Run Wild

the space between

2012-02-08T20:14:00.000-08:00

My favorite training run that I never do is the Split Tempo. As opposed to doing 30 minutes of solid tempo running, the Split Tempo asks that you do more, but break it up. Example: 20 minutes at tempo, jog easy for a bit, then 20 minutes more. The end result: more quantity (and quality) time at Tempo, done so gently.

I woke up yesterday rather tired, sad, and oddly at peace. A storm was brewing outside, as was within, and I ran right into the Eye of it. I’ve said before, the eye of the storm is where I find God. I was also hoping to find my tempo here.

After a few of miles spent simultaneously gawking at glorious waves crashing recklessly against the shore and getting thrashed as my own small body pushed fiercely into the wind, I realized I simply couldn’t do it. I could not hold Tempo. Not for the whole course.

And so I slowed down and let the weather lull my body to a gentle jog, breathing through the intensity and embracing the need for a pause.

In that holy pause I heard the words of my yoga teacher: “The space between is as important as each asana.”

I let the Rest do its work and gradually moved into a second phase of Tempo. 20 more minutes. It was hard work. Heart Work. But it was doable. Thanks to the space between.

I took another yoga class tonight, with a different teacher, and was blessed with more wise teaching as I sweat my way through a most paradoxical grueling bliss. “So much healing happens when you can be still in the space between,” she said. We all knew she was talking about more than the savasanas bracketing each pose. “Find your stillness, and for God’s sake, let it feel good!”

Wow.

Let. It. Feel. Good.

Perhaps it’s a runner thing. Perhaps it’s a type-A “achiever” thing. Perhaps it’s in my family-of-origin DNA. But I tend to operate from the belief that it’s only working if it’s hard…if it hurts.

What is that?

I experienced first-hand on that Split Tempo run that more quality (and quantity!) of Tempo comes from taking a holy pause in the middle. And as I watched the waves slamming the shoreline, I shifted my focus from the white plumes of water to the Space Between each crash. Such peace in that expectant refrain…

And tonight, as I moved from asana to asana on my trusty yoga mat, I paid more attention to savasana than to the “harder” stretches, realizing savasana may be the hardest one of all for me to master. All it asks is that I lie there in utter stillness and rest, “held there” as my teacher described, trusting…

Dear God, that can be terrifying.

And yet, as another teacher of mine likes to say, "The space between is where God is. Freedom is another name for the space between."

The space between is where healing happens. It is the space of rejuvenation and restoration, where awareness begins to arise. Without this holy pause, this profound, full-body breath, all of our movement is fruitless.

The other day I complained to Luke that my body was sore from the bikram and the running and the Everything Else. “Yeah, mine too,” he said with the tone of a grandfather. “But we should be grateful for our bodies, and have peace, and put some sweetness on us.”

Point taken.

For all the hard work - the Heart Work - we take on, may we allow some Space Between. May we be grateful. May we have peace. May we add a measure of sweetness.

And for God’s sake, may we let it feel good.

too beautiful

2012-02-07T21:36:00.000-08:00

“Too Beautiful”…

We say these words the moment we fear we’re about to lose Beauty. The beauty in front of our eyes, the beauty at our very fingertips…it holds an illusion of temporariness.

This afternoon my son and I spent hours in Lemon Meditation. We picked lemons from the tree in our yard, squeezing the juices, zesting the peels, and carting wheelbarrow loads back and forth to the compost. We did the work mostly in silence, though at one point Luke said, “Is this fun work, Mama?”

“Yes,” I told him. “I sure think so.”

“I do too,” he said. “This is beautiful.”

Too beautiful, I thought wistfully.

We say “too beautiful” because it’s the kind of beautiful that hurts like hell when it’s gone.

And therein lays the myth.

Beauty is never gone.

In the moments we imagine it so, we’ve taken ourselves out of reality and into the greatest lie of humanity: that there’s such a thing as the absence of Beauty.

Beauty is eternal. It manifests in all manner of ways, and we tend to attach ourselves to the ways we “like” Beauty to look and feel in our lives.

But it’s in the letting go of the “manner”, in the opening to the truth that Beauty is always here, in the trusting of the purpose of its current form…

that we are free.

We are free to enjoy Beauty, embody her, let her flow in and through and out to the world around. This, I firmly believe, is why we’re here.

And in this freedom we move from a squinty-eyed, sideways glancing “Too Beautiful”, to an open-hearted, head-on dive into the truth, that “This, too, is Beautiful.”

The other day Luke told me I am beautiful. He detailed my face, my neck, my cheeks, my feet, my heart, the “outside" of my face (my aura?)…

I reflected back his striking beauty, and with this meditation on my heart, I asked him, “Is there such a thing as too beautiful?”

“Yes,” he said.

“What is too beautiful?” I asked.

“The Bright,” he said.

Yes…at times we turn away from Beauty the way we turn away from the sun, simply because the light exceeds our eyes’ capacity to hold it.

It isn’t that the Light is too beautiful, or too bright, or too anything. It is simply that in this moment, the natural, protective response is to close the eyes so as not to be burned, and to open the heart to feel the Warmth that emanates most gently, wherever we stand.

Sometimes we see most clearly with our eyes closed.

infinite

2012-02-03T21:58:00.000-08:00

so many miles,
and we've only just begun.
as much as lies behind
now lies ahead,
uncharted.
infinity.
infinite love,
infinite being,
infinite grace,
infinite Light
reaches everywhere
at the same time,
and holds us all.

upward spiral

2012-01-31T21:27:00.000-08:00

We are always moving. Though, contrary to the “forward or backward” concept, I tend to think more in terms of upward and downward. Life is not a straight line, and our journey through is not one-dimensional. When I see life, when I see movement, I see a spiral.

I’ve written about this before, I think, the dynamic of one negative statement inviting another and another until all parties involved are plummeting in a downward spiral. And on the flipside, positive comments breed more and more until all parties involved are ascending up and out as far as the heart can see. A Positive Psychology professor of mine at Santa Clara illustrated the difference between the stereotypical teenage girl conversation and the ultimate dialogue between two healthy, whole, embodied women.

The girls: “I’m fat.” “No I’m fat.” “Oh my God, you’re not fat. Do you see this? I am so much fatter than you.” And on and on it goes.

The women: “You are so beautiful.” “Thank you! And you…simply gorgeous.” “Ah, I love you.” “I love YOU!” And up and up it goes.

I’ve been a part of both dynamics. And let me tell you, that upward spiral is a beautiful thing. Luke and I journeyed upward this afternoon as we walked through Wilder, me saying “Luke, I just love ya kid”, and him saying, “I love you too, mom. You’re beautiful”…and me saying, “Thank you! YOU are beautiful.” And on and on we went until he decided to talk about boogers.

When on our way up, it’s so tempting to fly. It feels rediculously good to be Up There with the stars and the angels and the weightless bliss. Yet a straight shot to the moon misses one very important element of the upward spiral: breadth.

It’s possible to move slowly, in rhythm, during this eternal ascension to higher and wider living. In fact, I would suggest it is healthier to move slowly.

I tried it out today, actually, deeming it a “Rest Day”. Of course I am referring to running, though I decided to give other parts of me a break as well.

After yesterday’s rather ambitious tree climbing, intense play, running wild, and hours-long dance party with my kiddo, my muscles woke up rather stiff (okay, screaming) this morning.

And while my running has been playful (more and more speed woven in – yahoo!), the training load is heavy.

So. In respect for the yang to my yin (or however that goes), I decided to balance the running energy with yoga energy. Runners, as a whole, tend to be somewhat flexibility-challenged anyway, so I always incorporate some yoga into my post-running routine. But my 20 minutes of day-in, day-out stretching at home can not begin to compare with the all-out dripping wet gloriousness that is Bikram Yoga. The room gets hot enough to limber up the most stubborn muscles, and with the loosening of the body comes loosening of the mind and soul. From time to time when I’m feeling stuck…stiff… immovable, if you will…I drop in to 90 minutes of someone else graciously telling me what to do and how, when to move and how, when to breathe and how…ahhhhh…

No matter how fluffy or drill-sargeant-like the teachers may be on any given day, they always end class with a Namaste. Gotta love it.

Feeling rather rebellious for having skipped my run in exchange for savasana, I also feel quite the Badass Yogi for having not only survived the hour and a half of pushing my limits of flexibility at 105-degree temps, but for having done so without falling on my face. This is new for me. Look out; I’m growing.

And being able to say so without any self-deprecation is another go-round in the spiral up. “I did it” yields only more “I can do it”s. Try it some time; I dare you.

create

2012-01-28T19:43:00.000-08:00

Run free.
Run as art.
Begin with vision,
Then allow for the Piece to create herself.
Allow Peace to create herself.

Friday:
I ran as fast as I could from my front door to the sand where I had watched my son run free the day before…creating art with his bare feet in the earth and his exquisite hands moving through the air like poetry off of wine-soaked lips.

I’m preparing for back-to-back races at the end of March: a 5k one weekend and a half marathon the next. I most definitely have the base down to race 13.1 miles, thanks to a life and a heart that beg me to run through. These days, through is a long way.

I haven’t focused so much on speed lately, and it’s time I remind my body what that feels like. So, inspired by the image of my little running artist, I set out to do some sprints on the beach. Ten sprints, to be exact. Upon reaching the shore I took off my shoes and let my soles…my soul… sink in to the canvas, the gentle tease of the tide literally getting my feet wet, feeling my way into the moment. And with a Power Breath, I raced from one end of the beach to the other, rising sun bouncing off water, each stride splashing droplets of light back into the pool.

Remembering Luke’s fascination with his footprints the other day, I examined mine, viewing the straight line of tender impressions as the art I was making…the art I was being…took form in the sand.

One…Two…Three…

“Excuse me…” A woman emerged from a group standing further up the beach. Feeling ever the Strong Running Goddess in that setting, I thought this stranger might be about to comment with me on the beauty of the image. Quite the contrary. Instead, my scene was interrupted by her request for me to move off the shoreline so she and her friends could identify the gulls. “Every time you run by, you scare them off,” she commented rather flatly. I smiled, shook my head, and trotted up to the absolute hardest terrain in which to sprint: loose sand.

Four…Five…Six…Seven…

Feeling the added difficulty, and thereby the added strength building in my body, I prayed Gratitude.

Humility is a crucial part of the creative process, is it not?

And just like that, the gull watcher was back: “Thank you. We’re moving on to the lagoon now.” My canvas was clear again, and I prayed Gratitude.

Sprinting on the firm, wet sand after trudging through the less-stable ground, I felt light and strong and new.

Eight…Nine…Ten.

Done.

Sandy feet found their way into alien shoes, floating home with the keen awareness of a synthetic layer between pure skin and nature's floor.

Naked feet,
Bare as the virgin canvas on which they make their tender, strong mark.
No room for anything here but
Color.

~

Art...

We don’t always get it right the first time.
And what we get "wrong"...
*include that.*
(Thank you, Tim, for the new mantra.)
Creativity is not so elusive as to hide behind our first drafts.
Creativity is in our first drafts. And our second, third, and so on...
We can’t erase paint,
No.
But as most artists attest,
We can paint over with new,
Bold
Strokes.

~

Beloved,

Keep creating,
Keep painting,
Until
What you see on the canvas
Reflects who you are
On the inside.

Utilize every unexpected adventure in the Grand Picture that, if you let it, mirrors a most accurate portrayal of your inner beauty.

Creativity...it's not so elusive.

tempo

2012-01-24T22:59:00.000-08:00

What goes up must come down. Basic law of gravity, right? While flying high is exhilarating (and just plain fun), a crash landing nearly always follows. The crash can be exhilarating (and even fun) too, when we see that we have, in fact, survived. Adrenaline is powerfully addictive. Yet this existing in extremes is not sustainable for the heart – neither the literal one nor the figurative.

We need rhythm.

Rhythm comes in the day to day adventures like making breakfast and wheeling the trash can to the curb because it’s Tuesday night. These are two of my favorite things to do with Luke, by the way - not because they’re exhilarating or fun necessarily, but because they’re so routine that they’ve become ritual. At the breakfast table we take our vitamins, slice our apples, and say what we’re grateful for and what we pray for that day. (This morning Luke’s gratitude statement: “I’m grateful for God’s Self, peace on earth, and my cars.” His prayer: “For my self, and for my cars.”) And every Tuesday night we haul out the trash and recycle bins while looking for the moon. Tonight I showed him this very new moon of ours, only a tiny sliver of light visible as it’s just now beginning to grow. I love this stuff…finding the Holy in the Ordinary.

Rhythm comes in the day to day, and the way we practice our day to day shapes the nature of our rhythm. By our approach to life we train our hearts in how to Be…in how to sing. Do we run wild or reckless? Or do we merely shuffle our feet?

