house of someone who hates food is beyond me. Marc suggested we take out sushi, but you know we would never find it in this town on a holiday like Thanksgiving.
I think it is strange how memory will taunt and delight. Memories creep back in from out of nowhere. Driving down to West Palm yesterday to brave Whole Foods, I was reminded of one Thanksgiving years ago. I was house sitting for some people on the cliffs above Zuma beach. They had two adorable golden retrievers, Rosy and Riley, I was looking after. I will never forget those sweet dogs and that amazing house. I got up early and walked the dogs on the beach across the street, never appreciating how hard the owners must have worked for that home (one of four they owned) and lifestyle. The lifeguard came out and told me I was beyond the boundaries of the designated dog area for the shore, so we jogged on out and back to the house. The morning was spectacular and the beach was sleepy and empty, save for a few runners every now and again.
I remember staying in the house and my friend, Todd, came over. I never thought anything of him, can't even remember how I met him, but he seemed like such a nice guy. He used to tell me about how his girlfriend had recently broken up with him and ripped his heart out. He was so depressed when I first met him, he told me he contemplated throwing himself off the cliffs above the reef. He was so intense, his icy green eyes would pierce and terrify me at the same time, and yet somehow, we were always together. He loved dogs, and they flocked to him, too.
Some weeks later, I was house sitting again for another Malibu resident, and after being out with my friend, Bob, until 2 am, someone was knocking on the glass doors out back at the veranda. After almost having a heart attack for fear of an intruder in the middle of the night, I realized it was just Todd. Todd? What was he doing at my back door, and how did he know I had just come home at this crazy hour? Okay, I realized he was psycho and kind of stalkerish. I let him in anyway because he was like a lost puppy and I admit I liked the attention. "Who were you out with until this hour? Come out and look at the moon. It is so bright and beautiful," he demanded. After a few more dramatic episodes like that, I had to cut him off. Where is he now?
Memory is such a funny thing. Sometimes it serves us well and sometimes, like dreams, memory is so random and difficult to decipher. Why do memories bubble to the surface like they do? Why did I even think about Todd yesterday without a thought to his whereabouts in the last 13 years? Weird. Does memory help us work through all the bits and pieces of lost time and places, unrequited love and lost opportunities? I assume so, but sometimes it seems so cruel. Not that I miss Todd, but I miss Malibu and old friends. I'm sure even more so now that the holidays are upon us.
I think it is strange how memory will taunt and delight. Memories creep back in from out of nowhere. Driving down to West Palm yesterday to brave Whole Foods, I was reminded of one Thanksgiving years ago. I was house sitting for some people on the cliffs above Zuma beach. They had two adorable golden retrievers, Rosy and Riley, I was looking after. I will never forget those sweet dogs and that amazing house. I got up early and walked the dogs on the beach across the street, never appreciating how hard the owners must have worked for that home (one of four they owned) and lifestyle. The lifeguard came out and told me I was beyond the boundaries of the designated dog area for the shore, so we jogged on out and back to the house. The morning was spectacular and the beach was sleepy and empty, save for a few runners every now and again.
I remember staying in the house and my friend, Todd, came over. I never thought anything of him, can't even remember how I met him, but he seemed like such a nice guy. He used to tell me about how his girlfriend had recently broken up with him and ripped his heart out. He was so depressed when I first met him, he told me he contemplated throwing himself off the cliffs above the reef. He was so intense, his icy green eyes would pierce and terrify me at the same time, and yet somehow, we were always together. He loved dogs, and they flocked to him, too.
Some weeks later, I was house sitting again for another Malibu resident, and after being out with my friend, Bob, until 2 am, someone was knocking on the glass doors out back at the veranda. After almost having a heart attack for fear of an intruder in the middle of the night, I realized it was just Todd. Todd? What was he doing at my back door, and how did he know I had just come home at this crazy hour? Okay, I realized he was psycho and kind of stalkerish. I let him in anyway because he was like a lost puppy and I admit I liked the attention. "Who were you out with until this hour? Come out and look at the moon. It is so bright and beautiful," he demanded. After a few more dramatic episodes like that, I had to cut him off. Where is he now?
Memory is such a funny thing. Sometimes it serves us well and sometimes, like dreams, memory is so random and difficult to decipher. Why do memories bubble to the surface like they do? Why did I even think about Todd yesterday without a thought to his whereabouts in the last 13 years? Weird. Does memory help us work through all the bits and pieces of lost time and places, unrequited love and lost opportunities? I assume so, but sometimes it seems so cruel. Not that I miss Todd, but I miss Malibu and old friends. I'm sure even more so now that the holidays are upon us.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Who Am I?
I am not sure I have the answer anymore. I feel like I used to know who I was in this world: mom, daughter, sister, wife, friend, Jesus lover, Californian, runner and sometimes triathlete. I felt very confident in my place in the universe, comfortable, and most often happy. These days, nothing really translates. I live in a foreign land, my faith has been shaken with the recent death of a friend, I question why God would leave me here in the desert feeling alone and forsaken, and now I don't even have my best stress reliever-I can't even run. I am a swimmer.
Marine Corps marathon is this weekend and I am depressed that though it was on my to do list of marathons, I won't be attending. Laying on the massage table last Saturday, Sharon encouraged me to reevaluate my place and who I think I am. I know I have been rattled to be shifted out of my hometown and now to try to stand up again here in this one. Everything feels off-kilter, and not just the imbalance of my feet in light of this injury. Like my back that is aching in light of a new workout routine, everything is just a little tweaked in my world without the familiarity of home and the morning run. How can it be adjusted?
Sunday I met the group at South Beach to ride North to the Inlet, though Lori and I turned back early to make it home on time. The wind was grueling, in our faces. Lori looked at me and said, "This is what our hills are here
"Yeah, but at least where I'm from, the hills come with some reprieve-you get to go down the backside of them!" I told her.
Here, the wind blew its angry fury directly at us all the way North, which allowed us to only go about 17 miles per hour. On the way home, however, we were loving screaming along the coast. I loved moving along without the threat of falling down a mountain at that speed. It was great and I am hoping to make it a staple workout for a while, if the schedule will allow for it.
I love Gene. As my new found swim coach, he is the newest man in my life. I brought him coffee Tuesday and he was so happy to be part of Lori and my "coffee club" as he dubbed it. He told me at 73 years old, he can still swim 73 fifties on just over a minute base. I was impressed, after all, since he is an old guy.
Marc dropped into the gym this week while I was there working out, waiting for the kids to finish their gymnastics routine. I love that after twelve years of being together, we still love being together. I can look at him from across the gym and he makes my heart sing. I tried to pretend I didn't know him. Would I think he were cute if he were not my husband? Absolutely. Is he kind of spazzy the way he does his abs on a flat bench? Yep. Cute. It brought back memories of seeing him in the gym in college when I didn't even know his name, but I appreciated his adorable qualities even back then. With all of our stupid inside jokes and idioms, with his randomness and my sarcasm, something about us just works. In all of this mess and chaos and unfamiliarity, he is my anchor.
We leave for Georgia for a week on Sunday and I am counting the days to cooler weather. Ye haw.
Marine Corps marathon is this weekend and I am depressed that though it was on my to do list of marathons, I won't be attending. Laying on the massage table last Saturday, Sharon encouraged me to reevaluate my place and who I think I am. I know I have been rattled to be shifted out of my hometown and now to try to stand up again here in this one. Everything feels off-kilter, and not just the imbalance of my feet in light of this injury. Like my back that is aching in light of a new workout routine, everything is just a little tweaked in my world without the familiarity of home and the morning run. How can it be adjusted?
Sunday I met the group at South Beach to ride North to the Inlet, though Lori and I turned back early to make it home on time. The wind was grueling, in our faces. Lori looked at me and said, "This is what our hills are here
"Yeah, but at least where I'm from, the hills come with some reprieve-you get to go down the backside of them!" I told her.
Here, the wind blew its angry fury directly at us all the way North, which allowed us to only go about 17 miles per hour. On the way home, however, we were loving screaming along the coast. I loved moving along without the threat of falling down a mountain at that speed. It was great and I am hoping to make it a staple workout for a while, if the schedule will allow for it.
I love Gene. As my new found swim coach, he is the newest man in my life. I brought him coffee Tuesday and he was so happy to be part of Lori and my "coffee club" as he dubbed it. He told me at 73 years old, he can still swim 73 fifties on just over a minute base. I was impressed, after all, since he is an old guy.
Marc dropped into the gym this week while I was there working out, waiting for the kids to finish their gymnastics routine. I love that after twelve years of being together, we still love being together. I can look at him from across the gym and he makes my heart sing. I tried to pretend I didn't know him. Would I think he were cute if he were not my husband? Absolutely. Is he kind of spazzy the way he does his abs on a flat bench? Yep. Cute. It brought back memories of seeing him in the gym in college when I didn't even know his name, but I appreciated his adorable qualities even back then. With all of our stupid inside jokes and idioms, with his randomness and my sarcasm, something about us just works. In all of this mess and chaos and unfamiliarity, he is my anchor.
We leave for Georgia for a week on Sunday and I am counting the days to cooler weather. Ye haw.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Discipline
The weekend was great. Marc was crowned "King of the Jungle" for a second year in a row after winning a local 5K without even trying. I just love that title. Maybe I will start calling him Tarzan instead, though I think he needs to be furrier for that to apply. I love being married to a local celebrity when friends bring me newspaper articles about him to the gym. Love that guy. He has discipline. He owns more workout gear than regular clothing. His bike on the trainer is a permanent fixture in our living room now because he is on it twice a day (why break it down and take it back out to the garage?). We don't own furniture; we own equipment. We like to think of it as a lifestyle, right?
I often hear the word discipline associated with exercise. Usually, it is someone asking me how I am "so disciplined" to get up at 4 am every morning, day in and day out, week in and week out, to go work out. My answer to the appalled is always the same, "How can I not? It is my sanity. "
The morning is my one piece of the day that is mine...no kids music playing in the car, no little voices whining at me for something, no one to answer to and my time to simply zone out.