This morning as the sky turned on the Light and the air prayed pink, Luke climbed into the BOB and I ran into the sunrise. I didn’t know what the "work-out" (feels more to me like inner work) would be until my feet hit the ground. “Oooh,” I told Luke, “I’m feeling good today. We’re going to crank it up a notch.” And as my pace quickened, my body said, “Hold it right here; it’s a Tempo Day.”

The best way to describe a Tempo Run, also called a Threshold, is “comfortably hard”. The runner finds a rhythm that is well-past easy, but just shy of exhausting. She should feel as though she could maintain this pace beyond the duration of the run. The idea is to go as hard as possible without raising the heart rate out of a certain range (basically, staying out of Race-Pace Heart Rate Land).

Intention: train the heart.

Tempo running causes the heart to gently gain strength, to learn a new “normal”…a new “easy”. By staying at this threshold without pushing so hard as to go over, nor slacking off so much as to slip under, the heart learns how to move just a bit more efficiently without expending any more energy.

The metaphor is almost too easy, isn’t it?

After five miles of flirting with my limit this morning, I had enough breath remaining to report to my (not so) little passenger, “We rocked it! We pushed it and didn’t crash. Ahhhh…Yes…”

I recently heard a pastor teach on the subject of “guardrails”. He pointed out that guardrails are positioned before the road drops off so that we hit them prior to actually going over the edge (insert epiphany here).

Many of us learn by repeatedly plummeting off the edge of life, so to speak, clawing our way back up and noting to self: “Ugh. Limit.”.

And while good old trial-and-error is a powerful teacher, it takes a toll on the ticker.

Today I practiced running at Tempo, living at Tempo, loving at Tempo, working at Tempo. I experimented gently with the limits, staying grounded and listening in to the point at which the “too much” and “too close” signs could be read and respected. What a lovely practice, to walk away from the day-to-day experiences feeling stronger, taller, wiser…

I’d like to think I’m (finally) learning to move just a bit more efficiently through life without expending unnecessary energy.

In fact, the practice of moving at Tempo seems to provide energy. There is no crashing down to earth, no clawing my way back up to the surface. Instead: momentum. Two feet in the dirt and a head in the clouds getting an excellent view…perspective… and moving forward with it.

So, tomorrow morning as Luke and I sit with vitamins and apples and our trusty prayer journal, here’s what I’m writing down for All of us:

Run fast but not too fast,
Swift and in control,
Focused ahead and aware of around.
Be consistent but not complacent,
Grounded, yet inspired.
Find the Rhythm to which we can dance forever without getting tired,
Our hearts growing stronger, ever so gently.

Amen.

jesus dirt

2012-01-22T15:58:00.000-08:00

This is a week I want to remember. In detail. I know the visceral feel of it will remain, but the ins and outs, the unassumingly poetic grand minutiae…I want to remember.

You know how an experience, a statement, a moment, can simultaneously be the most beautiful and the most tragic you’ve known? Like the last night with your best friend before she moves across the world? Or the way a rainbow stretches out above a busy town and no one has time to look up…

I’m sipping coffee at 2:00 on a rainy, Sunday afternoon after a 14-mile run through wind and mud and holy water. I’m wearing my bathrobe and listening to Bon Iver. Deliciously depressing.

This paradox of indulgent pain, the good old-fashioned wallow, made manifest in all manner of ways in and around me this week. I embraced it, and found the light within.

Luke has pneumonia. He’s on day 4 of antibiotics and those meds plus the kid’s unquenchable spirit are knocking the dark cloud right of his lung. Not “serious”. Yet big enough to slow him down. Slowed us all down…and therein lay the sweet.

Everything Luke said Wednesday morning came out in cough. He’d get frustrated, cough more, and so the story went. In moments like this I aim to get as close to God as possible, so I packed up my little hacking darling and took him to the tidepools. Luke folded into the scene, entirely at home among the stones and moss and pockets of life big and small.He inspected for a time, eventually settling into a nook all his own.It wasn’t long before I noticed the coughing had stopped, and he seemed to be doing a sort of Tidepool Meditation. I sat watching him as he sat watching beauty. And then he called up to me, “Mama, let’s take off our shoes!”

“Okay, Love.”

Before I could get down to him he’d begun to dip his toes in the water, commenting, “Oh, Mom, it’s beautiful!”

“Yes,” I said. “Is it cold?”

He assured me, “No! It’s actually quite warm and so, so beautiful. It’s a little dirty too, but that’s okay. It’s Jesus dirt.” And off went Luke’s pants.And there we were. Speaking Spirit Words. Resting. Finally.

We lingered, then made our way back up to the car and Luke fell asleep quickly. He rested long, woke up for some books and cuddles and a movie, then went to bed early. This kind of Rest is of what I speak above…positively scrumptious and tinged with deep concern. (Whenever my kid starts sleeping I know something’s up.)

Many times that night I sat by Luke’s bed, Mama Gut aware of something "off", Mama Heart praying, Mama Hands holding his…

The next morning, as his cough deepened and “juicified”, we paid a visit to our wonderful Pediatrician. Between the various pokes and prods my little trooper sang the entire Muppet Christmas for Dr. Yarme. Next stop was the x-ray, and as we waited to take the picture of Luke’s lungs I again relished in and worried over the way my kid just snuggled in my lap for an hour, not getting up to dance or jump off the chairs or throw a fit – not once! We just sat there, reading Rolling Stone, The New Yorker, and whatever else we could get our hands on until one minute before we were taken in, a kind nurse brought us a book “for kids”. Honestly, Luke was more into Rolling Stone. “What’s he singing, Mama? What’s her name? When I was in a band I played the guitar too!”

We took the picture and the x-ray revealed a small pneumonia in his left lung, so antibiotics began that night. More cuddles. More books. More movies and songs and “holdin’ and rockin’” as my dear friend Ava likes to say.

The day after Luke’s first dose of medicine, the kid was back, in all his Glory. And I was given a whole new kind of worry. “What if he overdoes it?”

The blessing and the curse of the antibiotic is that it’s so powerful it makes one think he’s Superman, and the poor soul eventually realizes he’s only…human.Still, we leaned in and enjoyed the energy. I delighted in the smiles and dancing and splashing in rain puddles and just plain silliness, and with all of it I prayed “Easy does it, baby”.
We’re balancing out now. Superman Day was followed by Recovery Day which included some gardening (Luke sat in Garden Meditation, clipping a giant pile of weeds and dead vines for over an hour – seriously).He then played with an agreeable little salamander named Randall.We worked side by side in sacred silence that was broken sparingly with various gems from the recesses of Luke’s brain. (“I like ladies; they’re kinda beautiful.”)

For the last week my kid and I baked cookies. We read Christmas stories. We sang Bohemian Rhapsody from beginning to end several times (Thank you, Sesame Street, for introducing Luke to Queen). We wrote bathtub songs and sang with gusto. We played with cars and trains and the rain gutter. We got gloriously bored. We danced. And we fell into tired heaps on the floor, him repositioning my shirt so he could rest his head directly on my chest and whisper a breathless, “I just love you.” And then he attacked my stomach with zerberts.

Ah…I just love you too, kid.

This is Motherhood, yes? The Heavy Light of joy so deep it hurts?

This is Life.

If we truly live, each moment is weighty and brilliant, a bottomless well of every emotion and experience available to us mortals. What an act of faith to dip a toe, a finger even, into the holy water. What a wild gesture to dive right in.

This afternoon I Ran Wild. My intention: Find puddle. Run through. Repeat.

Basically: Find Jesus Dirt.

Sometimes we just need to get dirty, to run headfirst into the wind, to let rain smack us in the face. Sometimes we need to physically feel the battle we’ve been waging on the inside. Sometimes we need our bodies to match our spirits a bit more closely.

Storm brewing, I headed for the cliffs, the Intense Meeting of damp earth and swirling sky. I let it have its way as I felt my legs try on the mud, my body feeling out the weight of the air and adjusting force accordingly, my face receiving a God Facial as the rain came down in droves. Glory.

What I love about this practice of creating in the physical what we already live in mind and spirit, is we always come home. We peel off the sopping wet layers of fabric and mud. Naked we walk into the shower, and we are clean.

The act does not always change a thing about our external circumstances, but somehow by allowing our bodies to find solidarity with our souls in the messy storms of life, the internal landscape is then cleansed to match the freshly washed outside.

Full of cycles, this life. Ebbs and flows. Violent thrashing and soft landing. Running Wild and Resting. The timing is not always predictable, but one thing I am learning: We always come home.

This week, as my heart ached with epic love, delighting and bleeding all over and through the twists and turns of this life…as I navigated the pauses and surges of my sick kid’s energy…as I vacillated between the yearning and the staying present…I kept on landing here…graciously, mercifully Home. Home with my kid in my arms. Home with my feet in fresh, wet earth. Home with my heart held by Hands wise and soft and graciously complex enough to Know.

To it all, I pray Gratitude.

I want to remember.

Life is kinda dirty, but it’s okay. It’s Jesus Dirt.

power breath

2012-01-15T18:55:00.000-08:00

Running covers a multitude of sin.

As I meditated on this idea this morning, quite literally sweating it out, I blew by a man who called after me, “What, girl, the cops after you?”

Mmmm…I suppose there is a certain look in our eyes when we’re running away.

In that moment I set an intention to run toward, moving with purpose, in a declared direction.

At times I find myself running (and living) in fog, lost momentarily, unsure which way is forward.

The internal messages conflict as I lean into one path, feeling pulled by another.

When running intervals (as I did this morning) there is a point at which a decision must be made, a transition from running easy to going hard. Both are enticing in their own unique ways. To stay in the slow rhythm is comfortable. To crank it up a notch (or seven) is exciting.

Both options are okay. Healthy, even. The choice is made by identifying intention.

What is the point of today’s run? Is it recovery? Is it ease? Is it play? Is it building muscle? Speed? Character?

This dialogue takes place in the mind, and the best running (and the best living) comes from the soul in the heart of the body. I find the best way to get There is with a Power Breath.

Whether running on the literal trails choosing between easy and hard, or on the greater journey marked with impasses of all kinds, this forceful exhale literally blows away the clouds of confusion, at the same time infusing every cell with new life and clarity. At times the air flows out and my body slows to a gentle jog. I found this happening last night, and I appreciated, deeply, the grace. And some days, like today, this breath lights a fire and sends my body flying. This, too, is beautiful.

Perhaps this morning was less about sweating out the sin, and more about breathing in the life.

Perhaps the sin is believing we must run away, earn our way, and keep up with who we think we’re supposed to be.

Perhaps the grace is in the breath, the Power Breath, that flows through us all.

Spirit and Breath are the same word in Hebrew and Greek. Pneuma, Ruach. Holy Spirit is Holy Breath. And the moment we invite that Holy Breath to well up in us and expel all that doesn’t belong, we experience the gracious cleansing, the opening of space, for all that does.

Sometimes we must respect the padlock between where we are and where we want to be.

And sometimes we must saw right through it.

Last night I was asked, “What moves you to action?”

My answer: Breath.

That precious inhale, taking in the fullness of a moment, examining and embodying every possibility…and the potent exhale, clearing out every possibility but the one that is called for in that moment…

Slow down or run wild.

Back off or lean in.

Walk away or pick up the saw.

In the breath, in the spirit, in the mystery,

we know.

stay where the light is

2012-01-14T23:55:00.000-08:00

So much is happening in the world. It takes great energy and light to hold global compassion and awareness, to participate powerfully, to offer insight and action and service and our own unique abilities. We are each called and designed to hold the light in a most extraordinary way. Now more than ever it is essential that we Stay Where The Light Is.

In recent weeks, the sun has literally been the closest it will be to the earth all year. I’ve been following her more closely these days, meditating on a most helpful
encouragement from a friend to “Stay where the light is”. This is both a literal and metaphorical teaching, of course, and I find it most effective to abide in both ways. In the literal sense, I watch her rise, I watch her set, and I get as much as I can of her in between. I witness the light with dear friends, in solitude, and to my great de-light, with Luke. He adds such tremendous poetry and depth to the experience. (“The air is praying pink, Mama.”)

What a generous display the sun gives, bathing us in her warmth as she rises and sets, and sets the world aglow. I do believe she shows off a little…

So do we at times, I suppose.

The air prays pink,

And so we say Amen.

We stand on the edge of her outstretched beam as it lands at our feet,

Feeling for a moment as if what is out "there" is in "here”,

And seeing clearly that there is no space between.

~

May we stand in this Light, this Truth, as we keep moving into Life.

May we take our cue from the sun.

The Light speaks for herself.

She is not threatened by darkness. Her very Being dissolves it.

May we stay where the Light is, literally, receiving warmth, trusting the healing.

And may we stay where the Light is all over our lives…in the Scriptures that illuminate, the prayers that inspire, the friends who encourage, the music that awakens, the tea that warms, the laughter that comes from sharing time and space and heart with children...