These days, however, discipline means something entirely different. It means not working out, as in not running, and not bearing weight on my injured feet. It means sleeping in until *gasp* 5am since the gym is not open before that ridiculously late hour. This is one of the most difficult things I have ever done because everything in me wants to forget about the whole healing process and run right on through it. I long to pretend there isn't a problem and forge ahead with new orthotics to solve the problem. Of course, I know I can't or every other effort would be in vain. Why waste time icing, massaging, getting physical therapy and electro stim, while still visiting the chiropractor for a miracle if I continue to do the damage by running anyway? Why give up wearing flip flops (it is hot here in Ugg Boots) and suffer through acupressure if I am not committed, disciplined to not run? I am not a very joyful healer. I am not meant to be a non-exerciser.
Discipline extends to the kids, of course, too. They are masters at trying to negotiate for every little thing: eight more minutes past bedtime, one more book to be read, another video ("Pretty please?"), dessert on a designated non-dessert night. At five and seven years old, my kids really know how to continue to try and exhaust me until I almost finally give into the begging for chocolate milk. There I am, being disciplined, telling them no over and over again. The parallel here is obvious: undisciplined parenting makes for sloppy kids and undisciplined workouts make for a sloppy body, right? Well, usually, until one abuses her body to the point of injury and has to aqua jog-God forbid. There has to be something in between but I have just never been good with moderation in anything. I am convinced my kids will rot out their teeth and develop diabetes if I allow them junky treats, just as I am convinced I am going to become obese now that I am not running.
Today I took my daughter to the pediatrician's office where she was diagnosed with a sinus infection. After being prescribed antibiotics, she was told to stay out of the pool for at least 48 hours. Frantic is not even the best word to describe her reaction to this bad news: "Mom! I can't miss workout. I have to swim. Swimming is the best possible exercise! Can I do a different workout tonight if I can't get in the pool?" Who does this child belong to? I told her she needs some discipline in her life already. I went to spin this morning and I lifted. Twice. Tomorrow I see my boyfriend, Gene, at pool number two. The bottom line here is, I miss being a Californian and now I miss being a runner. I miss, dare I say it, sweating in the steamy heat here. Two weeks into my non-running program and I miss the feeling.
I often hear the word discipline associated with exercise. Usually, it is someone asking me how I am "so disciplined" to get up at 4 am every morning, day in and day out, week in and week out, to go work out. My answer to the appalled is always the same, "How can I not? It is my sanity. "
The morning is my one piece of the day that is mine...no kids music playing in the car, no little voices whining at me for something, no one to answer to and my time to simply zone out.
These days, however, discipline means something entirely different. It means not working out, as in not running, and not bearing weight on my injured feet. It means sleeping in until *gasp* 5am since the gym is not open before that ridiculously late hour. This is one of the most difficult things I have ever done because everything in me wants to forget about the whole healing process and run right on through it. I long to pretend there isn't a problem and forge ahead with new orthotics to solve the problem. Of course, I know I can't or every other effort would be in vain. Why waste time icing, massaging, getting physical therapy and electro stim, while still visiting the chiropractor for a miracle if I continue to do the damage by running anyway? Why give up wearing flip flops (it is hot here in Ugg Boots) and suffer through acupressure if I am not committed, disciplined to not run? I am not a very joyful healer. I am not meant to be a non-exerciser.
Discipline extends to the kids, of course, too. They are masters at trying to negotiate for every little thing: eight more minutes past bedtime, one more book to be read, another video ("Pretty please?"), dessert on a designated non-dessert night. At five and seven years old, my kids really know how to continue to try and exhaust me until I almost finally give into the begging for chocolate milk. There I am, being disciplined, telling them no over and over again. The parallel here is obvious: undisciplined parenting makes for sloppy kids and undisciplined workouts make for a sloppy body, right? Well, usually, until one abuses her body to the point of injury and has to aqua jog-God forbid. There has to be something in between but I have just never been good with moderation in anything. I am convinced my kids will rot out their teeth and develop diabetes if I allow them junky treats, just as I am convinced I am going to become obese now that I am not running.
Today I took my daughter to the pediatrician's office where she was diagnosed with a sinus infection. After being prescribed antibiotics, she was told to stay out of the pool for at least 48 hours. Frantic is not even the best word to describe her reaction to this bad news: "Mom! I can't miss workout. I have to swim. Swimming is the best possible exercise! Can I do a different workout tonight if I can't get in the pool?" Who does this child belong to? I told her she needs some discipline in her life already. I went to spin this morning and I lifted. Twice. Tomorrow I see my boyfriend, Gene, at pool number two. The bottom line here is, I miss being a Californian and now I miss being a runner. I miss, dare I say it, sweating in the steamy heat here. Two weeks into my non-running program and I miss the feeling.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
The New Pool
Okay, I have a new plan and it is called swimming at a new pool with some familiar faces and a new coach. So, even though I have to pay an additional fee on top of what I already pay monthly elsewhere, and even though it requires me to make a second trip across town after the initial one to the gym, I think it may be the ticket to greater happiness in the water. Can we really put a price on that?
Barry was the one who suggested I come on over and swim with the infamous Gene, who I have heard about for a year now. Honestly, I just didn't want to have to adjust my routine and shift everything around to accommodate a man out West at a different facility. I finally gave in this week and I am so glad I did-I liked Gene immediately. Maybe the word loved is even in order to describe my feelings of devotion for him, despite the fact he clearly hails from New York and has that awful accent. Maybe I am just attaching a superficial savior status to the man who I am certain is going to make me an accomplished swimmer and, more importantly, teach me how to love this sport.
It was raining when I showed up for workout on Tuesday. Gene was under an umbrella, pulling his little cheat sheet out to give us each individualized workouts. I think there might have been seven of us, including me. I even bought a new Speedo for the occasion because what can't a new outfit fix? Though it is two small, clingy pieces of blue and black and white, the suit did inspire me to swim a little more like a professional and believe me, I was all about business. I was there to make it count. Unlike Don, who yelled insults from the sidelines, Gene is kind and more diplomatic about technique. "You have a fairly decent stroke." He told me. "But you need to work on that entry and catch. You are allowing your thumb to enter the water before your fingers and that is a shoulder problem waiting to happen."
He went on to have me do tons and tons of drills and then some more drills. All I could think about by the end was getting out and getting my coffee. As I climbed up on deck, there was a familiar face looking at me, but I couldn't place him. This is a small town, or have I mentioned that? Then I remembered. Last week, while in the library with the kids, I received a call from Abbe. As I blabbed with her about meeting for spin that night, I realized a man was watching me very intently. Afraid it was one more person in this ridiculous town to tell me to get off my phone in an "inappropriate place" (its a library, come on!), I quickly hung up with her. The staring man surprised me, instead, by asking me, "Are you from California? I hate to peg you, but I couldn't help but listen to you, and you sound like you are from California." I think I looked at him blankly for a while, because he quickly offered me his hand, "Hi. I'm John. My wife and I moved here from Redondo Beach and I know a Californian when I hear one. What brought you here?"
Where to begin? Was this man a friend or foe? Could I tell him honestly my disparaging thoughts and great disappointment or should I smile politely and, in agreement, nod that this is, oh absolutely, paradise? There we were, my new friend John and me, hanging out in the "L" section of kids' books reminiscing about the good old days on the other coast. He told me his parents are here and that is how they landed in these parts. He told me he used to work for an aquarium in So Cal, but life on The Island is not so bad. Hmmmm. I decided I would try to be polite and save my arsenal of negativity; he meant well, after all.
I recognized him as John from the library as he rolled into the pool just as I was leaving. I didn't recognize him right away in his pool uniform of black jammers. I think I was just thrilled to actually have a few bodies in the water so I was not left staring at the crabs on the bottom, as is the case at the other pool. There seems to be a promising crew at the new place and I love the coach. I even have a few running buddies who are meant to drift in and out of workout, true to slacker colors. Could be fun.
I think as time goes on, I settle in a little more. No longer am I anxious and anxiety-ridden about our state of being, but I cannot say I am content. I miss so much about my old life and what it means to be a Californian. I miss the air turning cooler and the quick option of driving two hours to the mountains for some snow. I used to miss the old routine, but now I think I just miss what it is to be California culture. I am not a fisherman or a boater or a seventy-degrees-is-cold- weather-complainer. I am a Californian still trying to make sense of what it means to live on a tropical island in an ocean I never thought would be my permanent beach.
As I write this, my seven year old is spreading out and admiring her six ribbons from last weekend's swim meet. "Mom," she just asked me, "Have you ever seen so many ribbons in one place? Have you ever won this many ribbons?"
"Not even close, my lovely, not even close." I told her.
Barry was the one who suggested I come on over and swim with the infamous Gene, who I have heard about for a year now. Honestly, I just didn't want to have to adjust my routine and shift everything around to accommodate a man out West at a different facility. I finally gave in this week and I am so glad I did-I liked Gene immediately. Maybe the word loved is even in order to describe my feelings of devotion for him, despite the fact he clearly hails from New York and has that awful accent. Maybe I am just attaching a superficial savior status to the man who I am certain is going to make me an accomplished swimmer and, more importantly, teach me how to love this sport.
It was raining when I showed up for workout on Tuesday. Gene was under an umbrella, pulling his little cheat sheet out to give us each individualized workouts. I think there might have been seven of us, including me. I even bought a new Speedo for the occasion because what can't a new outfit fix? Though it is two small, clingy pieces of blue and black and white, the suit did inspire me to swim a little more like a professional and believe me, I was all about business. I was there to make it count. Unlike Don, who yelled insults from the sidelines, Gene is kind and more diplomatic about technique. "You have a fairly decent stroke." He told me. "But you need to work on that entry and catch. You are allowing your thumb to enter the water before your fingers and that is a shoulder problem waiting to happen."