May we move our bodies, move our souls, whenever and however we can.

May we Run Wild.

Why would we ever move away from Light...Truth...Beauty?

May we pursue, embrace and devour what is offered, that as we do our work and have our being in the world, we would Do and Be in the Light.

~

And may we rest in the Light...

Resting in the Present Purpose of this moment.

Resting in the Present Purpose of the questions that remain.

Resting in the Present Purpose of the challenges and tasks and projects and the yet-to-be-resolved.

Resting in the grace of Eternal Connection,

A Gift so graciously given.

A Gift that continues to unfold, never leaving us in the dark.

Sunrise

Quiet, brazen.
Such bold silence.
The air prays pink.
“We are beautiful.”
This is what the colors tell God.

- Luke and Sarah Meyer

one more for heart

2012-01-10T20:50:00.000-08:00

Sometimes we have to change it up. Take a different path. Surprise our bodies (and minds, and souls) with something new so we have no choice but to think and move and pray in a different language. (This is where growth happens. This is how muscle is built.) Sometimes we have to push a little harder. Or at least…push in a different direction. Like…up.

I do a lot of stroller running, so on the days I’m not pushing 40+ pounds of Luke and BOB, I tend to hit the same trail – the one that runs along the very edge where the sun meets the water and the sky breaks free (to quote Sting). This trail is flat and endless and rediculously beautiful. Sometimes I run slow, sometimes I run fast, sometimes I do intervals to mix it up. But I’m often Here. Today…I chose a different path.

I chose The Hill.

I still went to Wilder (why mess with perfection?), but instead of making my way to the cliffs, I headed for the mountains. Not out, but up.

Hill repeats go something like this: Find a sufficiently treacherous hill. Sprint up. Jog down. Repeat until staying vertical is no longer an option. At this point, stay vertical anyway so as to not collapse into a heap of quickly pooling lactic acid-sludge that will paralyze the legs. Instead, stumble around like a drunk – after all, you’re drunk on endorphins, right? Bring attention to the breath, keeping the wheezing just this side of an asthma attack. Open your eyes and check out the view, feeling like the badass you are for having climbed this sucker not once, not twice, but six times before hitting your limit.

Then…do number seven.

Somehow, every time I do hill repeats, my brain does a fantastical job of tricking my body into believing the last one is the last one. And then, as I stand there in a daze with my hands on my head, seeing stars and praying Gratitude for having finished, my body does the oddest thing. It starts jogging to the bottom of the hill to do “One more for Heart.” This slogan, this practice, began in high school. And as of this morning, I haven’t been able to shake it. (Honestly, I don’t think I want to.) As I explained to my teammates at George Whittell High many moons ago, that “one more” is the difference between the good and the great. That “one more” is the agonizing .1 of a 13.1 mile half-marathon. That “one more” gives the body/mind/spirit a memory of having transcended supposed “limits” so that when we face what we think is our impossible, we know we can burst right through it and achieve a new best.

I thought about all this today as I prepared for #7, drawing the obvious parallels between the actual running and the race that is my life at the moment. I needed some inspiration, and the little orange poppy at my feet was just the thing. The perky, audacious little darling shouted, "I'm here, and I'm happy, like it or not!" I knew I needed some of that moxy. I also felt precariously close to losing my breakfast. That peppy little poppy was either going to annoy the hell out of me, or elicit the heaven. So, I plucked her from the ground, tucked her behind my ear, and let her name give me a vision for how my feet would move up that hill. I realize this may sound ridiculous, but in that delirious state one can only know by having six behind her and one more ahead, "little" things like this can be the difference between gittin ‘er done and…not. There's power in speaking a name.

I stood at the bottom of the hill, simultaneously looking inward and upward. I peeled off my top layer, turned my hat around, secured the orange blossom one last time, and found my Heaven.

Blast-Off

My mantra: Push.

Legs dead, stomach questionable, muscles screaming, I came back to what so often motivates me in moments like these: I labored for 17 hours; I can go hard for 60 seconds. I thought about those last final pushes that bring forth New Life. The instant we say “I can’t do this” is the instant we realize we are doing this.

I knew it would take some New Life to get up that hill. And New Life is exactly what I see birthing in and around me in so many ways right now. I thought, I breathed, I sweat the word Push until I embodied the intention, flying up that hill faster than I did in each of my six previous attempts.

#7

Done.

There’s always room for one more…

One more for Heart.

i'm breathing about you (and other amazing things my kid says)

2012-01-06T22:09:00.000-08:00

One day not too long ago, I cried in front of my kid for the first time (unless you count the many days I cried while he cried in the first few months of his life). This time was different. Luke's three. He could see exhaustion in my face. Weariness. Sadness. The whole lot.

For a moment I considered hiding it. Then I remembered a couple of things:

1. Luke’s smart.
2. I’ve seen him fall apart countless times. What’s the big deal?

Crying is part of the human experience and this was an opportunity to model how we move through this kind of stuff, as opposed to showing my kid that tears are to be resisted and hidden. Little did I know, he was about to teach me. Why am I surprised?

As I sat there thinking about how to explain what I was feeling, and why, to a three-year-old (a wise little creature, but still, 3), the precious darling simply looked at me and said, “Are you tired, mama?” I took a major breath in and out and said, “Yes, Honey, I’m so tired.” He said, “You can take a nap in the bed if you want to. Here, I’ll come lay down with you.” What a brilliant idea. Rest. Why is it I never think of that one?

And just as I was standing up to make my way to the bedroom, Luke looked straight at me and said, “I’m breathing about you, mom.”

“Did you just say you’re breathing about me?”

“Yes,” he said. “Breathing makes us feel better.”

And there in that moment was birthed my new favorite phrase. We so often tell one another, “I’m praying about you,” but breathing has always been a more tangible way for me to pray.

To pray with words often feels like trying to hold someone in my mind. To pray with breath puts a person directly in my heart.

Love in, Love out, to you.

I can do that.

~

The other day, Luke was studying my feet as we sat on the porch, pointing out the various “flaws”.

“Mom, what happened to your toe?”

I explained that my toenail had fallen off from running so flippin' long and hard these days. (I realize the sexiness of this "accomplishment" is only recognized by fellow runners, dancers, and other wild souls whose feet take great delight in taking great pounding.)

Luke took the answer in stride, and kept drilling. "What's that?"

“A blister.”

“And that?”

“A callous.”

“What’s that?”

“Another blister.”

Finally I told him, “These are runners’ feet, Luke. We’re runners, so our feet are going to have all kinds of marks to prove it. It’s good – it means we’re hard core.”

“And God will fix our feet.”

“Yes, Love, he will.”

“God wears an apron.”

I smiled. “He does?”

“Yeah, that’s how it works.”

Makes sense to me. I can just envision God walking beside us, the sturdy fabric wrapped around his waist, gripping its corner with the strong, weathered hands of a mother and wiping up the many spills as we go along.

And yes...fixing our feet.

~

Later on as Luke took his bath I gave him a choice of washing his hair that night or the next. “Do it now and you get it over with,” I told him.

“Mmm, let’s get it over with later,” he said.

~

Luke does not hug so much as tackle. His whole body comes barreling in like a freight train of Love and crashes into you mercilessly. (We’re practicing warning people before we hug, as well as hugging gently.) The other day Luke asked ever so graciously if he may tackle-hug me, to which I responded with a resounding Yes, Please! Moments later, I lay on the ground breathless and bathed in Lukie Love. “You give the BEST hugs,” I told him.

“And you give me the best eyes, Mama.”

~

I stood at the sink washing dishes when I heard Luke yelling from outside: “Mom! Come out here! I love you! I have to snuggle you because you’re beautiful!”

I don’t have to tell you what I did next.

Dirty dishes be damned.

~

Lest you think my child an angelic poet whose lips only utter whatsoever things are pure and lovely, that poetic little mouth has also been known to say, “You’re stupid,” “Let’s eat them all ourselves so we don’t have to share!”, and “Go away!”

He’s experimenting with words which, I suppose, is a mark of a poet (and a three-year-old). My approach for the time is to simply hold a mirror. I pray that by my reflections Luke will see which comments resonate and bring light and joy by their ring of truth, and which simply fall flat for their lack of sense, or for their dissonance with who I know him to be. I’m sure it’s not hard for him to notice the difference between my responses to a whiny, indignant "Yes you WILL put syrup on my granola bar!" and “You’re the most beautiful in the whole world, Mama!”

It’s pretty clear when his Heart is talking, and that’s the voice I aim to encourage.

And as I travel this journey through the wonderful (and sometimes terrifying) world of words with my boy, I let go of the momentary fear that I'm raising the rudest human on the planet, I hold up the mirror, and I just…breathe about him.

new

2011-12-31T20:05:00.000-08:00

I’ve become good friends with the tree in my front yard.

Her branches are arranged in such a way that I can rest my head on one while another wraps around me in a hug. I leaned against her tonight, held by her gentle strength, as I watched the moon rise in the sky and the last colors of 2011 fade into night. I look forward to the morning light. And I kiss this year good-bye with gratitude.

I held my hands to my heart and spoke Love, Love, Love...breathing the very name of God.

Fear still whispered tauntingly, extending viciously appetizing tendrils my way to which I ever-so-briefly lifted my trembling fingers. And then I heard it...the Word I've heard all day...Gentle...and I lowered my hand, placed it back over my chest, and spoke Love. Truth. God.

May we open up, move through, with all the light and love of God, and with gratitude for the gift of such brilliant Light and unconditional Love. May we employ it. May we move it through our arms as we embrace the ones we love (and, especially, as we embrace those we find most difficult to love). May we move it through our eyes as we intend to see more clearly, more compassionately, more graciously this world and those who live here. May we move it through our words as we speak mindfully and beautifully, only what is true and helpful and healing.

A new year is upon us.
.
Let us open up our whole Being to it. Let us stand at the edge with arms outstretched, hearts bleeding, sweat pouring, feet deeply planted and eyes looking up.

We can't lose a thing.

All we need, we are,

Made in the breathtaking image of God.

May we allow it to Be.

Light and Love to you, Beloved.

foggy

2011-12-30T18:42:00.000-08:00

I’m well aware that many people reading my blog these days might wonder what in God’s name (quite literally) I’m talking about.

I wondered if anyone was reading at all, and according to StatCounter, you are. Thanks for sticking with me ;-)

I suppose I’ve never written this blog for anyone - except, perhaps, Luke. It’s been more of an invitation for those who so desire to take a peek inside our lives. And these days, our lives are a bit swirly and mysterious, so I suppose that’s how my words read. Raw and earthy and gritty and glorious and heartwrenching. Life takes a while to interpret sometimes.

Today, I’m foggy. And today, I’m grateful. Because while divine Beauty and Light are always welcome, invited even, in certain states of the soul they can be hard to face. (Like yesterday, when Beauty pissed me off because I forgot for a moment that I, too, am beautiful. That it's all beautiful.) Beauty blinds the heart, and light the eyes. This is how it can feel.

And in these moments the gracious Fog sets in and God speaks through that too, softly, mercifully...“Breathe. Trust. It’s all here. It will always be here. You will see what you need to see when you need to see it. Until then, stop trying, and be here. In the fog. In the glorious pocket of time and space in which you are protected from the faces of the outside world, and protected from having to face the outside world. All you can see is here in front of you, and isn’t it lovely that in this moment, all you need is here in front of you.”

Perhaps the sun will come out tomorrow and reveal everything. Perhaps we’ll stay in the fog for a time. I trust…

I trust I am not alone here.

I trust that while Persistent Reality will not go away, neither will Epic Love.

thin veil lifted

2011-12-29T12:55:00.000-08:00

When Luke was a baby I wrote about one particularly significant run we took together, having found a pocket of peace bracketed by tears. Luke had been screaming, as was so often the case in those early months, and despite my doctor’s orders to not run more than five minutes at a time (I think Luke was six or seven weeks old at that point), my heart needed to run. I put him in the BOB and took off down the road, both of us crying, my own tears blending into sweat as Luke and I eventually calmed down. He fell asleep, and I kept running in that sacred space in which all was, for a moment anyway, well. Just before we got home, Luke woke up and started screaming again. My own tears of exhaustion began to spill and I saw that we were right back where we started, except for one notable difference: Luke and I had found that sacred space, brief as it was, and this was just the taste of hope I needed in that moment to believe we could and would find it again.

I remembered that run this morning as I choked down a piece of toast while choking back tears on my way to the trailhead. “Wait ‘til you get there, wait ‘til you get there…”

The minute my feet hit earth and my stride opened up, so did the floodgates. I knew it was coming; I was just waiting for the proper point of release. Of course…Saint Wilder.

I imagined my tears and sweat mingling to form a sort of thin veil, providing a layer of discretion between me and anyone else out there on the path. We all know veils don’t hide a thing. When a bride cries at the altar, everyone knows. But something about that sheer curtain of transparent fabric gives her a semblance of privacy behind which she can fully feel into the gravity and joy of the moment. A moment must be felt in its entirety, or it risks being lost, never fully lived. Never fully moved through...

I'm in the middle of a Moment, in "the through", and this morning I wanted to feel my way from behind the delicate strength and protection of my veil.

My first glimpse of the ocean revealed a most exquisite web of light and foam blanketing the waters in a thin, white veil as far as I could see.

Delicate Strength.

I found myself staring at the image and I heard her call to me, “I’m here. But please, don’t look too closely.”

I could respect that.

So side by side we ebbed and flowed, moving through, doing the Heart Work behind our thin veils, peeking only through peripheral vision.

Until.

I reached the stretch of coast that never, in all my years of running this trail, has hidden a thing. Today was no exception. Only today, as waves slammed into rock, the customary white plumes of water did not shoot straight up into the air. They shot out, directly at me, in a most provocative manner. “I dare you to keep your eyes closed to this.”

“Keep your veil on,” I muttered, not in the mood.

The minute the words escaped my lips I took them back. “No, don’t!” And I turned to face the Beauty exploding toward me, kissing my face with droplets of holy water...washing off the veil…

In that moment my eyes opened a bit more widely, as did my heart, and my mind for that matter. I love a good epiphany.

No, I thought. No hiding. No pretending.

Lift the veil and let Truth kiss Reality.

As the sun came bursting forth from behind a cloud, warming up the air, I peeled off a layer in a gesture of solidarity, in the name of Unveiling, and I ran free and fast and far. I spoke it out loud over and over, “No hiding.”

After looping out and around for a few miles, I circled back and braced myself for the stretch of Relentless Beauty. “Bring it,” I smiled.

Nothing.

“Come on.”

Still waters.

“I can take it. Whatever you've got.” Now who was provoking? I was practically begging to get smacked in the face, in the heart, in the gut. (Why do I do this to myself?)

The waters remained silent, and I slowed my pace. “Okay,” I whispered breathlessly. “I won’t push you. But I’m not hiding anymore, either…”

I settled back into my rhythm, veil absent, endorphin rush waning, the persistent Reality refusing to go away. No more hiding. By the end of 14 miles I felt the emotion of It All welling up again, and I bowed at the symmetry.

Back where we started.

And yet…there was a pocket, some sacred space in the middle of that journey in which all was, if for a moment, well. I saw God rise up with the all the strength and bold-faced courage to endure whatever comes. That sacred space, that holy moment, gives me hope that I’ll find it again when I need it most.

Never alone Out There…

epic love

2011-12-25T20:52:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve:
Candles surround me, my home aglow with light. It’s the kind of light that speaks in silence, in solitude. It represents for me The Light. Immanuel. God with us.

I experience Christ, divine presence, more deeply this Christmas than ever before as I face a new reality and choose to lean in. I suppose it’s either that or lean back and fall flat on my ass. And that idea doesn’t sound very Christmas-y, so I’m choosing a higher, more reverent way.

Luke, my little Light, spent the day with me making Christmas treats and visiting friends and snuggling and snacking and warming up the house. And when his daddy picked him up for the Meyer Christmas Extravaganza, I was prepared. I wore my running clothes.

The boys took off in the Subaru; I took off in my Nikes.

By the grace of God, I live within running distance of the ocean. It wasn’t long before my feet pounded their rhythm to the beat of the healing waters. The phrase dancing around my heart, my mind, my tongue this weekend:

Epic Love.

I looked for Epic Love in the exquisite creation around me. And I did a sort of moving meditation on the birth of Christ…the life of Christ….the death of Christ…it can all be summed up in these words: Epic Love. Positively epic.

We cannot force epic moments in life, but when we open to Epic, invite Epic, make room for Epic, we can at least be ready when God decides to present Epic.

This, I suppose, is my intention as I celebrate Christmas this year. To reflect on God’s choice to enter humanity as a baby, and to sacrifice that very human life thirty-three years later for a message of Peace...a message of Epic Love. My intention is to open my heart and invite Epic Love to flow through me. To rest in the waiting for, and the knowing of, Epic Love. Christ is coming. And Christ is always here.

Tonight I attended a candle-light service at my church. The name of the event was eVoke, the definition explained as “to bring to the conscious mind in order to elicit a response”. We brought to conscious mind the Light of Christ with the intention to embody that Light as we all went forth into our communities. A choir chanted the Latin Gaudete, “rejoice”. Every body in the room held one candle, together illuminating the entire sanctuary as we repeated a prayer: “May we open all the dark places in our lives and invite the healing light of Christ. May there be peace, healing, and well-being for all creation. God with us, God for us, God in us. Amen.”

Amen, indeed.

~

Christmas Day:
One of my friends, when talking with me about my Christmas in Solitude, said through a smile, “You are being called into the void, Sarah.” I listened closely as she unpacked that idea a bit further.

“Your mind may try to distract you, to figure things out, but in the void, thoughts dissolve, patterns and coping mechanisms and defense mechanisms all dissolve. And when they do, the void is clear and calm. It’s a creative void. And the creative void is not really a void at all. It’s not the empty space; it’s the full space.”

Dear God, was she right.

It’s Christmas Day, and I’ve had Hallelujah on my breath from the moment I awoke. Writing and praying by the light of advent candles as the sun came up. Reading Zechariah’s words about baby Jesus: “The tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of Peace.”

I took my feet to Saint Wilder’s path of Peace, basking in that glorious well of Epic Love. My mind/heart/body did some epic work over the course of my 12 Miles of Christmas. I came home and wrote it all down. I look forward to sharing much of it in the coming year...

As my dear friend predicted, “The mind…the part that uses pen and paper…becomes the servant of the spirit instead of its tyrant.”

Writing with God. Running with God. Breathing, praying, being with God.

Immanuel, indeed. Like I’ve never known him before.

Epic Love.

My “work” today was paused (infused?) by the arrival of my little Light. Luke joined me for a sweet evening of basking in new toys, reading books, and sharing good food with our neighbors. And as his freshly bathed and pajammied body nestled into my chest tonight, I breathed Love in and out, speaking its name and kissing my son's yummy head. I read him a story, turned out the light, and whispered, “Merry Christmas, Sweetheart.” He responded with a most precious whisper: “Merry Christmas, Mommy.” He was asleep before I finished singing our song.

*sigh*

Epic Love.

Holding the Light

2011-12-23T22:47:00.001-08:00

Another week spent weaving my way through Wilder trails. Another week receiving vivid illustrations of the words on my breath:

Holding the Light.

Yesterday the colors out there were strikingly intense. The ocean was so deep, so dark it appeared almost black. Sunlight hit water with such power, such brilliance, it appeared almost white. I say “almost” because the image was not so stark. The sun was intense, yes, but the waters held the Light with fluidity and grace. I soaked in this vision and prayed I could embody in the days ahead what I saw in that moment.

Holding the Light.

It’s what we do for each other.

We step into the intensity of one another’s lives, to the space in which black meets white, too dark meets too bright, and we hold Light for the gray. Often it is in the gray that we can begin to see.

Luke and I spent a couple of days this week up in the mountains with a couple of soul sisters who help hold Light for me.

And just as they held Light for us, I watched Luke hold Light for them and their families.It's what we're called to do. And it's a beautiful thing.

I hosted a party Wednesday night for some friends here in town who, along with their beautiful children, hold a great deal of Light. We honored the solstice, advent, Saint Lucia, and the many luminary celebrations of this season. Luke made his now traditional Soul Cakes...And as the little ones sat outside under our apricot/Christmas tree, holding candles and singing “This Little Light of Mine” (along with Frosty the Snowman and Silent Night), I could hardly ask for a lovelier display of what was happening in my soul.Holding the Light.

Sometimes the Light is bright. Other times it is soft, though it is no less pure. In fact, the soft light can be much easier to look into. And this can be a welcome refrain from the squinting, the struggle to see without going blind…

Today, Wilder’s Light was soft. I appreciated the shift as I, too, brought a more delicate body to the trail. Many miles on these legs. Many miles on my car. Many miles on my heart. I brought it All. And we moved in slow motion, yet…strong motion. Waves hit shore with gentle passion, taking their time, lingering in the experience of climbing and crashing and moving back out to sea. No rush. No missing a thing.

I could not help but linger there, too, kneeling at the altar that has become my Most Holy Place. How lovely it was to meet in this tender way, earth recognizing the limits of a weary body and giving space, Holding Light, for the offering.

It was a moment, if ever there was one, which beckoned a most reverent Amen.

Holding the Light.

It happens in the context of eternal relationship, the kind of relationship so groundbreaking, so un-definable, so outside-of-category that while definitions are elusive, the Truth of it all is quite clear.

Kind of like when Jesus was born.

God expressed eternal relationship through the birth of Christ, and when I close my eyes, I see dear Mary holding the Light in her womb. I see young Joseph holding the Light with strong, naïve, new-daddy arms. I see a manger holding the Light as a Most Holy Child sleeps inside. I see an entire world drawn to a star so bright it must have held that Light in order to beam far enough for everyone to get the message. The Light of the World has come. Immanuel.

May we continue to hold the Light...

explore

2011-12-18T20:27:00.000-08:00

I’ve been meditating on the word “explore” this week, studying Luke on our many excursions…the way he goes right to the Edge and looks out instead of down. Rather than fearing the drop, or aching to be Out There, he simply relishes the Beauty directly underfoot.

On the Edge.

He stands at that very point rock meets sky, and simply says,

“Wow”.

And off he goes lightly, singing “Hiking is the best, and God made the world, and I can do anything, I can pee in the dirt. And God is the best, and God gives us friends…”

A few days ago, my soul left my body and went “exploring”. The little rascal. I’m all for venturing out to the great unknown, but I’m learning that if we don’t go with our whole selves, it can get dicey. Leave the soul at home and the excursion is rather boring. Leave the body, and it’s just plain dangerous. The soul knows no limits. She’ll go anywhere.

I spent much of Friday operating in one dimension. I ran fourteen one-dimensional miles along the cliffs, so entrenched in the recesses of my brain that I could not see the Beauty before me. I held one-dimensional conversations with dear friends, but without my soul, and by the end of the day I was exhausted, confused, and afraid. I lay down on the couch, called a good friend (you know, the kind of friend who reminds you who you are?), took my vitamins, and went to bed ridiculously early.

Yesterday, I woke up with a mission. I decided to return to the last place I saw that soul of mine and to get her back. So I took to Wilder again, retracing my steps, and sure enough there she was, floating about nervously. I announced myself so as to not frighten the poor dear, and gently made my way to her. “Come on,” I said, and kept running. She hovered over me for a while, shaking her head and saying, “Poor, tired Body” as I trudged along. We reached mile 7, the railroad tracks, the turnaround point, and I woke up.

Poor, tired Body finally looked up at Soul and said, “Stop it already, and just get in here.” Mercifully, she did just that. My pace immediately quickened and I exhaled deeply…”Ah, here we are. This feels more like us.” I ran the second half of the journey with my eyes wide open. I ran fast. I noticed the waves crashing along the shore. I saw the way sunlight danced on the water. I paused and knelt at the altar I had found two weeks earlier in a moment of pure, strong connection with God. And rather than conveniently looking the other way, as I had when going the opposite direction, I looked straight into all this Beauty and took it in. This is why we build altars - to remind and inspire. I opened my stride, opened my heart, and embraced it all. I breathed in the sparkle, and breathed out the fear. I breathed in the light, and breathed out the dark. I breathed in the life, and breathed out the death. I spoke out loud the word "Gratitude." And I just kept running faster.

It felt like Home.

We finished on a hill, Body determined to push every limit and expend every ounce of energy. Soul tried valiantly to escape. With each fierce pump of my arms, my fingers grasped to catch the fire tenaciously fleeing my belly. “Stay with me; we’ve got to stick together,” I told her. (Last night I dreamt I was at the top of a mountain surrounded by dear friends, all of us creating art and singing. I drew a picture of a woman running, flames protruding from her abdomen.)

I could feel the call toward flight. I could smell the desperation within. Get me out of here…

But we called on all the angels and we talked that renegade back…

“I’m a mess,” she warned. “I could break wide open at any moment and spill all over.”

“Yes,” Body replied. “It’s okay. There’s room here for you.”

And so we fought, tooth and nail and ponytail, all the way to the top. We did it. And while I half expected sobs to wrack my body as they had the day before, they didn’t. We didn’t spill. We just caught our breath, and ran our cool-down back to the car. There’s safety in numbers. Body/Mind/Spirit, Father/Son/Spirit, Me/You/Us…trinities are powerful. We hold the space for each other and we find that the space is enough to hold it All.

These days, All is a lot.

All is more questions than answers.

All is ups, downs, and everything in between.