He went on to have me do tons and tons of drills and then some more drills. All I could think about by the end was getting out and getting my coffee. As I climbed up on deck, there was a familiar face looking at me, but I couldn't place him. This is a small town, or have I mentioned that? Then I remembered. Last week, while in the library with the kids, I received a call from Abbe. As I blabbed with her about meeting for spin that night, I realized a man was watching me very intently. Afraid it was one more person in this ridiculous town to tell me to get off my phone in an "inappropriate place" (its a library, come on!), I quickly hung up with her. The staring man surprised me, instead, by asking me, "Are you from California? I hate to peg you, but I couldn't help but listen to you, and you sound like you are from California." I think I looked at him blankly for a while, because he quickly offered me his hand, "Hi. I'm John. My wife and I moved here from Redondo Beach and I know a Californian when I hear one. What brought you here?"
Where to begin? Was this man a friend or foe? Could I tell him honestly my disparaging thoughts and great disappointment or should I smile politely and, in agreement, nod that this is, oh absolutely, paradise? There we were, my new friend John and me, hanging out in the "L" section of kids' books reminiscing about the good old days on the other coast. He told me his parents are here and that is how they landed in these parts. He told me he used to work for an aquarium in So Cal, but life on The Island is not so bad. Hmmmm. I decided I would try to be polite and save my arsenal of negativity; he meant well, after all.
I recognized him as John from the library as he rolled into the pool just as I was leaving. I didn't recognize him right away in his pool uniform of black jammers. I think I was just thrilled to actually have a few bodies in the water so I was not left staring at the crabs on the bottom, as is the case at the other pool. There seems to be a promising crew at the new place and I love the coach. I even have a few running buddies who are meant to drift in and out of workout, true to slacker colors. Could be fun.
I think as time goes on, I settle in a little more. No longer am I anxious and anxiety-ridden about our state of being, but I cannot say I am content. I miss so much about my old life and what it means to be a Californian. I miss the air turning cooler and the quick option of driving two hours to the mountains for some snow. I used to miss the old routine, but now I think I just miss what it is to be California culture. I am not a fisherman or a boater or a seventy-degrees-is-cold- weather-complainer. I am a Californian still trying to make sense of what it means to live on a tropical island in an ocean I never thought would be my permanent beach.
As I write this, my seven year old is spreading out and admiring her six ribbons from last weekend's swim meet. "Mom," she just asked me, "Have you ever seen so many ribbons in one place? Have you ever won this many ribbons?"
"Not even close, my lovely, not even close." I told her.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Plan B
"Swimming is your friend. Swimming is your friend."
This was my mantra this morning in the pool. Swimming has always been my friend, but it is a love-hate relationship. Swimming was my friend when I was enormously pregnant and couldn't run beyond thirty weeks. Swimming was my friend when I was on bed rest at the end of that fat chapter in my life and I still needed a workout. Swimming is again my friend now that I can't run on injured feet. Swimming has been my safety net and my backup, so why do I resent the pool so much? Why does it feel like the enemy, my second choice, the Plan B? Because it is.
Murray on Monday. Mark on Tuesday. Dante on Wednesday. Dr. Ben Thursday and Friday. I had a different swimming buddy every day this week at the pool. At least I wasn't alone completely in the pool. On Monday, we also had a snake in the water with us. On Tuesday, it was a crab. Wednesday, there was a gecko in the water. Thursday was uneventful and this morning, a huge frog joined us. Why?
Tonight when I got my hair done, the hair dresser asked why my hair was so dry and stripped. "It's my Nemesis. It's killing my hair." I told her. And maybe my spirit a little bit, too.
This was my mantra this morning in the pool. Swimming has always been my friend, but it is a love-hate relationship. Swimming was my friend when I was enormously pregnant and couldn't run beyond thirty weeks. Swimming was my friend when I was on bed rest at the end of that fat chapter in my life and I still needed a workout. Swimming is again my friend now that I can't run on injured feet. Swimming has been my safety net and my backup, so why do I resent the pool so much? Why does it feel like the enemy, my second choice, the Plan B? Because it is.
Murray on Monday. Mark on Tuesday. Dante on Wednesday. Dr. Ben Thursday and Friday. I had a different swimming buddy every day this week at the pool. At least I wasn't alone completely in the pool. On Monday, we also had a snake in the water with us. On Tuesday, it was a crab. Wednesday, there was a gecko in the water. Thursday was uneventful and this morning, a huge frog joined us. Why?
Tonight when I got my hair done, the hair dresser asked why my hair was so dry and stripped. "It's my Nemesis. It's killing my hair." I told her. And maybe my spirit a little bit, too.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
I Don't Want To Be A Swimmer
"I don't want to be a swimmer! I don't want to be a swimmer!"
This was my declaration in my most recent nightmare. Two nights ago, I dreamt I was floating out in the middle of the ocean in San Diego somewhere, yelling at the top of my lungs in horror, cursing my last option for workout. Sadly, when I woke up, it was true. As my feet hit the floor at 4 am for the long run, I was stopped abruptly in my tracks, frozen in agony. I am defeated and dismayed to admit I have to be a swimmer for the weeks (months?) to come. Plantar fasciitis has completely derailed my training and I am out for any upcoming marathon. To say that I am disappointed does not even touch what I am feeling right now. I think it would be more appropriate to say "identity crisis" if running is out of the equation.
I saw Dr. George in the office last week and after handling my sad and pathetic feet, he confirmed the diagnosis. I knew he would, but the pain has become so unbearable, I simply cannot ignore or run through it anymore. Walking has become no small feat, and standing around I am forced to shift weight off my heel. Even flip turning in the pool has become a challenge when the pain rips through my heel. After prescribing the dreaded boot and cataflam, George suggested I try to cut back on running. And though I had no intention of following this advice, I knew I had no other choice when the following day a 21 mile long run left me crippled.
I don't want to be a swimmer because I despise pretending to be someone I am not. I am merely a pool slut, picking up any random passerby who will talk to me out there. So desperate for company am I at 5:30 in the morning, I have befriended even all the old guys out there floating down the lanes, just so that I might avoid having to swim extra, unnecessary laps (I still log it as a workout). The pool is so lonely, staring at that black tiled line, endless lap after lap. Maybe that is why I worship them: swimmers have some kind of superior inner strength and independence. They need no one to talk to while turning over their arms and thrashing their legs. They care nothing about what others think of them in a small piece of Lycra as they smugly flaunt it all down the deck. They appeal to me even in their geeky goggles and hideous swim caps. Maybe I am jealous of that? Maybe I missed the boat getting in on that sport when I was young and capable?
This was my declaration in my most recent nightmare. Two nights ago, I dreamt I was floating out in the middle of the ocean in San Diego somewhere, yelling at the top of my lungs in horror, cursing my last option for workout. Sadly, when I woke up, it was true. As my feet hit the floor at 4 am for the long run, I was stopped abruptly in my tracks, frozen in agony. I am defeated and dismayed to admit I have to be a swimmer for the weeks (months?) to come. Plantar fasciitis has completely derailed my training and I am out for any upcoming marathon. To say that I am disappointed does not even touch what I am feeling right now. I think it would be more appropriate to say "identity crisis" if running is out of the equation.
I saw Dr. George in the office last week and after handling my sad and pathetic feet, he confirmed the diagnosis. I knew he would, but the pain has become so unbearable, I simply cannot ignore or run through it anymore. Walking has become no small feat, and standing around I am forced to shift weight off my heel. Even flip turning in the pool has become a challenge when the pain rips through my heel. After prescribing the dreaded boot and cataflam, George suggested I try to cut back on running. And though I had no intention of following this advice, I knew I had no other choice when the following day a 21 mile long run left me crippled.
I don't want to be a swimmer because I despise pretending to be someone I am not. I am merely a pool slut, picking up any random passerby who will talk to me out there. So desperate for company am I at 5:30 in the morning, I have befriended even all the old guys out there floating down the lanes, just so that I might avoid having to swim extra, unnecessary laps (I still log it as a workout). The pool is so lonely, staring at that black tiled line, endless lap after lap. Maybe that is why I worship them: swimmers have some kind of superior inner strength and independence. They need no one to talk to while turning over their arms and thrashing their legs. They care nothing about what others think of them in a small piece of Lycra as they smugly flaunt it all down the deck. They appeal to me even in their geeky goggles and hideous swim caps. Maybe I am jealous of that? Maybe I missed the boat getting in on that sport when I was young and capable?
I don't want to be a swimmer. I just want to admire them from a distance.
Friday, September 19, 2008
For The Birds
I have resisted so many times turning to this blog as an outlet because most often it feels like a garbled, nonsensical idiom on the screen in front of me. I think in so many ways this blog is like a diary posted online for any random person to read, which seems so utterly ridiculous. It is stupid. Knowing and recognizing this, I write for myself, first and foremost, and perhaps then for anyone else who has little to do at work and cares to peruse its contents. Hopefully it won't come across as self-absorbed and superciliously annoying to the random visitor.
At the core of what I am preoccupied with today is friendship. After running the coast with Abbe, Katie and Lori (and bumping into Barry and Gary) this morning, Abbe and I went over to swim. In the dark we bantered back and forth about life and its meaning, men and relationships, kids and chaos. I can't help but love her. She has so many fabulous and irresistible qualities that entertain me. For someone as ADHD and I am, she can captivate the conversation with silly stories and crazy antics, analogies and jokes. Her mannerisms are priceless and her wit unsurpassed. She is complicated and multi-faceted, but so simple and happy all the same.