And the only way to explore it All safely is to go together, to go wholly, to the places that scare us.

As I continue to study Luke in all this, I see that the kid brings his whole self to the experience and his whole self just beams Light and Joy…the energy is contagious. So contagious, in fact, that my soul went after the experience this week and forgot to bring the rest of me along. The moment we all came back together, we flew. And out on those trails, I started singing… “God made the world, and I can do anything…”

I may have even peed in the dirt. *wink*

be movement

2011-12-09T23:47:00.000-08:00

I interviewed for a job yesterday. I had an absolute blast. I was asked to teach a sample lesson on College Student Success, and at one point I had the whole interview committee, including two deans, dancing with me. Later, they all meditated. I got my point across and received laughter (the affirming kind), knowing smiles, nodding heads, and genuinely interested looks. Good God, I’ve missed teaching.

As fun (and promising) as the interview was, it’s an adjunct spot that is hardly going to be the secure and steady thing I’m looking to land. And so I keep trusting. Keep searching. Keep writing several cover letters per day and tailoring my resume to dozens of different positions for which I could be qualified. I keep waiting to hear back from Stanford and UCSC and every community college in a 60-mile radius, and I keep knocking down their doors.

It’s the balance…making it happen and letting it happen.

Until now, job searching has been relatively easy for me. I landed my first paid babysitting gig at age 10 and maintained steady employment for the next twenty years. At age 12 I added the restaurant business to my repertoire which supported me through junior high, high school, and my undergraduate education. I applied for one job when I graduated from college, and I got it. I moved to Seattle and learned how to teach 11th graders. When I was ready to shift into counseling, I applied at my desired location and nailed it. And when I decided to move up to the university level, I wrote a letter to the local small college and was rather quickly given a role that evolved into the position I held until that small college closed suddenly last summer.

So. Here I am. Pounding the pavement and feeling deep empathy for the way-too-many-others singing my song in this economy.

It’s a powerful lesson. Essential. We tend to give ourselves deadlines, to think we need something at a specific time, in a specific package. When it doesn’t unfold as we think it “should”, we learn that perhaps we didn’t need that after all. We realize in the absence of our “need” that we’re still breathing. The breath may be held at times, or rather choppy from the erratic in-in-ooouuuut of sobbing. But herein lies the birth of the Dream. In the moment of loss, Grace enters, gently navigating the raw space with her soft imagination... “I wonder what will fill the void,” she asks, with a twinkle in her eye. And with the slightest ounce of Hope we can begin to envision, to consider, that perhaps what we’ll be given is bigger, or at least a different shape than our limited minds and hearts could design…a shape that fits our infinitely complex selves a bit better.

I’m thinking along these lines right now as I dream up more creative ways to support my family. This is often overwhelming, and I notice the fatigue comes when I try. Trying energy is awfully exhausting. It’s in the Being that movement begins. God bless the Paradox. To “be movement”…this, I believe, is the definition of Dance. And I intend to dance my life as opposed to plodding through it. (Luke reminded me of this again tonight as he took my hands under a full moon and twirled me around until we both collapsed, smiling...breathless…invigorated.)

After my interview last night I spoke with a dear friend. She’s going through a similar experience in a totally different context. She described her simultaneous stance of Surrender with Intention. She is releasing what she cannot control, yet holding firm to what she desires for her life and setting strong intention to manifest that calling. The positions sound contradictory, yet she described feeling happier…lighter…freer…and more powerful since resting in this space.

I get it.

To force it, be “it” a job or anything else of importance to us, is to pour energy into impossibility (I think of pushing against a brick wall until I pass out). Yet we can’t just put our feet up, pour ourselves a drink, and say, “It will happen; I’ll get to the other side.” No…we have to set intention and dream up plans and mobilize our courage and take action.

Making it happen…and…Letting it happen.

One moment, one breath, one moonlit dance at a time…

beautiful day

2011-12-04T23:20:00.000-08:00

I hadn’t planned to run Wilder today. I experienced a most holy moment out there yesterday and I rather wanted to let that marinate for a bit. To go back already this morning seemed…greedy.

Yet my heart needed this journey down the familiar, though unfailingly surprising path. No matter how many times I come back to this trail, it’s never the same. The mood of the place, the landscape, the colors in the sky and in the ocean, the presence of wind (or not), the presence of rain (or not), the way sunlight dances on water (or not)…it all has this uncanny way of mirroring the state of my own soul, or at least inspiring it. I’m not sure how or why that is, but I take it with all the humility of a divine gift.

Friday morning was somber, still, heavy with questions and choices and a body/mind/soul that weighed possibilities I could hardly imagine. A dozen slow, sobering miles yielded Grace and Peace.

Yesterday, the waters sparkled. The waves crashed in indulgent bursts of white light. And while I did not begin the excursion with a sparkly, light soul, my heart was positively singing by the time my feet slowed after ten more miles, these having been strong, sure, full of hope. The presence of God was with me in the most tangible way out there; I was met. Such joy comes in sharing these moments with the One who abides in my heart. He is always with me, but when I invite Intention…the experience is magnified. I can only describe this kind of love as a gift. To hope the moment lingers, to expect its return, would be to cheapen its beauty. God’s Love is limitless; our awareness of it is what changes. I fell asleep last night, and awoke this morning, with a Thank You.

I did not plan to run Wilder today. But when, after running past a small but exuberant farm house blasting U2, my feet grew wings that flew me all the way to my precious stomping grounds. It was a Beautiful Day, indeed, and it seemed to be just getting started.

Long after the music faded in the distance, the rhythm moved my body and the words swam in my soul. (Don’t you love the way U2 lyrics are forever accessible in your head, like childhood hymns that come right back years after you last sang them?)

What you don’t have you don’t need it now
What you don’t know you can feel it somehow…

Such surrender in this Beautiful Day.

No, I did not need to return nor recreate the divine meeting of the day before. But I rather wanted to go back and take a peek...see what it looked like today...practicing gratitude without expectation.

It was there in all its Stunning Beauty.

And still, gloriously different from the day before.

And I was met, again, bathed in a whole new kind of light, filled quite tangibly with life.

Gratitude...Gratitude...Gratitude.

I bowed my head and made the sign of the cross, consecrating that Beautiful Place to the God who made it, expressing my appreciation for his sharing it so freely...

I wanted to build an altar of some sort, the way people throughout Old Testament stories were instructed to do so as a means of remembering monumental occasions of God's grace and provision and sometimes downright opulent blessings...

I looked up and saw there already stood a tower of rock standing tall, climbing out of the water and up to the heavens, bearing crash after crash with dignity and delight...that is my altar.

Every time I see that Beauty I will remember, I will be grateful,

for the gift of yet another wholly unique

Beautiful Day.

advent

2011-11-27T21:02:00.000-08:00

I love this season. Dark, long nights infused with the hope of all that is coming…the Light that is coming.

I love the mystery, the somber expectation with which we light that first black candle, trusting its flame will grow and multiply until the whole home glows with warmth and reverent joy.

And…I love sharing this ritual with my Little Light. I love the way his exuberant spirit bursts life into the ceremony, bringing a most appropriate laughter and play. This, too, is holy. This, especially, is holy.I brought Luke to the again table this year, introducing him to the candles. “You have a bright light,” I told him. “And I have a bright light. Everyone has a light. Jesus had the most bright Light of all…a light so strong that no one and no thing could ever blow it out. Christmas is Jesus’ birthday, and we celebrate by lighting these candles. These candles remind us of Jesus’ light, and they inspire us to keep our own lights bright. We pray for this Light, this Love, to live in us.”

I said all this, of course, between grabbing matches out of Luke’s hands, telling him to not take the candles out of the holders, telling him the candles were not, in fact drumsticks…you know. But, still, it was lovely.

I then explained a very hard concept for us impatient ones to understand: we only get to light one candle per week. First, the black one. Then next week, dark blue. The next week, light blue. The next week, lighter…until on Christmas Eve we will light that White candle in the middle, the one that says, “Jesus is here. Let there be Light.”

We lit the black one, holding back so valiantly on the rest. We sang our song, and then came the ceremonial blowing-it-out. Joy all around.

My Little Light, my Luke,

You help me see the Light of Jesus more purely. You, with your vibrant soul that turns to me in the middle of dinner and says, “Turn on some music – let’s dance!”

You, with your fantastic ideas: “Mom, get my accordion so I can play some beautiful music for you, and you will dance!”

You, with your knack for knowing just when to look at me with those startling blue eyes and saying, “You’re beautiful, Mama.”

You, with your generous heart: “I’m going to take this leaf to our friends’ house because they’re sick and this leaf is beautiful and it will make them feel better.”

You, with your lion heart: “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll dress up like a monster and scare the bugs away from your hair!” (Our friends had lice and we were hoping we came through unscathed. We did. Fingers crossed.)

You, with your clever new words and phrases: “I’m a Sharer Boy”, “I’m gonna stick this in your earpit.”

You, with your creative storytelling: “Once, when I was four (he’s three), I was in the Olympics, and I tripped, and a pumpkin tried to eat me!”

Sigh. I believe it, Sweetheart.

Your Light shines so brightly, and I am grateful to bask in your glow as we walk hand in hand toward the celebration of All Light,

All Love,

Christ.

altitude

2011-11-25T21:19:00.000-08:00

I'm in God Country right now. Yes, I know, it's all God Country, but this place...this is the God country in which I was born, and coming back is always a holy moment.

The drive up was quiet. I embraced the solitude and soaked in the peace, knowing I'll be embracing noise and soaking in a boisterous drive home with Luke on Sunday. Yet I'll admit I may have tapped just a bit into the boisterous as I drove up and over the mountains with The Best of U2 as my soundtrack. Seriously, I dare you to sit still and not sing along to these hymns of life. One line, in particular, sank deep. It was a "Dear Sarah, Love Bono" kind of moment.

"If you wanna kiss the sky you gotta learn how to kneel."

Ah, yes. The great lesson of Altitude.

I took a long, hard run this morning, surrounded by mountains and valleys, views of snow and sun. And as is always the case on the First Run At Altitude, I noticed a change in my breathing and the subsequent request (scream) from my muscles for more oxygen. It may be harder to breathe up here, but this Beauty...ahhhhhhh.

The incredible thing about our bodies, though, is the ability to adapt. Stay at altitude long enough and the heart grows. Okay, maybe not literally, but I love the analogy. What actually happens is the body produces more red blood cells to deliver oxygen to those screaming muscles, and eventually, the muscles no longer have to scream and they just do their thing. Then, take those muscles back to sea level and with all the extra oxygen flowing around, they fly.

Anyway, as I ran along, mulling over the principles of altitude, I thought about Solomon (of course, right?). Solomon is quickly becoming my favorite biblical author, what with his ability to write of meaningless life, passionate love, and down-to-earth basic principles of living. I've been diving into these basic principles lately (Proverbs), and I've noticed a few things so far. One, Solomon is big on Wisdom. Two, Wisdom has a heart. Three, Wisdom is a woman. "Love her," he says, "and she will watch over you." He also encourages his readers to embrace Understanding, who happens to be female as well.

Wisdom is a sort of Altitude of the Mind. A higher level at which to practice. A level so extreme that it can be hell to adjust to its seemingly suffocating quality. As hard as it is to not know what to do in any given moment, it is that much harder to ask for directions. Humbling. Not that I'm all-knowing or all-humble; I said practice.

I'm still practicing. Often breathless. At times disoriented and in desperate need of water. Living Water. Yet the very pactice of loving Wisdom, embracing Understanding, asking the gals to come on into this Heart and give me some direction, some peace, some discretion, some guidance...it feels good in the same way a hard run at high altitude feels good: at first you think you might throw up, but (most of the time) you don't, and eventually you get to a point at which you can see that your heart has grown (or your red blood cells have multiplied).

Grace.

(She, too, is a Woman, I think.)

love in, love out

2011-11-24T08:46:00.001-08:00

The collective intention of this day is Gratitude.

What a beautiful thing.

And today, a day when every facet of my being is weary and exhausted and just plain hurts…

I am thankful for a day that invites me into the Collective,

A day that reminds me to be Thankful.

Because I am.

God, I am.

~

My prayer of late has been simple,

Powerful.

Love in, Love out.

When my heart aches too much to think,

When it clenches my chest so tightly that no words can escape,

When it threatens to spill out my eyes in a crash of tears,

Or scream out my lips in a cry for mercy,

I can open.

I can breathe, if nothing else,

Love.

Love in.

Love out.

And this is the Ultimate Gift:

Breath.

Love.

Ever-Present, unconditional.

~

Children live this out beautifully…
Breath, Love.

Luke demonstrates for me daily what it looks like to be Love, unhindered, uncensored, it all its honest, raw, diversity of expression. Laughter, tears, fits of rage, fits of joy, explosions of pure delight...

And with Gratitude I pray I may do the same for him.