As I sat in the Starbucks drive-through line after our workouts (and cursed the guy in front of me for clogging the system with his fluffy blended whatever drink), I couldn't help but notice the birds flying in formation above me. The sky was a ruddy gray with the sun not yet up and their silhouette was almost surreal. The thing that struck me, however, was these birds were always together. I don't know what kind they were and it really doesn't matter, but they were in some kind of formation....sometimes only three, but more often together as five. I am not even sure why these birds caught my attention, other than the fact that with ice blended lagger in front of me, I was trapped with nothing else to observe. I love that even these birds with their low maintenance lifestyles and minuscule brains needed companionship. Don't we all? I treasure my friends here who challenge and transform me everyday. I love my insanely active kids who keep me running and make my heart sing. I adore my super hot husband and am grateful he digs me, too. Relationships are hard and often convoluted, but when we find the right ones, they make all the difference. Life is good with coffee in hand. I'll drink to that.
At the core of what I am preoccupied with today is friendship. After running the coast with Abbe, Katie and Lori (and bumping into Barry and Gary) this morning, Abbe and I went over to swim. In the dark we bantered back and forth about life and its meaning, men and relationships, kids and chaos. I can't help but love her. She has so many fabulous and irresistible qualities that entertain me. For someone as ADHD and I am, she can captivate the conversation with silly stories and crazy antics, analogies and jokes. Her mannerisms are priceless and her wit unsurpassed. She is complicated and multi-faceted, but so simple and happy all the same.
As I sat in the Starbucks drive-through line after our workouts (and cursed the guy in front of me for clogging the system with his fluffy blended whatever drink), I couldn't help but notice the birds flying in formation above me. The sky was a ruddy gray with the sun not yet up and their silhouette was almost surreal. The thing that struck me, however, was these birds were always together. I don't know what kind they were and it really doesn't matter, but they were in some kind of formation....sometimes only three, but more often together as five. I am not even sure why these birds caught my attention, other than the fact that with ice blended lagger in front of me, I was trapped with nothing else to observe. I love that even these birds with their low maintenance lifestyles and minuscule brains needed companionship. Don't we all? I treasure my friends here who challenge and transform me everyday. I love my insanely active kids who keep me running and make my heart sing. I adore my super hot husband and am grateful he digs me, too. Relationships are hard and often convoluted, but when we find the right ones, they make all the difference. Life is good with coffee in hand. I'll drink to that.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
My Heart Will Choose to Say...
...blessed be the Lord.
Though my eyes read the news,
My heart refused to believe.
Though confirmed you would not live,
I find it impossible to grieve.
Certainly you wouldn't leave us-
Not like this, not now?
My mind is trying to absorb it,
But my heart just doesn't know how.
We begged God for your life,
How we all still need you here!
But not all prayers are answered,
I walk heavy with sorrow and fear.
You lived your life out loud for God,
And with such humility and grace.
Always above the mediocre scene,
Culminating in one final race.
Your warmth, your smile, your encouragement,
Overflowed to us like a fountain.
But now I am stuck, dismayed, and broken,
Grief before me like a mountain.
So I ask how is this possible?
The wind, sea, or miles could not beat you.
The trails you ran, the races you won,
How could the asphalt defeat you?
I will always think of your quiet ways.
I will forever remember your kind voice.
We begged God for His great mercy,
But I guess circumstances left little choice.
We are all so blessed to have called you "friend",
And I cannot stop asking, "Why? Why?"
I am not sure how healing begins,
When I still cannot accept that you died.
I admit that I cannot understand
Why some God leaves, and some He takes?
But this I know: you are running with the Lord,
For now, I run with a heart that breaks.
Though my eyes read the news,
My heart refused to believe.
Though confirmed you would not live,
I find it impossible to grieve.
Certainly you wouldn't leave us-
Not like this, not now?
My mind is trying to absorb it,
But my heart just doesn't know how.
We begged God for your life,
How we all still need you here!
But not all prayers are answered,
I walk heavy with sorrow and fear.
You lived your life out loud for God,
And with such humility and grace.
Always above the mediocre scene,
Culminating in one final race.
Your warmth, your smile, your encouragement,
Overflowed to us like a fountain.
But now I am stuck, dismayed, and broken,
Grief before me like a mountain.
So I ask how is this possible?
The wind, sea, or miles could not beat you.
The trails you ran, the races you won,
How could the asphalt defeat you?
I will always think of your quiet ways.
I will forever remember your kind voice.
We begged God for His great mercy,
But I guess circumstances left little choice.
We are all so blessed to have called you "friend",
And I cannot stop asking, "Why? Why?"
I am not sure how healing begins,
When I still cannot accept that you died.
I admit that I cannot understand
Why some God leaves, and some He takes?
But this I know: you are running with the Lord,
For now, I run with a heart that breaks.
Monday, June 23, 2008
It's Been Fun
I can't stand people who are not humble. People who need credit for what they do, have done, plan on doing. I can't stand self-serving, self-centered people who want the world to realize how great they are because they said so. That is sort of what this blog feels like to me now; am I no better than some pathetic jerk giving herself props about nothing in particular? I don't want to be someone who is keeping the scorecard and showing it to anyone who will look or listen. I have known too many people like this.
Marc, I love you for so many reasons, but mostly for your humility, for never taking credit for any of your amazing athletic (or professional) endeavors and conquests. You are amazing to me in so many ways and I love that you ride 200 miles on your bike for fun without a needing so much as a nod of approval from anyone else. Thanks for always being a superstar and not thinking you are. Your daughter is just like you. She swam a 500 tonight at workout and thought nothing of it, and I think she may have swam it faster than I can. You guys rock. Thanks for being my rock.
Marc, I love you for so many reasons, but mostly for your humility, for never taking credit for any of your amazing athletic (or professional) endeavors and conquests. You are amazing to me in so many ways and I love that you ride 200 miles on your bike for fun without a needing so much as a nod of approval from anyone else. Thanks for always being a superstar and not thinking you are. Your daughter is just like you. She swam a 500 tonight at workout and thought nothing of it, and I think she may have swam it faster than I can. You guys rock. Thanks for being my rock.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Summer Lovin
Hours of beach time is what we are logging. All weekend long and now into Junior Guards today, we have seen way too much sun, but have loved every minute of it. I ran with Susan this morning, just like old times, as we pounded out the old course in the dark morning hours. It was as if a day had not gone by, though I worried the kids would wake up for my friend, Sharon, before I got back in the door.
I squeaked in a second run with the boy in the jogger while Owen was duck diving waves in Guards. The water looked anything but inviting, cold and dark blue. I wondered how she was dealing with going from 89 degree water to 65 degree temps? That girl is unstoppable and never complains; I was elated to watch from a distance while they navigated the boogie boards and ran along the shore. Ryan and I stopped at Power House Park on the way back from our run to swing and admired the many surfers and dolphins at play down below. Then it was back to the beach for more sand time, playing king of the mountain at one of Del Mar's many life guard towers, and hanging out with friends. With the fair in the landscape, it felt like summer is truly upon us, and it is! How could it be so long ago that I worked at Jake's in college and now I sat not far from it, as a parent, a wife, a mere visitor to these beaches? How could I have known so long ago what my story would be? I am not sure I would have written the book exactly this way, but God is the author of my life and He knows.
My kids have gone to bed raisins every night, between pool, ocean, pool and then showers before retiring. They really are water babies, their father's kids, wanting to be wet all of the time. I hope they inherit many of his numerous qualities and attributes, among those his affection for all things water. I hope my little Guard will soon swim the ocean like he does, with respect but also with a dose of reckless abandon. What is summer without the ocean? I have never known it any other way.
I squeaked in a second run with the boy in the jogger while Owen was duck diving waves in Guards. The water looked anything but inviting, cold and dark blue. I wondered how she was dealing with going from 89 degree water to 65 degree temps? That girl is unstoppable and never complains; I was elated to watch from a distance while they navigated the boogie boards and ran along the shore. Ryan and I stopped at Power House Park on the way back from our run to swing and admired the many surfers and dolphins at play down below. Then it was back to the beach for more sand time, playing king of the mountain at one of Del Mar's many life guard towers, and hanging out with friends. With the fair in the landscape, it felt like summer is truly upon us, and it is! How could it be so long ago that I worked at Jake's in college and now I sat not far from it, as a parent, a wife, a mere visitor to these beaches? How could I have known so long ago what my story would be? I am not sure I would have written the book exactly this way, but God is the author of my life and He knows.
My kids have gone to bed raisins every night, between pool, ocean, pool and then showers before retiring. They really are water babies, their father's kids, wanting to be wet all of the time. I hope they inherit many of his numerous qualities and attributes, among those his affection for all things water. I hope my little Guard will soon swim the ocean like he does, with respect but also with a dose of reckless abandon. What is summer without the ocean? I have never known it any other way.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
It's A Beautiful Life
Today. Here. The weather. The parks. The kids. We ran and rode the bike path. My daughter on her bike, rolling up and down the hills, while the wind blew her golden ringlets off her face, under her purple helmet. Her shoulders bearing the Florida sun, now exposed in her little tank to the warm California rays. My son, content as always in the jogging stroller, humming a song to himself, as we raced along under the liquid amber canopies. The sun was not yet high in the sky, just breaking through our tunnel of foliage, and all was right with the world. The temperature was perfect and the air was anything but humid. The ducks were just rousing from their sleep when we spotted a mom and her ten baby ducklings slipping into the water's edge along the golf course. The mountains were nothing short of miraculous, which is crazy, because I don't think I ever noticed them before.
We chased the path up and down the gently rolling hills, and though my daughter complained when she had to climb them, she never hesitated to charge down the backside ahead of me, never even looking back. She was always just within my range to yell to her, "Stay on the inside!" because I felt certain she would be clocked by someone coming too fast the opposite direction. We rode to the path's end and then turned around, her pace decidedly slower on the way back. Some guys on their fancy bikes, all decked out and looking pro, came up behind us at one point and encouraged her up the last hill, "Come on, you have to pedal.." So sweet and mild was this one man's voice, and for a moment, she pedaled with great fury as if to try to jump on the back and go with them.
"I'm thirsty, mom," she said, defeated just shy of the top of the last grade. We walked to the ridge. "Do you smell that, mom?" she asked me.
"What, lovely? The jasmine?" I replied.
"No! That sweet, sweet California air!" She scolded me for not knowing what she meant. Her scowl told me she was very disappointed in me for already taking it for granted after only one week.
"Oh! That! Of course, of course!" Really, I smelled the manure from nearby stables and the dry mustard along the path, buzzing with bees. "Yes, Dolly. I love it. I really do." Something rustled in the bushes and for a minute I thought it could be something large of the nature variety that I might not like meeting up with. But, when I realized it was gone, whatever it was, I relaxed again and continued to enjoy our moment. "Yes, my Love, I smell it."
We rambled on along the last of the path and I felt so content. But, then I remembered that this is what my life would look like if we lived here....the life of a single parent. This is how most people make it happen in San Diego: by working crazy hours and never seeing each other. Or, people are forced to farm out their kids to various daycare settings or pawn them off on other people to raise for the endless hours they have to be at work and travel, trying to make a living for their families. They have to shuffle their kids from here to there to everywhere, outsourcing daycare, in the name of earning a paycheck to carry the heavy mortgage. It is bittersweet when my son tells me he wants to go to that beautiful new school on the hill for Kindergarten and I have to tell him we have to go back East for Daddy's job for now. I don't have the heart to tell him that he and his sister will have to be home schooled in the fall since FL schools have failed us so miserably. I simply tell him, "Not this year, Honey, but maybe someday soon..."
Then I think about how I cherish all of these moments with my kids and dread the day I will have to leave them for an eight (plus) hour workday, dread the day they are old enough to not want to be with me. Right now, I want to document everything they do, capture all of their precious expressions. I savor every delicious comment they make, so why does home school feel like a prison sentence? Why is my heart filled with dread? Will we damage them more than the Florida school system already has?
Today while playing Monopoly, my kids were hilarious. We were dying laughing, practically peeing our pants every time my son or daughter or daughter's friend would bust out some crazy commentary or victory dance while collecting money or cashing in on a property. Shame on me for thinking the game was too advanced for them. Not only did they love playing it, they nearly beat me at it (2 hours later when I called bedtime). And when I told my boy to say, "Show me the money!" every time he rolled the dice, he inevitably became confused and started saying, "Give me the money!" when he threw the dice down. The girls fell to the floor in wild fits of laughter, and he was so proud of himself for carrying on such a show. His bright blue eyes blazing mischievously under that floppy blond hair, streaked with colors I cannot get a stylist to duplicate for me, as he danced around the room in sheer delight.
My friend Wendy took at long hard look at my son tonight during swim team while he was nestled in my lap and told me, "He just cannot be any more handsome. He is just so cute!" My response?
"Thank you. He looks just like his father."
And then I miss Marc like I have missed the mountains. It's a beautiful life.
We chased the path up and down the gently rolling hills, and though my daughter complained when she had to climb them, she never hesitated to charge down the backside ahead of me, never even looking back. She was always just within my range to yell to her, "Stay on the inside!" because I felt certain she would be clocked by someone coming too fast the opposite direction. We rode to the path's end and then turned around, her pace decidedly slower on the way back. Some guys on their fancy bikes, all decked out and looking pro, came up behind us at one point and encouraged her up the last hill, "Come on, you have to pedal.." So sweet and mild was this one man's voice, and for a moment, she pedaled with great fury as if to try to jump on the back and go with them.
"I'm thirsty, mom," she said, defeated just shy of the top of the last grade. We walked to the ridge. "Do you smell that, mom?" she asked me.
"What, lovely? The jasmine?" I replied.
"No! That sweet, sweet California air!" She scolded me for not knowing what she meant. Her scowl told me she was very disappointed in me for already taking it for granted after only one week.
"Oh! That! Of course, of course!" Really, I smelled the manure from nearby stables and the dry mustard along the path, buzzing with bees. "Yes, Dolly. I love it. I really do." Something rustled in the bushes and for a minute I thought it could be something large of the nature variety that I might not like meeting up with. But, when I realized it was gone, whatever it was, I relaxed again and continued to enjoy our moment. "Yes, my Love, I smell it."
We rambled on along the last of the path and I felt so content. But, then I remembered that this is what my life would look like if we lived here....the life of a single parent. This is how most people make it happen in San Diego: by working crazy hours and never seeing each other. Or, people are forced to farm out their kids to various daycare settings or pawn them off on other people to raise for the endless hours they have to be at work and travel, trying to make a living for their families. They have to shuffle their kids from here to there to everywhere, outsourcing daycare, in the name of earning a paycheck to carry the heavy mortgage. It is bittersweet when my son tells me he wants to go to that beautiful new school on the hill for Kindergarten and I have to tell him we have to go back East for Daddy's job for now. I don't have the heart to tell him that he and his sister will have to be home schooled in the fall since FL schools have failed us so miserably. I simply tell him, "Not this year, Honey, but maybe someday soon..."
Then I think about how I cherish all of these moments with my kids and dread the day I will have to leave them for an eight (plus) hour workday, dread the day they are old enough to not want to be with me. Right now, I want to document everything they do, capture all of their precious expressions. I savor every delicious comment they make, so why does home school feel like a prison sentence? Why is my heart filled with dread? Will we damage them more than the Florida school system already has?
Today while playing Monopoly, my kids were hilarious. We were dying laughing, practically peeing our pants every time my son or daughter or daughter's friend would bust out some crazy commentary or victory dance while collecting money or cashing in on a property. Shame on me for thinking the game was too advanced for them. Not only did they love playing it, they nearly beat me at it (2 hours later when I called bedtime). And when I told my boy to say, "Show me the money!" every time he rolled the dice, he inevitably became confused and started saying, "Give me the money!" when he threw the dice down. The girls fell to the floor in wild fits of laughter, and he was so proud of himself for carrying on such a show. His bright blue eyes blazing mischievously under that floppy blond hair, streaked with colors I cannot get a stylist to duplicate for me, as he danced around the room in sheer delight.
My friend Wendy took at long hard look at my son tonight during swim team while he was nestled in my lap and told me, "He just cannot be any more handsome. He is just so cute!" My response?
"Thank you. He looks just like his father."
And then I miss Marc like I have missed the mountains. It's a beautiful life.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
The March of Death
I knew better than to drink the Gatorade. I really did. But there Henry was, in all his cycling glory, at mile 12 offering his help and support. He biked ahead and got me some orange Gatorade around mile 14, and it was the best thing that ever passed my lips, until it hit my stomach and the syrupy slime sat in my belly like a rock.
Gary and I had started off together with Tracy in the same corral. Trace left us almost immediately, and we bid her farewell. He and I talked and laughed about life in Vero, his troubled history with his wife of sorts, and how San Diego is the best place to live. We ran through downtown together until we reached the climb out on the 163. He fell back and I didn't want to wait, so I charged ahead, a decision I would later regret. More on that...
Down the backside of the freeway, free falling into some kind of pace, though I had a stitch that viciously chewed away at my right side. By the time I saw Eric at mile 11, I futilely nibbled the pretzels he handed me. I knew it was a training run at that point. My legs were tired. Henry rode up next to me shortly after that point and hung on my shoulder until mile 21. We chatted like not a day had passed between our training runs, as if Florida had never come between us. He told me he is training for St. George and talked about his long runs about to begin. I couldn't really focus on what he was saying because I was feeling so bad between the stitch and then the stomach cramping that was starting. I felt nauseous, dizzy, out of sorts. I really felt light headed and tired. Mile 18 brought more friends from track. They were a welcome distraction from the pain as they cheered wildly for me. I stopped to chat for a while and it was heaven to simply stop running. On to mile 19 and I saw my friend Jody. She handed me a banana and I immediately handed it off to Henry. It was offensive to even look at that fruit, much less think about eating it.
I walked the water station at mile 19 where I was reunited with Gary walking through it, too. "I'm done, Quad," he told me. "My soleus is toast and I am done for the day. Let's take this one mile at a time." I told him my GI issues were back with a vengeance and he offered some kind of encouragement. I was in so much pain, I didn't even care. His words were meaningless, but his company was welcome. I think those earlier ambitious miles had caught up with me. I wasn't even looking at the clocks anymore and I really did not care what they read. We ran on with Henry chatting it up with Gary, since I had nothing to offer to the conversation anymore; I was out of air and out of witty things to say. I wanted to die, really. Then Theresa popped in around mile 20 plus. She was fresh and chipper, dancing around us, but I was so spent, I could barely muster a grin for her. I wanted to be anywhere but on that Ingram Bridge. I had not felt this bad since Long Beach Marathon years ago, and it was painful to relive it. I knew Marc was following me online and I knew he would be worried to see I had fallen so far off pace. I was worried I was not going to make it back to my kids, waiting for the report at Nana and Gramps' house.
Mile 21 and Gary grabbed my hand and lifted my arm as we passed under a photo opt. I had nothing. I told him I needed to walk and I wanted him to leave me. "I'm worried about you, So. Cal. I'll stay with you, really." I begged him to leave me and let me suffer in solitude because all I wanted was to walk in silence, so he did, reluctantly, leave me. I watched him trot out ahead and that was the last I saw of him that day because I literally walked every last step to the finish. I got to mile 22 and thought about pulling into a medical tent, but I knew they wouldn't let me continue. I couldn't go home without a medal or Owen would never let me hear the end of it. I felt as though I could literally lay down and take a nap...I was sleepy, tired, dizzy. I really wanted to take a power nap, but I couldn't very well do that roadside.