What an honor to embody Love for each other,

To manifest the Soul Vision imprinted within.

~

Gratitude does not require happiness to exist.

Gratitude only deepens with pain because in the most wrenching moments we see clearly that

There is still Breath.

There is still Love.

This, too, is Beautiful.
~

For this,

All This,

I am Grateful.

grace

2011-11-23T16:06:00.001-08:00

Amazing Grace.

When our Blind spots come into the Light and we See.

When our Lost Souls Find.

When in our most Wretched moments,

We are Saved.

We find the Strength,

The Grace,

To Run.

To Trust.

We Trust that when our Hearts and the Love they hold

Turn to Rust,

Are asked to Rest,

They are still,

And always,

Redeemable.

It’s all for Healing.

We touch the Flame.

We soak in Sunlight.

And those Hearts Fly,

That Love Flies,

Ever Higher,

To a Place where the streets have no name.

*Special thanks to Bono and the Soweto Gospel Choir...Click Here.*

healing pain

2011-11-21T12:03:00.000-08:00

Contrary to what we may think, or feel for that matter, after the body takes a beating (like running two races, back to back, at top speed), healing comes from movement. Sitting still is about the worst possible thing we can do to our bodies when they’re sore. The stillness only invites more soreness, more settling in to the stiff, achy, frozen muscles. When broken, what our bodies need more than anything else, is flow.

I took my stiff, achy, frozen muscles to Saint Wilder yesterday for a Sunday Morning Gratitude Offering. As I hobbled awkwardly through the first mile, my body trying to break down and break through the gunk, I smiled. I smiled at Beauty. I smiled because, though in that moment I was barely jogging, I remembered soaring the day before. I was grateful.

With every step,

Pain.

With every step,

Healing.

As with our bodies, our wounded souls, too, need movement. The heart must start pumping again, the sooner the better, to avoid getting stuck, stiff, achy. Sit too long in the hurt and it forgets how to flow.

I took a walk with a friend last night. We watched the sun set and we talked.We held each others’ hearts. We held each others’ words. We held each others’ tears.

With each step,

Pain.

With each step,

Healing.

Moving through…

Heart Anthem

2011-11-19T12:57:00.000-08:00

In my world, a Turkey Trot is never “just” a Turkey Trot. But this year, especially, the race was so much more. This was the opportunity to pour out the long-held energy originally stored for the San Francisco Half Marathon. This was the opportunity to run off some serious Heart Work. This was the opportunity to tangibly experience that I am alive and well after The Crash. And mostly, this was the opportunity to give a big shout-out of Gratitude for that fact.

In the last week of preparation I’ve realized that I simply cannot do all that in a 5k. 3.1 miles is not nearly long enough for this heart. So, I decided to race twice. 5k at 8:00. 10k at 8:45. I knew…this Heart knew…that somewhere in the 10k we’d get to the Good Stuff…

I couldn’t help but wish for a double-win. But, like most dreams these days, I held that one lightly and stepped on the (first) starting line with a Heart Anthem of gratitude…gratitude…gratitude.

It took less than a minute after the word “go” for me to realize I would not be winning the 5k. A girl…a young girl…sprang to the lead like a spry antelope and it was clear to me she was Something Special. She was a whole other kind of angel…an 80-pound, pre-pubescent, blissful and effortlessly talented angel. God bless her.

I settled happily into my second place status and watched her fly. We crossed paths at the turnaround and the words spilled out of my mouth…”Fly, Honey.” I don’t think she heard me, but I heard me. And for the first time ever in a race, I realized that in cheering on a competitor, I am cheering on myself. She is not an “other”. We’re all in this. So I looked in, and I said, “Fly, Honey.”

And fly, I did, into a 2nd place finish with my fastest Turkey Trot time ever. *19:15* 2nd fastest 5k ever.

Gratitude…gratitude…gratitude…

Twenty minutes later, I was on the starting line again. Ten more k’s. I was amped. I was just getting started. This is when you know you’re getting old as a runner; the 5k’s just a warm-up, kids’ games.

In this race, too, a young whipper snapper literally sprinted to the lead, only I knew she was not quite ready to hold that pace for 6.2 miles. I found my rhythm and watched her struggle to find hers. I felt Strength in my body, Fire in my Heart…I was ready to Sail…

I caught up to the young one in the second mile, and I ran with her for a bit. “Let’s Fly, girl,” I told her. “We can do this.” She looked up at me, eyes revealing a soul and body desperate for strength. She could not have been more than eleven or twelve years old. What an honor, to be Lead Angel for a while. “You’re doing great,” I said, “You’re such a strong runner. Just find your rhythm, settle in, and fly.” Her shoulders loosened, her pace relaxed, she drifted back a ways, and I knew she’d be okay.

And then, I took off. Every part of me took off. I was just plain giddy. I got poetic.

I’ve been listening (dancing) to a song lately…Heart Anthem. (listen here) I’ve been listening to it so much so that the sound and beat and essence of this music are embedded in my Being. I pressed “play” in my Soul and heard it start up all strong and powerful…and I started up all strong and powerful. Thus began the negative-splitting of this 10k. Every mile faster than the last. 6:42, 6:42, 6:37, 6:32, 6:29, 6:22…ahhhhhhhh.

Two and a half minutes into this song is a lilting refrain…it’s soft, but expectant…it says, “Hold it right here, Love…wait for it...ahhhhhhh GO!” And then all heaven breaks loose.

Somewhere in the 5th mile, when my legs said, “What in God's name are you doing to me?”, I let this refrain melt over me. And we stayed there. Running in God's Name, exactly. We held it right there. No letting off, but no pushing. Wait for it…

I rounded the final corner…and...ahhhhhhhh GO!”

I saw two men about fifty yards ahead of me and I ran them down, flew by, and into the chute.

First Woman.

God, that felt good.

Gratitude…gratitude…gratitude…

Gratitude for a body that moves and breathes and runs wild. Gratitude for my little cool-down partner who jogged around with me in the 20 minutes between races, giving me extra hugs and kisses before the 10k.Gratitude and *kudos* to Jim for finding shortcuts and side-streets throughout the course(s) enabling several encouraging “Go Mommy” moments. Every time I saw the smiles and heard those empowering words and caught the kisses blown enthusiastically in my direction, I received Strength. And grace. Gratitude for two medals, a turkey in each arm, and a gift certificate to Fleet Feet.

Gratitude for The Anthem of my Heart beating loudly in my chest.

**Stories of the previous years' Turkey Trots can be found here.

The Center of the Earth

2011-11-18T07:30:00.000-08:00

I remain challenged, humbled, by the Places I am invited to go.

I remain awestruck at the Places Angels can fly.

We have soared above the clouds and plummeted to the depths of the sea. We have run wild on the cliffs and sat still in my living room. We have danced and we have crashed. We have flown high and low.

And...we have flown in.

The Center of the Earth is where It All meets.
Coming Together,
Pulling Together.

And The Center of the Earth is the Mother of It All.
Birthing,
Exploding Apart.

We cannot ask Birth to wait.

And so we move with it. We trust the process. Even when it’s messy.

The messy means it’s right on schedule.

We keep moving, keep opening, even when it takes us to the dark places through thick mud and rock and heat so extreme we’re sure (and at times we pray) we’ll disintegrate.

But we are not consumed.

We melt into the Middle,

Into the Core,

Into the Mother Of It All,

And we are Changed.

This, too, is Beautiful.

Here, too, is God.

We welcome the New and hold her there safely for a time,

Protected in the Arms of Love.

And then with all the Energy that ever was or is to come,

We burst outward with ancient Hallelujahs.

The Journey is written on our Souls as we stand here

Naked.

Dirty.

Alive.

Beautiful.

*photo © Angiolo Manetti

Wild vs. Reckless

2011-11-13T22:50:00.000-08:00

There’s a fine line between Wild and Reckless.

I noticed this yesterday as Luke and I spent an afternoon with friends at the Long Marine Lab, a public, largely indoor place. (We often don’t do well with those, especially when we haven’t napped.) Luke was full of Life, Enthusiasm, and all those Beautiful Things for which I love him madly. But his expression of such resulted in people getting crashed-into, friends getting thrown-down, and chain fences getting flung off in passionate pursuit of swell-shark-petting. I saw, quite vividly, that...

Wild heals; Reckless leaves a wake of destruction in its path.

*sigh*

And as I watched my son, I thought, “What a humbling honor and task it is to foster that Spirit while keeping him (and everyone in his path) safe…”

At one point Luke was poking strangers with a stick, all the while with this Delight-Full smile. It was much later in the night that he told me, “The stick was kissing them!”

Such a sweet heart. And yet…you just can’t go around poking people with sticks!!

At another point, Luke bolted out the front door of the marine lab, sprinted toward a sign about ten feet from the parking lot, and sent my heart flying out of my chest to catch him. When I brought the soaring child back to earth and asked him what in God’s Name he was thinking, he said, “I just wanted some Love.” I told him I could give him Love inside. “No Mama, I wanted Outside Love.”

I relate to this kid so much it’s scary.

God, I love that Spirit…

And yet…When you’re three years old, you just can’t run out the front door without your Mother!!

*sigh*

Wild vs. Reckless.

I read Ecclesiastes this morning. Every so often I’m in the mood for Solomon’s “It’s all Meaningless” diatribe. I’m either feeling Dark enough or Light enough to find it oddly pleasurable. Yet it is so much more than “meaningless”…

This brilliant man summed up his life’s research in the phrase, “Be Happy and Do Good”.

And this, I thought, epitomized the distinction between Wild and Reckless.

Wild is happy and does good; Reckless is afraid and does harm.

Wild is holy; Reckless is base.

Wild unites; Reckless divides.

Wild inspires; Reckless intimidates.

Wild is empowering; Reckless is terrifying.

Wild is free; Reckless is laden with consequences.

~

Wild Love must have boundaries, or it is no longer Love.

It is a wound to which we cannot tend

Because we are blind.

A wound that burns,

And we mistake the fire

For Passion.

~

For the past five days I’ve been Running Wild.

Friday morning I Ran Wild for 13.1 miles.

My own little Half Marathon, to feed the Hunger that remained for last Sunday’s half marathon that Was Not To Be.

I chose Saint Wilder for my course.

And Saint Wilder was more Beautiful than I'd ever seen Her.

More Power.

The waters were not blue; they were the most rich shade of gray...deep, thick, pure.

And yet there was so much White Light dancing on the surface...an abundance...

I watched Crash after Crash after Crash after Crash...

I Felt Crash after Crash after Crash after Crash...

Higher, Deeper, Stronger than ever.

It was downright gluttonous.

I shouted Poetry to the Sea as I witnessed this Beauty.

No matter. I was the only one Out There.

Me and a host of Angels.

God...so Beautiful...

Spirit Words.

Angel Words.

Holy, Holy, Holy...

And the Sun…I began the run under a sheer veil of Light hanging from the clouds like a thin curtain over a window...calling to my Soul..."Yes. Here I Am. You think this is beautiful? Just you wait until the veil is lifted, My Love..."

The moment I turned around to run back home, Wind and Rain smacked me in the face. Angel Breath. Angel Tears.

“Bring it”, I said. This, too, is Beautiful.

The more it Drenched me, the faster I ran.

Angel Sweat. (That Crew is working hard these days; though I think on this occasion they were out there for the pure Fun of it. Still...Fun can be Sweaty.)

I got back to the car, checked my watch, and realized I negative-split that run. By a lot. I ran the second half ten minutes faster than the first.

The wind and the rain...the Heart Work...makes the Body Work.

God...

Such Amazing Grace.

So Humbling.

So emPowering.

So Wild...

A Gift.

A Gift I will not dishonor by pushing Too Hard...Too Fast...

I will honor This Gift

by taking the day off tomorrow.

~

To hold this Space,

To Live and Love

Wild...

With Wisdom…

This is my heart’s desire

For Luke,

For Me,

For us All.

God Help Us.

Run Wild

2011-11-11T21:53:00.000-08:00

Luke…

You are an extraordinary human being.

There is no “occasion” for which to write you a glowing note about your amazingness…

No occasion, but Today…

The Day I See that we’re growing up.

The way you look at me, my Little Love…

Your Heart speaks Beauty to Mine.

Your Smile engulfs your Being and Mine.

Your Spirit beams to the Whole World…

Light.

Love.

God Bless You, sweet child.

What an honor it is, to be your Mama.

As you grow up,

As I grow up,

It seems this Journal Of Our Lives must too grow up.

While the intention remains to be Mindful, these musings are not so much about being your “Mommy”.

(You’re more apt to call me ”Mom” or “Sarah” anyway.)

This Journal has morphed into a description of our lives in this moment, which can only be described as

*Running Wild*

You, My Little Love, Run Wild through life. It is all you can do. It is Who You Are. You do not walk. You Fly.