Mile 23 I thought I couldn't feel any worse, so I decided to open the Sports Beans I had in my back pocket. My head was spinning and my legs were sore. I ripped into the package and the smell about put me over the edge. I managed to put one, literally one, bean into my mouth and started to dry heave. I was wrong about not being able to feel any worse, because there I was at mile 24, pulled over and vomiting everything out of my stomach into the street with tons of spectators to witness the demise. As embarrassing and horrifying as this vomiting experience always is (though you think I would be used to it by now), I felt so much better. I actually really wanted to run the last two miles in, but every time I tried to move my legs in that fashion, my stomach would cramp so violently, I knew it was not a possibility. I continued my death march all the way to finish 4:36. Sadly, a new all time slow record. Before this, my worst marathon was 3:57 and I think that was shortly after giving birth to baby number two. Seeing my picture at the finish, I am hunched over in pain, because my stomach felt like the lining was being ripped out of it; to jostle it even a little when I skipped under the final clock was pure agony and sheer torture.
What went wrong? Well, I don't want to make any excuses for myself. I ran too hard coming out of the gates, I was not properly hydrated, and I put the nails in my coffin when I drank that sports drink. What was I thinking? I was thinking that my body felt tired, depleted, and I could not get my legs to fire. Really, I felt like I had no turn over at all, so I was hoping for a miracle in that drink. The miracle never came, only the GI distress.
What did I take away from this experience? I have great friends, a great husband who was cheering for me all the way, and a great town to experience it all in. What do I care about the time? I am a slacker, remember? When Abbe called me for the report that afternoon and I gave it to her, she chirped, without ever having read this blog or known of its existence, "YES! You are one of us now!" So what? I am happy to be in So Cal, even here now in Malibu, Home of the Freakishly Skinny, Land of the Botox. I love LA.
Gary and I had started off together with Tracy in the same corral. Trace left us almost immediately, and we bid her farewell. He and I talked and laughed about life in Vero, his troubled history with his wife of sorts, and how San Diego is the best place to live. We ran through downtown together until we reached the climb out on the 163. He fell back and I didn't want to wait, so I charged ahead, a decision I would later regret. More on that...
Down the backside of the freeway, free falling into some kind of pace, though I had a stitch that viciously chewed away at my right side. By the time I saw Eric at mile 11, I futilely nibbled the pretzels he handed me. I knew it was a training run at that point. My legs were tired. Henry rode up next to me shortly after that point and hung on my shoulder until mile 21. We chatted like not a day had passed between our training runs, as if Florida had never come between us. He told me he is training for St. George and talked about his long runs about to begin. I couldn't really focus on what he was saying because I was feeling so bad between the stitch and then the stomach cramping that was starting. I felt nauseous, dizzy, out of sorts. I really felt light headed and tired. Mile 18 brought more friends from track. They were a welcome distraction from the pain as they cheered wildly for me. I stopped to chat for a while and it was heaven to simply stop running. On to mile 19 and I saw my friend Jody. She handed me a banana and I immediately handed it off to Henry. It was offensive to even look at that fruit, much less think about eating it.
I walked the water station at mile 19 where I was reunited with Gary walking through it, too. "I'm done, Quad," he told me. "My soleus is toast and I am done for the day. Let's take this one mile at a time." I told him my GI issues were back with a vengeance and he offered some kind of encouragement. I was in so much pain, I didn't even care. His words were meaningless, but his company was welcome. I think those earlier ambitious miles had caught up with me. I wasn't even looking at the clocks anymore and I really did not care what they read. We ran on with Henry chatting it up with Gary, since I had nothing to offer to the conversation anymore; I was out of air and out of witty things to say. I wanted to die, really. Then Theresa popped in around mile 20 plus. She was fresh and chipper, dancing around us, but I was so spent, I could barely muster a grin for her. I wanted to be anywhere but on that Ingram Bridge. I had not felt this bad since Long Beach Marathon years ago, and it was painful to relive it. I knew Marc was following me online and I knew he would be worried to see I had fallen so far off pace. I was worried I was not going to make it back to my kids, waiting for the report at Nana and Gramps' house.
Mile 21 and Gary grabbed my hand and lifted my arm as we passed under a photo opt. I had nothing. I told him I needed to walk and I wanted him to leave me. "I'm worried about you, So. Cal. I'll stay with you, really." I begged him to leave me and let me suffer in solitude because all I wanted was to walk in silence, so he did, reluctantly, leave me. I watched him trot out ahead and that was the last I saw of him that day because I literally walked every last step to the finish. I got to mile 22 and thought about pulling into a medical tent, but I knew they wouldn't let me continue. I couldn't go home without a medal or Owen would never let me hear the end of it. I felt as though I could literally lay down and take a nap...I was sleepy, tired, dizzy. I really wanted to take a power nap, but I couldn't very well do that roadside.
Mile 23 I thought I couldn't feel any worse, so I decided to open the Sports Beans I had in my back pocket. My head was spinning and my legs were sore. I ripped into the package and the smell about put me over the edge. I managed to put one, literally one, bean into my mouth and started to dry heave. I was wrong about not being able to feel any worse, because there I was at mile 24, pulled over and vomiting everything out of my stomach into the street with tons of spectators to witness the demise. As embarrassing and horrifying as this vomiting experience always is (though you think I would be used to it by now), I felt so much better. I actually really wanted to run the last two miles in, but every time I tried to move my legs in that fashion, my stomach would cramp so violently, I knew it was not a possibility. I continued my death march all the way to finish 4:36. Sadly, a new all time slow record. Before this, my worst marathon was 3:57 and I think that was shortly after giving birth to baby number two. Seeing my picture at the finish, I am hunched over in pain, because my stomach felt like the lining was being ripped out of it; to jostle it even a little when I skipped under the final clock was pure agony and sheer torture.
What went wrong? Well, I don't want to make any excuses for myself. I ran too hard coming out of the gates, I was not properly hydrated, and I put the nails in my coffin when I drank that sports drink. What was I thinking? I was thinking that my body felt tired, depleted, and I could not get my legs to fire. Really, I felt like I had no turn over at all, so I was hoping for a miracle in that drink. The miracle never came, only the GI distress.
What did I take away from this experience? I have great friends, a great husband who was cheering for me all the way, and a great town to experience it all in. What do I care about the time? I am a slacker, remember? When Abbe called me for the report that afternoon and I gave it to her, she chirped, without ever having read this blog or known of its existence, "YES! You are one of us now!" So what? I am happy to be in So Cal, even here now in Malibu, Home of the Freakishly Skinny, Land of the Botox. I love LA.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Slacker
It's raining here today for the third time. Tropical and gentle, with random bursts of downpour. I always knew it rained in the jungle, but I guess I never really understood just how much. This weather pattern almost feels normal now after 9 months. There was a little break for a few weeks from the rain, but so brief, it hardly registered as more than little. The cicadas are back now, too, with their tiresome screeching. Summer has official arrived in Vero.
I read email from Jen yesterday, one of my best and most reliable old running partners from home. It saddened me when she told me she no longer makes the effort to get to the Tuesday and Thursday morning speed workouts anymore; she has tired of the drama and the drive to get there, so she has opted for runs around her neighborhood with Susan, another reliable. I am not sure which part made me sad? The idea that everything has changed so radically from what I once knew as my favorite workout? That my favorite people have fallen out of the habit of it? I am sure Henry and John and Mike and Renee still find their way there, but I've heard the dynamic has shifted.
My response to her was a truthful and genuine effort to affirm her new routine of speed on the tread mil with an ipod. I told her how after we succumbed to Florida, I really felt as though I might die without those heart-pounding, lung crushing, lactic acid burning workouts. Through email, I recounted how I lived and died for those track workouts, the tempo runs, the hill repeats and mile after endless mile around campus every week. When we moved here, I knew how terrifying it would be to do something so different.
I knew I had to reinvent my workouts to maintain some kind of sanity and inspiration in my routine. Here, the track requires us to climb tall, slippery gates and hide in the shadows when the cops drive by. The tempo runs here are so much harder with the oppressive humidity and hills truly do not exist. The wind has the power to blow us off the top of the bridges when we run miles, that is, when it is cool enough to not have to stop every 4 minutes to take in more water. What kind of runner would I possibly become? I felt like I was losing more and more with each passing week, and it killed me to know what I left behind; to know that life went on without me there and they were all still having fun running Blacks Beach or Bishops and Chunks.
But as I wrote to Jen, I realized something as it was in black and white before me. I am still a runner, but I have become a different kind of runner. I have had to reinvent what running means to me and what motivates me to put my shoes on every day. Here, I do not have the same reliable running resources. I don't have the beautiful, rolling hills along the Pacific or mild climate. Half the time when I would clamor over that black iron gate at the track, none of the Florida slackers would even show up. So I ran in solitude in the dark, sometimes with the sky crackling its fury above me, warning of the pending storms. I thought how stupid I was, the Californian who could not give up the workout due to a little lightning (that could have very well killed me). Everyone else knew to stay in bed after they checked the radar, but I needed that workout.
Slowly, I became friends with Lori, and while she will never take the place of Jen or anyone else, she has filled the lonely void. She will meet me for the early mile repeats or the tempos or 800s. We have created our own little speed calendar we follow religiously, despite the dilapidated track we run on. For the other days on which people are so hit or miss, I have to find it all within myself to get out there and go, often alone, in the dark. As much as all of these guys train for this Iron Man or that marathon, they are always training haphazardly, around their drinking schedules or wine tastings. There is some organization to their chaos, but for the most part, many of these guys are fly by the seat of their pants. It is true that Craig and Kimmie are very reliable warm bodies on the Tuesday/ Thursday tempo runs around the bridge loops, but most of the runners here are pick-ups along the way somewhere, if they decide to roll out of bed. But, at least I do have Craig, Kimmie and Lisa for the long weekend runs, mundane as the course is we always run over and over. Abbe, while lovable, embodies what a slacker runner really is: promises to be there at 4:30 am and then always, always sends a text over in the morning, "Going back to bed".
In all of this, I think I have come into a more meaningful, mature love of this sport. I think I have become less anal. Truly. I don't want to compare it to the dizzy high school crush that has matured into the comfortable, reliable marriage kind of love. I am still crazy about running and have a passion for it that defies understanding when I think of the monotony of my feet on the pavement. It is just that I kind of like that attitude of, "Hey, let's sign up for this race and that one, and maybe we will actually go and race." My Florida friends all wear their Garmins and clock the miles, but then travel hundreds of miles to races and turn off their alarms and sleep in if the weather is less than ideal. My friends here have a more laid back approach to running that used to annoy me, even make me feel superior that I was more consistent. That lax attitude would strike fear in my heart that I might become that runner with *gasp* balance, if I hung around them too much, as though it were a dreadful and highly contagious leprosy. As much as I hate to admit it, they have won me over to the middle somewhere.
So, why do they still call me "Quad"? AAAA Personality I am not so much anymore when I think of where I started from. I just may not even wear my watch for Rock N Roll to prove it to myself. I'll see how I feel when I wake up Sunday.
I read email from Jen yesterday, one of my best and most reliable old running partners from home. It saddened me when she told me she no longer makes the effort to get to the Tuesday and Thursday morning speed workouts anymore; she has tired of the drama and the drive to get there, so she has opted for runs around her neighborhood with Susan, another reliable. I am not sure which part made me sad? The idea that everything has changed so radically from what I once knew as my favorite workout? That my favorite people have fallen out of the habit of it? I am sure Henry and John and Mike and Renee still find their way there, but I've heard the dynamic has shifted.
My response to her was a truthful and genuine effort to affirm her new routine of speed on the tread mil with an ipod. I told her how after we succumbed to Florida, I really felt as though I might die without those heart-pounding, lung crushing, lactic acid burning workouts. Through email, I recounted how I lived and died for those track workouts, the tempo runs, the hill repeats and mile after endless mile around campus every week. When we moved here, I knew how terrifying it would be to do something so different.
I knew I had to reinvent my workouts to maintain some kind of sanity and inspiration in my routine. Here, the track requires us to climb tall, slippery gates and hide in the shadows when the cops drive by. The tempo runs here are so much harder with the oppressive humidity and hills truly do not exist. The wind has the power to blow us off the top of the bridges when we run miles, that is, when it is cool enough to not have to stop every 4 minutes to take in more water. What kind of runner would I possibly become? I felt like I was losing more and more with each passing week, and it killed me to know what I left behind; to know that life went on without me there and they were all still having fun running Blacks Beach or Bishops and Chunks.
But as I wrote to Jen, I realized something as it was in black and white before me. I am still a runner, but I have become a different kind of runner. I have had to reinvent what running means to me and what motivates me to put my shoes on every day. Here, I do not have the same reliable running resources. I don't have the beautiful, rolling hills along the Pacific or mild climate. Half the time when I would clamor over that black iron gate at the track, none of the Florida slackers would even show up. So I ran in solitude in the dark, sometimes with the sky crackling its fury above me, warning of the pending storms. I thought how stupid I was, the Californian who could not give up the workout due to a little lightning (that could have very well killed me). Everyone else knew to stay in bed after they checked the radar, but I needed that workout.
Slowly, I became friends with Lori, and while she will never take the place of Jen or anyone else, she has filled the lonely void. She will meet me for the early mile repeats or the tempos or 800s. We have created our own little speed calendar we follow religiously, despite the dilapidated track we run on. For the other days on which people are so hit or miss, I have to find it all within myself to get out there and go, often alone, in the dark. As much as all of these guys train for this Iron Man or that marathon, they are always training haphazardly, around their drinking schedules or wine tastings. There is some organization to their chaos, but for the most part, many of these guys are fly by the seat of their pants. It is true that Craig and Kimmie are very reliable warm bodies on the Tuesday/ Thursday tempo runs around the bridge loops, but most of the runners here are pick-ups along the way somewhere, if they decide to roll out of bed. But, at least I do have Craig, Kimmie and Lisa for the long weekend runs, mundane as the course is we always run over and over. Abbe, while lovable, embodies what a slacker runner really is: promises to be there at 4:30 am and then always, always sends a text over in the morning, "Going back to bed".
In all of this, I think I have come into a more meaningful, mature love of this sport. I think I have become less anal. Truly. I don't want to compare it to the dizzy high school crush that has matured into the comfortable, reliable marriage kind of love. I am still crazy about running and have a passion for it that defies understanding when I think of the monotony of my feet on the pavement. It is just that I kind of like that attitude of, "Hey, let's sign up for this race and that one, and maybe we will actually go and race." My Florida friends all wear their Garmins and clock the miles, but then travel hundreds of miles to races and turn off their alarms and sleep in if the weather is less than ideal. My friends here have a more laid back approach to running that used to annoy me, even make me feel superior that I was more consistent. That lax attitude would strike fear in my heart that I might become that runner with *gasp* balance, if I hung around them too much, as though it were a dreadful and highly contagious leprosy. As much as I hate to admit it, they have won me over to the middle somewhere.
So, why do they still call me "Quad"? AAAA Personality I am not so much anymore when I think of where I started from. I just may not even wear my watch for Rock N Roll to prove it to myself. I'll see how I feel when I wake up Sunday.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Until Florida Summer Do We Part
"Two months is a long time when you love someone." This was Abbe's response to me when I told her we will only be gone for 8 weeks. I am told there are bets going around the running group as to whether or not I really am returning to Florida with the kids at summer's end. Lori said she is going to punish me tomorrow at our speed workout for "abandoning" her. I keep telling them that my skin has already reaped all the benefits of the humidity and I need a little break now that I am flawless. Right. I have to come back here, if I want to remain married, that is.
Ipod. Great White Kenyan. Don Julio. Angel. Country. Abbalicious. These are the aliases I run with each morning, and as much as I hate to admit it, I am going to miss them, too. I love them and, amazingly, for as much as I bash Florida, they love me too. Shoot. I might even miss my husband (who is more Florida every day), but apparently not enough to suck it up and endure the weather here for the summer. Today was misery. Gray skies, black clouds, torrential downpour, crashing thunder and furious lightning. Was that a hurricane today with the wind factor? How do people live with the weather dictating what they can and cannot do? Yesterday's swim workout was canceled due to lightning and today tennis was rained out. What kind of fun is that?
Actually, I am going to miss Marc with every fiber in me. I know I will ache for the time he comes to visit us on the West Coast, but I figure since I give him ten months here, he can give me two months there. He is kind and compassionate, supportive and attentive. How could I want for anything more? I love that his running shorts are stored in the drawer in his closet above any of his other clothes. That is just the kind of guy he is...an athlete before anything else. I just wish he would stop running the remote jungle trails with huge gators. I wish I were kidding about this point, but I am not even exaggerating. Apparently, he thinks he is Tarzan of the Jungle now, able to run zig zags faster than those handbags can snatch him. I hate nature. I do love a man in a Speedo, however, and he wears it well. I love a man who posts pictures of his kid's triathlon on his blog. And, I love a man in cute, short running shorts with bronzed legs. Did I mention that I love swimmers? What a guy.
Swim meet this weekend for the girl. End of season tennis party and awards Saturday. 5K on Monday for the girl who never stops moving (my daughter). Marc's big presentation, house sitter interviews, volunteer celebration, send off dinners, pediatrician appointments, last ten miler run....we are almost out of here...........
Ipod. Great White Kenyan. Don Julio. Angel. Country. Abbalicious. These are the aliases I run with each morning, and as much as I hate to admit it, I am going to miss them, too. I love them and, amazingly, for as much as I bash Florida, they love me too. Shoot. I might even miss my husband (who is more Florida every day), but apparently not enough to suck it up and endure the weather here for the summer. Today was misery. Gray skies, black clouds, torrential downpour, crashing thunder and furious lightning. Was that a hurricane today with the wind factor? How do people live with the weather dictating what they can and cannot do? Yesterday's swim workout was canceled due to lightning and today tennis was rained out. What kind of fun is that?
Actually, I am going to miss Marc with every fiber in me. I know I will ache for the time he comes to visit us on the West Coast, but I figure since I give him ten months here, he can give me two months there. He is kind and compassionate, supportive and attentive. How could I want for anything more? I love that his running shorts are stored in the drawer in his closet above any of his other clothes. That is just the kind of guy he is...an athlete before anything else. I just wish he would stop running the remote jungle trails with huge gators. I wish I were kidding about this point, but I am not even exaggerating. Apparently, he thinks he is Tarzan of the Jungle now, able to run zig zags faster than those handbags can snatch him. I hate nature. I do love a man in a Speedo, however, and he wears it well. I love a man who posts pictures of his kid's triathlon on his blog. And, I love a man in cute, short running shorts with bronzed legs. Did I mention that I love swimmers? What a guy.
Swim meet this weekend for the girl. End of season tennis party and awards Saturday. 5K on Monday for the girl who never stops moving (my daughter). Marc's big presentation, house sitter interviews, volunteer celebration, send off dinners, pediatrician appointments, last ten miler run....we are almost out of here...........
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Banyan Day
My kids love banyan trees, especially my son. I love how they appear to be something right off the pages of a mythical novel or enchanted, morose poem. Something about how their shoots grow down to the earth, rather than up into the light, is eerie and depressing, but beautiful at the same time. I am not sure if this unique characteristic is what fascinates my son, but he loves these trees. Every time we pass one, he will call out its existence, "Mommy! A banyan tree! A banyan tree!" Or maybe it was my grooming because I have always loved these trees, too, and encouraged them to appreciate their unique beauty.
This morning I headed out for a leisurely run. I stepped outside into the morning haze at sunrise, bracing myself for the humid greeting. Surprisingly, it wasn't as bad as yesterday and the day before, so I happily skipped right into some kind of warm up pace. The ocean was quiet, serene and calm. I passed a large banyan on my way through our beach neighborhood, and immediately thought of my kids and what it means to be a mom on this Mother's Day. I think my favorite part about being a mom is that I get to so closely experience their natural curiosity and wonder about the world around them. The questions never stop, the learning never ceases, and the knowledge only builds on the previous. Maybe in that way, we are like banyan trees? We are constantly spreading our roots to become bigger, better, and cover more ground.