And I…I am learning from you. I am learning from God. I, too, am Running Wild.

So as you move forward, as I move forward, as our Whole Beautiful Family moves forward…

May we Run Wild.

May we Run Free.

May we Run with Grace and Passion and Beauty.

May we Run with Angel Blood pumping through our veins.

May we Run with Angel Wings lifting us to Higher Places.

May we Run with Angel Love infusing our hearts with a rhythm so clear,

A beat so strong,

We cannot help but follow it.

My Luke,

My Light,

My Love,

Let’s Run.

this is how an Angel flies...

2011-11-10T21:28:00.000-08:00

I do not run ‘til I break.

I run ‘til I fly.

One cannot try to fly.

It takes Being to take flight.

It takes Presence to take flight.

The Trying breaks our hearts.

The Being heals them.

Running helps me Be.

Running fuels the Heart Work.

And Heart Work enables Presence.

Once we are Here,

We Soar…

So do the Heart Work.

Be.

Even when To Be is the most excruciating sensation you've known.

Lean Into Life.

And then,

Lean a little farther.

And then,

Lean so far it seems you’ll fall flat on your face.

Ahhhhh…..

And then,

In that moment,

The Wind sweeps in under your wings with Grace and Power,

and before you know it…

You are Flying.

Heart Work

2011-11-08T21:24:00.000-08:00

About a month ago, I was running along West Cliff pushing Luke in the Bob when a biker pulled up next to me and said, “Wow…you make it look effortless!”

I thought about that for a minute as I realized that my body was, in fact, moving along freely at a natural, fast pace. Oh, but there was so much work going on inside. In that moment my Mind was reeling with Thought, Planning, Wondering, Dreaming. In that moment my Heart was breaking, working, moving through. And as I look back at my most successful races (most recently, the Race Through The Redwoods; see also every competition in my first year as a mother), this seems to be The Way for me. The Heart Work makes the Body Work.

This is one reason the decision to run or not run last Sunday’s half marathon was so intense. My heart was as raw as she’s ever been, which means I likely had one Heaven of a race inside my Body. And yet…that Heart spoke clearly and made my Body do something even harder than run 13.1 miles as fast as we could: Sit.
Sitting still, from the outside, looks “effortless”. Truly, there is so much going on inside.

Yesterday morning I sat, reclining in the home “office” of my dear friend. She’s, among many things, an acupuncturist, and was giving me a treatment with two intentions: a) to continue loosening up the muscles around my neck that remained stiff from the crash, and b) to release emotional trauma still stored in my body. Anyone looking at me for those thirty minutes I laid there, eyes closed, half smiling, would have thought I was completely blissed out (unless the sight of needles sticking out of my head freaks said person out). But while, yes, I was deeply relaxed, there was so much going on inside.

My senses were intensely heightened throughout yesterday afternoon, but since all stimuli were pleasant (walking and playing and dancing around outside with the people I love), the result was simply an absolutely OverJoyed Day. But late last night after I’d kissed and tucked one of those Loves into his bed, more of the so much going on inside surfaced. The emotional impact of physical impact. The emotional impact of relational impact. It’s been an intense day.

And yet. Despite not even one week having passed since the crash, there is absolutely zero soreness or stiffness in my neck or anywhere else in my body. No “medication”, not even ibuprofen, has entered my bloodstream. Just needles, essential oil, and the invitation to Release.

Heart Work makes the Body Work.

And so my intention remains, and is strengthened, to keep doing the Heart Work - not just to keep my Body working, but to keep my whole Being working. The Heart is the Center, yes? The Heart is where God In Us is housed.

I’ve been reading the book of Daniel, the story of a man who “understood visions and dreams of all kinds”. This can be a heavy calling, but as the scriptures attest, he remained humbly connected to the God whose wisdom and power were gifted to him. “He knows what lies in darkness, and Light dwells with him.” It takes Heart Work to say such a thing.

I believe I have a new mantra in training for my next race. Not hard work, but Heart Work.

Join me in a prayer inspired by some Heart Work of Pema Chodron:

A kind heart.

I pray for a kind, pure, open heart of Love.

I pray for a vast mind that doesn’t narrow reality.

Stretch my heart to hold all your Love.

When life is pleasant, may I think of others.

When life is unpleasant, may I think of others.

I open the door to All.

I welcome All.

I invite Life to come visit.

May I let go when clinging,

Opening outward when self-involved.

Foster genuine appreciation and care in my soul.

May my joy connect me with others.

May forgiveness be a natural expression from an open heart.

May I lean into Life,

May I lean into You.

Amen.

Perspective

2011-11-06T20:20:00.000-08:00

At the risk of taking a narcissistic nosedive into my own story today, I took a genle walk instead. I took a walk with myself. I took a walk with God. I took a walk with Luke and his Daddy. I took a walk in search of Perspective. And I found it. Bigtime. What a Beautiful, Wide World we live in. Truly, there is room for Everything. Lean in...

Godspeed.

2011-11-05T23:50:00.000-07:00
Sometimes Godspeed is Stillness.

It seems Stillness is the pace to which I am called for tomorrow's race. I will not run with the energy of a million stars, as I had envisioned myself doing. But even now, that Light is gently shining down on me through clouds and Water, and I feel the Energy...the Grace. Rain kisses my pain away as I sit. I am seizing this day, despite it not unfolding as I had imagined. This is how it goes...

I tend to choose hard. I head into the Eye of the Storm. And throughout the past few days I've thought racing a half marathon would be "my hard", "my storm". It seems Stillness is a much harder storm to sit through.

I’ve been keenly aware of the Heavy Light all week. And by this, I mean the sense of moving about the world bathed in Light that, while not oppressive, carries with it some weight. I also mean the sense of moving about the world lightly, body/mind/spirit floating contently in the presence of Heavy circumstances. Heavy Light is how I feel when I run dozens of miles. Heavy Light is how I feel when I work dozens of hours on projects I love. Heavy Light is how I feel after a long day and a glass of wine. And Heavy Light is how I felt in a dream this week…a dream in which I’d been shot into the sea by a shooting a star and left suspended in water…floating and sinking at the same time…drawn toward the deep, dark places yet ultimately Lifted up toward Life.

Last Thursday night, I was driving alone, coming home from picking up my race number in Palo Alto, when my car spun out of control. I slammed into the center median, then spun in the other direction, around and across two lanes of traffic, and hit the wall. Despite a sea of cars on the road, no one ran into me. No one ran into anyone else. Everyone just kept driving. I kicked open my car door and sat on the wall, my body whole, my soul shaken. “Okay,” I said.

Peace was with me the whole time. I saw Luke’s face as my car spun through traffic, and I was aware of the possibility that a car may hit me. Just as in the dream when I had been suspended in water, I saw one way it could go, and I felt Hands beneath me, carrying me the other way. Toward Life. I knew there was more.

Heavy Light.

Held in the Heavy Light. .

Held by all manner of gentle releases that have worked through my body and soul in the hours and days following the impact. Held by friends and family. Held by my neighbors who happen to be Chinese Medicine gurus, blessing me with me healing oils, magic balms, acupuncture, and good company. Their four-year-old daughter came over the other day and played the accordian for me, then made me a beautiful picture to make me feel better. It looks like Heavy Light to me.Tonight, I sat in the Heavy Light of having to make a decision about this race. I've been so back and forth; it's been eating me alive all afternoon. I ran a few miles on the cliffs this morning and felt great. Then, hours later, I felt the muscles in my neck inflame and a deeper soreness set in. Still...I wasn't clear...I could see the run really loosening and opening things up, breaking through...I could also see it beating the hell out of me.

Then, as night fell and dark settled in and the rain came, I plain and simply got scared. I felt Fear at the thought of driving highway 17 tomorrow morning, in the dark, in the rain...Even now, as I write about it, tears come. The trauma is still raw.

Fear is an interesting Beast. I've been asking, in this moment, does Healing come by Facing Fear and Circumstances and Moving Through? Or does Healing come through Stillness and Rest? Run or Do Not Run. A Choice has to be made.

So I sat. I prayed. I stretched. I visualized both possibilities. And Stillness felt the most True. Sometimes Godspeed is stillness.

And then a friend wrote to me, "In this society and culture of fear to be overcome, it can be difficult to remember that fear is a signal and a tool and a genuine gifting device to point the way in the moment..." Yes, Amazing Grace.

I don't understand it all yet...will I ever? Anyone who knows me knows that I like to find the meaning and purpose...I like to find the Good Story. It's hard to resist the forcing of a good story. But, I suppose, the Great Story comes when we are patient enough to let it unfold in its own time, in its own right, even if the storyline doesn't make sense every step of the way.

Let's keep Leaning In to The Story.

Light is always shining, even through The Heavy. And Rain can heal, if we are willing to step outside and let it kiss our skin...if we are willing to stand still for a minute and get a bit messy...if we are willing to surrender.

Heavy Light

2011-11-02T22:29:00.000-07:00

Oh, heavy Light.

Floating gravity.

Time is not measured in minutes or hours, days or years, but in the fullness of a moment.

And how full these moments have been.

These moments contain aching joy, tragic bliss, the darkest hope…

These moments contain kids and costumes and pure delight. These moments contain grief and the poignant awareness of loss. These moments contain the groggy, deliciousness of waking up to a happy kid and his wild, morning hair. These moments contain the eerie sobriety of melancholy in a quiet house. These moments contain the endorphin-rushed elation of running through Beauty. These moments contain the stony inertia of necessary stillness.

Love is not a one-dimensional noun.

Life is not a flat landscape.

To explore every dimension, the heights and depths and in between spaces…is to truly live.

Hard work. Necessary work.

The paradox…the tension…the very instant laughter dissolves into tears…this is the Heavy Light. This is the point at which the leaden, weightless body hangs suspended beneath and above gallons of water…drawn to the depths while called to the surface…

To drown or not to drown…

A Hand on the back of her head. Another under her knees. Carried by Grace, she rises.

Upward.

*Gasp*

Air.

Light.

Home.

A harrowing journey, not for the faint of heart, but we’ve made it back once more.

~

I will make a harrowing journey this Sunday. 13.1 miles from one part of San Francisco to another. A half-marathon on legs that have run three half marathons in the last week. I will be running Heavy. I will be running Light.

As is so often the case, my body will move through the scene my spirit has scouted for days…weeks…

The heavy Light.

The mountain tops and valley lows.

The endless climbs and the merciless drops.

Illuminating Brilliance and Piercing Darkness.

So many miles on these fresh legs…

We will run. We will spill. We will crash. We will fly. We will fall. We will transcend…

limits, fears, tears.

This body of mine. This soul of mine. Heavy Light that we are.

We will run.

It is all we can do.

run Wild(er)

2011-10-28T21:39:00.001-07:00
What a wild journey, this life. Full of intricate complexity, paradox, balance, nuance…and yet it is so simple. Life is beautiful.

We either lean in or we draw back.

We have good reasons for both.

This tension brings us to an impasse. We see it in our world as every nation speaks Peace, killing each other to get it. We see it in our country, as entire communities Occupy in the spirit of setting free. We see it in our towns as men and women, Muslims and Jews, young and old, wealthy and poor…agree on the Vision and get stuck in the “how”.

We see the impasse in our souls, as we hear our Heart Anthem and get lost in the details toward its declaration.

I never chose (nor was I given) a patron saint. But Catherine of Siena inspires me and I was recently delighted to discover her name is sometimes spelled Katharine, exactly as my middle name is. Her symbol is a heart. And I remember her as I try to follow my own.

When my heart wants to run wild but doesn’t know how, I start with my body. I literally run wild. Were there such a thing as a Patron Trail, Saint Wilder Ranch State Park would be mine.

This morning, while running Wilder, I saw the impasse in the land as Indecisive Summer met Stubborn Fall. In the heat of the afternoon, green grass is pulled relentlessly from the ground, reaching ever higher toward the sun. Grow, it screams. And then night falls, and morning comes with sobering cold. Rest, it beckons. The season has passed. Stop. Sleep now. And so, with the chill of dew on its fragile fingertips, the lowly plant surrenders.

Until.

The sun rises in the sky, Great Light and Warmth bathing each blade with inspiration. And there is no choice but to rise up, to stretch, to travel ever higher and higher and higher…

‘Tis a wild landscape out there right now.

Running Wilder along the cliffs, I see a towering ocean wave approach the rocky Edge, slamming into her with graceful force. Light explodes, silken streams of white cascading down her every angle. She is drenched. Clean.

An audible exhale escapes as I witness this Beauty. Eyes closed running. Drinking it in. Running by Feel...my lungs, my legs, the soles of my feet pounding the earth. I open my eyes again and know...

Wild is the only way to live.

The Dance. The Mystery. The inescapable tug of that which calls our hearts…that which our hearts cannot find on their own, and so they travel blind, Held and Led by Love through fields and valleys and oceans and years, trusting that one day they will finally gaze upon and dive into the Beauty in which they’ve always believed.