After all, kids start out as little epiphytes, like the banyan, needing a host to take care of them until they can spread their roots out and provide for themselves. And, like the banyan, their growth and need for space never ceases, it only increases with age. I can only hope that my kids grow with the same diligence and character as a banyan, mysterious and strong, determined, if sometimes seemingly headed the wrong way. In the end, it is a beautiful picture and speaks volumes about personality.
This morning I headed out for a leisurely run. I stepped outside into the morning haze at sunrise, bracing myself for the humid greeting. Surprisingly, it wasn't as bad as yesterday and the day before, so I happily skipped right into some kind of warm up pace. The ocean was quiet, serene and calm. I passed a large banyan on my way through our beach neighborhood, and immediately thought of my kids and what it means to be a mom on this Mother's Day. I think my favorite part about being a mom is that I get to so closely experience their natural curiosity and wonder about the world around them. The questions never stop, the learning never ceases, and the knowledge only builds on the previous. Maybe in that way, we are like banyan trees? We are constantly spreading our roots to become bigger, better, and cover more ground.
After all, kids start out as little epiphytes, like the banyan, needing a host to take care of them until they can spread their roots out and provide for themselves. And, like the banyan, their growth and need for space never ceases, it only increases with age. I can only hope that my kids grow with the same diligence and character as a banyan, mysterious and strong, determined, if sometimes seemingly headed the wrong way. In the end, it is a beautiful picture and speaks volumes about personality.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Here Comes Summer
I walked out my door this morning into a blanket of heat and humidity. Yep, 4:15 in the morning and summer greeted me with a wretched grip on my lungs. I took about four steps and saw the lightning over the ocean in front of me. Somewhere far over the water a storm was raging, but thankfully not where we planned our run. Lori met me and ran the first 10 miles with me, then I ran 11 or 12 more...not really sure, since the heat was making me kind of delirious. I know I left the house Friday morning, but it sure felt like I returned Monday sometime. I came home and fell into the cool pool and lay on the bottom for a while. Heaven. I need another pair of running shoes, since I seem to be wearing each pair out so quickly as of late. I love my friends here, but I am ready to have my friends back home. Hello, Summer.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Check, Please
I feel like everyday I learn a little something about myself and the world we live in. Sometimes I think I am completely void of feeling anything at all when it comes to reacting to trauma and tragedy. Other times, I am sure I am a raving lunatic with emotions wildly out of control. I am not sure why some things hit me so hard and other things barely scratch the surface?
I am still completely perplexed and disturbed by the whole shark attack in San Diego. Why did that man have to be eaten by a large fish? On his first swim back in the Pacific headed into the tri season, why was he picked off in such an unlikely place among his friends? Thoughts of large sharks have always plagued me while out in the water, particularly while fighting my way through the kelp out at the Cove, but never did I think someone would really, really be attacked. Perhaps I thought someone might have an encounter with a fish that could devastate, but not really be savagely and gruesomely eaten in that manner. This haunts me at night when I think about getting in the ocean again.
Perspective is always a good thing and I realize when we take on the wild, we do not always win. This is why I hate nature...I despise it. For as much as we eat all things natural in our house, I really do not appreciate the animal part of nature's offerings. As of late, when I feel like I am having a bad day, I think about the misery of this man's family he left behind when he so innocently left for a swim that morning. How could he know how many lives he would impact that day? Certainly he did not think he would become a statistic and be Googled by the masses.
Back to lesser complaints, my foot is acting up and not so happy about all the mileage I am running these days. I just signed up for Marine Corps marathon in fall so that I have another little something to look forward to when we return after a summer hiatus. Sometimes so many things around here seem so bleak, then I tell myself, "Well, at least I wasn't sampled by a shark today". Today the blues have crept back in after I said good bye to my brother at the airport. He understands my pain in ways other people do not seem to engage or want to entertain, which is okay. It almost killed me to let go of him when he stepped out of my car and as my son said through choked back tears, "I like when Unc-ie goes back to Los Angeles" as if trying to convince himself he was happy to see his beloved uncle leave. How did it come to this again?
I am still high from our Team's successful completion of each of their events, as well as my girl's first triathlon. She was a hero last weekend, so calm and collected in a field of 800 athletes, unfazed and unscathed by course or characters. Though she accidentally swam an extra 50, she is an amazing gem and I adore the child she is. Standing at the finish in all her glory, with her shorts hanging off her slight frame, race chip around her ankle, and medal around her neck, was one of my proudest moments. Again, these are the things that make it worthwhile and I will worship the One who makes it all possible. Please, God, don't let me ever know the pain of losing someone I love to the jaws of a shark. Why does it take a tragedy to make us feel alive? Only then do we appreciate how much we have, even while living among the sandy dunes of Florida. I still wish we could be done here.
I am still completely perplexed and disturbed by the whole shark attack in San Diego. Why did that man have to be eaten by a large fish? On his first swim back in the Pacific headed into the tri season, why was he picked off in such an unlikely place among his friends? Thoughts of large sharks have always plagued me while out in the water, particularly while fighting my way through the kelp out at the Cove, but never did I think someone would really, really be attacked. Perhaps I thought someone might have an encounter with a fish that could devastate, but not really be savagely and gruesomely eaten in that manner. This haunts me at night when I think about getting in the ocean again.
Perspective is always a good thing and I realize when we take on the wild, we do not always win. This is why I hate nature...I despise it. For as much as we eat all things natural in our house, I really do not appreciate the animal part of nature's offerings. As of late, when I feel like I am having a bad day, I think about the misery of this man's family he left behind when he so innocently left for a swim that morning. How could he know how many lives he would impact that day? Certainly he did not think he would become a statistic and be Googled by the masses.
Back to lesser complaints, my foot is acting up and not so happy about all the mileage I am running these days. I just signed up for Marine Corps marathon in fall so that I have another little something to look forward to when we return after a summer hiatus. Sometimes so many things around here seem so bleak, then I tell myself, "Well, at least I wasn't sampled by a shark today". Today the blues have crept back in after I said good bye to my brother at the airport. He understands my pain in ways other people do not seem to engage or want to entertain, which is okay. It almost killed me to let go of him when he stepped out of my car and as my son said through choked back tears, "I like when Unc-ie goes back to Los Angeles" as if trying to convince himself he was happy to see his beloved uncle leave. How did it come to this again?
I am still high from our Team's successful completion of each of their events, as well as my girl's first triathlon. She was a hero last weekend, so calm and collected in a field of 800 athletes, unfazed and unscathed by course or characters. Though she accidentally swam an extra 50, she is an amazing gem and I adore the child she is. Standing at the finish in all her glory, with her shorts hanging off her slight frame, race chip around her ankle, and medal around her neck, was one of my proudest moments. Again, these are the things that make it worthwhile and I will worship the One who makes it all possible. Please, God, don't let me ever know the pain of losing someone I love to the jaws of a shark. Why does it take a tragedy to make us feel alive? Only then do we appreciate how much we have, even while living among the sandy dunes of Florida. I still wish we could be done here.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Lesson Learned
"The Lord is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love. And the Lord is good to all; He has compassion on all that He has made. As far as the East is from the West, that's how far He has removed our transgressions from us. Praise the Lord, oh my soul, praise the Lord."- Vineyard UK
This song got its inspiration from more than ten verses in the Bible. I count at least 15 places where we are told God is "gracious and compassionate" and loves us, despite who we are. I am an ugly, despicable human being, weak and without direction. I have so many regrets and I am so lost, but He is my compass. I am ready to stop grieving and start moving forward in love. I want people to know Him through the love and light that I know lives in me. Darkness doesn't live here anymore because I am not defined by my location, but by my vocation. It's taken some time and some soul searching, but I think I finally get it.
This song got its inspiration from more than ten verses in the Bible. I count at least 15 places where we are told God is "gracious and compassionate" and loves us, despite who we are. I am an ugly, despicable human being, weak and without direction. I have so many regrets and I am so lost, but He is my compass. I am ready to stop grieving and start moving forward in love. I want people to know Him through the love and light that I know lives in me. Darkness doesn't live here anymore because I am not defined by my location, but by my vocation. It's taken some time and some soul searching, but I think I finally get it.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Puzzle Me
I have come to accept the fact that I have little imagination. I have a very difficult time seeing outside of my own viewpoint, and this cripples me. Working with my daughter tonight on a puzzle game, trying to fit together various pliable pentagons in a specific fashion to create artwork, I could not see the bigger picture and make it take shape. That is, I could not manage to form the intended "princess with crown" and have her take on a life of her own, because I could not see past the directions and what I was imagining she was to look like. I was viewing it all wrong from the start, and the sides would not mesh the way I wanted them to. It was near impossible to conceptualize the end product while lost in the moment was so confusing and miserable. Life imitates art in so many ways.
I ran circles in the dark with Lori this morning. 800 cut downs. We kvetched about life in Vero: the schools that fail us, the miserable humidity that is back like a regretful memory, and the lightning that chased us around the wet track. The weather put a damper on my swim, as well, which was not all that disappointing. Today was gray in more ways than just the sky. The breakfast dishes are still piled up in the sink because I cannot seem to find the time or inclination to do them today. I think I am missing a big part of the picture somewhere here, but I cannot seem to put the pieces together and make it look like something that is functional.
I ran circles in the dark with Lori this morning. 800 cut downs. We kvetched about life in Vero: the schools that fail us, the miserable humidity that is back like a regretful memory, and the lightning that chased us around the wet track. The weather put a damper on my swim, as well, which was not all that disappointing. Today was gray in more ways than just the sky. The breakfast dishes are still piled up in the sink because I cannot seem to find the time or inclination to do them today. I think I am missing a big part of the picture somewhere here, but I cannot seem to put the pieces together and make it look like something that is functional.
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