And the wear and tear
In getting there
Serves to prepare.

Jump.

held

2011-10-27T23:10:00.000-07:00
As he likes to boast, Luke’s a “big boy”, and he typically prefers to get around on his own two bare feet. But every once in a while, my big boy will have a little moment when snuggling up and hanging on for the ride, in his words, “sounds like a plan”.

Today was one of those days.

When I picked Luke up from school he was smiling, running, and just a tad nutty. This means he’s tired. So I put him in the car and drove up the coast until he nodded off (about 5 minutes). Gazing out at the sparkling waters and trying to convince myself for the gazillionth time that yes, I live here, I pulled over.I oh-so-carefully slid my child from carseat to Ergo and started walking toward the holy water. Luke stirred, and I gently whispered, “Hush, baby, rest your head on my back.”

He did.And as I relished in being the holder, I envisioned myself as the held.

Pressing my cheek against that delicious crevice between the Great Shoulderblades of God…closing my eyes…I could finally breathe.~

When Luke awoke and saw the glorious terrain, he insisted on taking off his shoes and exploring.“This is so fun, isn’t it mom?”“Come with me!”"Watch this!"
“Can you slide with me?”"It's such a beautiful day!"And after a time, he sat down at the very, very edge of the cliff. Find a rock; throw; repeat.I don’t know how long we sat there, me holding on tight (ready to grab him and run the instant the ground beneath us began crumbling to the sea), him sitting securely, light heart and curious mind simply enjoying.

Held.

~

I saw myself in Luke today - quite literally when snuggled up on those windy cliffs, unsure where my wild, blonde curls ended and his began.And I saw the metaphor…

My life may look like one enormous risk, ground ready to give way at a moment’s notice, inches away from falling. Yet here I sit, secure, light, curious…

Held.

Held by the combination of dear friends and good food and fresh air and candle-light. Held by stirring music and dead authors and a living God. Held by a kid whose exploration of It All can inspire and awaken the most complacent soul. I am Held by silence. Held by Beauty. Held by hope. Held by the Air under my wings...

angel blood

2011-10-23T21:38:00.001-07:00
He is made of some pretty powerful Stuff, this one. He jumps. He flies. He fears not.

Angel blood…

I’ve been thinking a lot about angels lately. Inviting them. Expressing my gratitude for their presence.

I’ve needed them here, in my home, as we’ve settled in.

I’ve needed them here, with my child, as he’s settled in.

I’ve needed them here, in my body, as this season has required Endurance like never before.

The Angels…they never disappoint. My home is warm; my child is thriving; my body is soaring.

This is saying a lot, given the circumstances.

I found myself back at Wilder again this morning for another fourteen. 36 miles in 3 days; my coping mechanism is quite obvious.

Ah, but it’s a nourishing one. And it’s so much more than “running”. It is communing. With God, nature, Life…

Today’s was a quiet run. Hardly anyone else out on the trails. No mountain bikers. No lovers on the Heavenly Beach. My only encounter was with the UCSC cross-country club in the first few miles. I stayed in their pack for a few moments, gave them an encouraging word, and passed them.

What followed was a stretch of silent miles. Silent mind. Silent heart. Silent body.

Floating.

Flying.

Angel Blood.

Angels carry us when our humanity is Not Enough. This, I believe, is the definition of Grace.

I found Grace out there in the Solitude. And She spoke to me after my turnaround as I again crossed paths with the young runners still making their way out to The Limit.

I was struck by the memory of my collegiate training runs, seemingly an entire life ago...those early Sunday mornings when we’d all pile into a van and drive to the San Gabriel mountains where we’d pound out mileage and play with the limits of our bodies and souls, often breaking under the weight of it all. I remembered those days as an eighteen-year-old freshman, believing I could do anything, wanting so badly to do everything, ultimately ending up broken on the side of the road while others flew by…

There exists in both body and soul a “sweet spot”, an understanding of and respect for one’s limits. This is the point at which leaning in meets settling in. Pushing without breaking. It’s a hard place to find.

I passed some athletes soaring this morning, others puking, and others totally slacking. I watched them run with gusto, run with terror, run with fatigue, run with pumpkins they stole from the coastline farms. I thought, how lovely it is to be 30. How lovely it is to have found that “sweet spot” as an athlete…to trust my pace for fourteen miles and to never fall apart. How lovely to know what it feels like to run with Angel Blood pumping through my veins.

I smiled at each of these runners, extending compassion to some, motivation to others, affirmation, an invitation to speed it up, a validation for slowing it down, a tour through the secret path down to the Heavenly Beach. Two absolutely exhausted young women saw me disappear behind the tall grass and they yelled, "Is that how you get down to the water?!" "Yes," I said, "Come on!" And come they did, their spirits immediately lighter. I left them there in the waves to play. And I kept running. Flying. There is another measure of Grace in acting as someone else's Angel.

In all this, I was humbled. It is one thing to learn the sweet spot in one's body; it is another to find it in one's soul. Just how much, exactly, can this heart take?

I am learning.

As with the body, it seems the best way to discover the limit of the soul is to push to a breaking point...to allow a crash...so that the next time around we can remember...next time we can recognize that feeling that comes just before the crumbling, and gently, firmly, stop there, with all due respect.

My soul has crashed on more than one occasion of late. Each time, it’s Angel Blood that starts flowing, graciously lifting me back up and into the movement of Life.

I miss my kid tonight. He’s had some great Daddy Time this weekend, and we’ve had some lovely Family Time all three of us. Luke is flying…soaring…he blows me away.

But me…I miss him. Plain and simple and heartwrenching as that. But it’s a pure emotion. An honest emotion. An honorable emotion. It deserves to be felt.

So I’m feeling it. I’m respecting it.

Tomorrow night, I will lay that beautiful boy down under my roof, and I will kiss his forehead and stroke his hair and search his shoulders for wings....whispering a prayer of Thanks to the Angels who knew I had reached my Limit…

The Angels who caught me before I crumbled.

The Angels who help my son take flight.

The Angels who hold us all.

ringing heart

2011-10-20T21:01:00.000-07:00
This afternoon Luke transitioned into some Daddy Time and I transitioned into some Solo Time. Luke was embracing the moment, and as is so often the case, I decided to take a cue from him. I took the advice of Kristin Armstrong, inspirational runner, woman of faith, and mommy to three beautiful children she shares with ex-husband Lance. This woman is stunning, powerful, vulnerable, honest. Every time the kids transition to Dad’s house, she goes on what she calls a “Reset Run”. I did my first this afternoon. My first of many.

I chose, where else, the trails of Wilder. The sun was shining; no fog today. I was in need of a clear view. “Just a few gentle miles,” I thought. Yet I parked a mile away to give myself a warm-up, a moment to settle into a pace and prepare my heart for Beauty. It’s hard for me to jump right into Eden…I often feel I’ve missed the first mile, my body present but the rest of me not arriving until I’m already sweaty and breathless. I like to be there for the warm-up.

So I laced up my shoes and set out for the cliffs, viewing them first from a distance and slowly but surely winding my way around and through until I was hit head-on with…yes, Beauty. She always takes my breath away…and then breathes it right back in. Ahhhh….

I didn’t wear a watch today. I didn’t bring my phone. It was just me. Moving Through. There was No Time, and All The Time in the world.

A few miles in there’s a cove, a private little stretch of beach with sparkling waters flowing in and out, back and forth, gently crashing…Heaven, basically. I climbed down the side of the cliff and thought about taking a dip, but I happened upon two lovers already soaking in that divine spot. I smiled and kept on running across the sand, climbing up the rocky wall on the other side, moving further and further into the endless horizon…further than I’ve ever gone before.

Deep in bliss, outside of time, I felt the vibration of mountain bikes approaching. And then a voice. “Awesome!” he yelled. “Keep up that pace and you’ll be in London in 2012.” Three fellow Revelers in Creation pulled up alongside me, glowing from the brilliant reflection of sunlight on water, and we shared the knowing smiles of Endorphin Rush plus Glorious Scenery. No words necessary. They kept on riding and every so often I’d see them round a bend in the distance, turn, and wave. Kindred Souls.

I may not have Olympic dreams, but I do have dreams. Mountain Bike Angel set my heart in that light as I continued my moving meditation. I spoke those dreams out loud to the ocean, to God. Landing the Dream Job. Writing a book. Earning my PhD. And many more. I spoke these dreams out over the cliffs, letting them settle into the sacred waters, trusting they lie in Good Hands. And I kept running.

Eventually I had to cross back over the sand of the Heavenly Beach. Noticing the lovers still...loving...I climbed down and ran by as unintrusively as possible. “Long run!” the woman said. “Is it?”, I thought, surprisingly unaware. I merely gestured out to the breathtaking view and said, “Gorgeous!” “You look great,” she told me. “Thanks!” I said, “So do you.” And I scurried up that rock wall like the nimble goats Luke and I have been watching on Planet Earth.

Ease. Strength. Grace.

What a lovely gift.

As I approached my car I noticed the sun was much lower in the sky and my body was begging for water and food and warm, dry clothes. I was a sweaty mess, and it felt so good. I grabbed that water, wishing I had brought some food, and threw on the clean clothes as I stretched and took a look at the time. It seemed I’d been gone for a while. It seemed I’d run about 14 miles. It seemed I’d lost track of time. That, too, felt so good.

Ease. Strength. Grace.

These qualities are easier to embody on a fourteen mile run than they are on a night without my kid.

At least the “ease” part.

I do feel strong tonight, though I miss peeking in on that curly blonde mop resting on a pillow in the next room as I write.

I do feel wrapped in a blanket of Grace. Merciful Grace.

This is the Grace that speaks through the grand entrance of a sunbeam through redwood trees, appearing at just the Right Moment, as if to say, “I am here, and I bless you.”

This is the Grace that speaks through my dear friend who sat at my kitchen table this morning, reflecting back beautiful visions and words of encouragement.

This is the Grace that speaks through my son as he happily, excitedly, walks into his daddy’s house and says, “Go ahead, now, Mom. I love you, Pookie!”, drenching me in hugs and kisses before playing a tune on the piano, serenading my exit with Joy.

This is the Grace that speaks through random mountain bikers and chance lovers in the middle of nowhere.

This is the Grace that speaks through a quiet, candle-lit home, flickering Hope and Light and Trust.

This is the Grace that enables me to lose track of time without losing track of my heart.

Quite the contrary, my heart grew tonight. Isn’t that what happens in the timelessness? The broad, deep, quiet, most vulnerable and gritty spaces?

“When it came, oh, it beat, and it boiled, and it rang…it's ringing..ring like crazy, ring like hell, turn me back into that wild haired gale…”

Click here to listen to a beautiful song, quoted above.

Click here for the lyrics.

The Well

2011-10-19T21:26:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I forget who I am.

I go to The Well to remember.

There is a famous story of Jesus meeting a woman at a well.

A woman who forgot who she was.

Jesus reminded her of her Beauty.

He raised the Cup of His Heart with this invitation: “whoever drinks the water I give will never thirst”. He told her it would “become in her a spring of water welling up to eternal life”.

Today I stand at that Well,

Asking for a reminder.

In those Sacred Waters my reflection is seen.

Unobstructed.

Clear.

Pure.

These are Holy Moments, when we are able to see Who We Are.

These are Holy Moments when we can believe it.

And so I drink it in,

The water that births a spring in my soul.

~

This is why we go to The Well.

To get our taste of Real Life, Real Beauty, that it may sustain us for The Rest of It All.

We go, and we drink it in, that we may bring a glimpse back to those we love, sparking a flame, inspiring More…

That We All may truly Live.

~

Like the woman Jesus met that day in Sychar, Samaria,

I am met at The Well.

Seen at The Well.

Humbled at The Well.

~

To The One who has Seen It All:

You have seen me bleed.

Sweat.

Cry.

Love.

And never have you been afraid to touch me.

You've held me in ecstasy,

You've held me in despair,

When drowning in laughter,

When drowning in grief.

You've gazed into eyes flooded with bliss.

You've gazed into eyes flooded with tears.

You've helped me stand tall, solid, deeply rooted and strong.

You've helped me crumble.

You've affirmed my brave heart and my able hands.

You've affirmed my brokenness.

You've let me soar.

You've let me crash.

To it all, you have whispered, “Beautiful.”

Humbly I sit now, Gratitude overflowing.

May my life,

My passionate, relentless, wild, beautiful, courageous life…

be my Thank You.

Amen.

this is life

2011-10-18T10:26:00.001-07:00

Sun and Rain kiss my face,

Simultaneously.

This is Life.

The Soothing Ache of

Deafening Silence.

The Stinging Salve of

Torturous Bliss.

The Yearning Surrender of

Peaceful Desperation.

When Too Much

Is Never Enough.

This is Life.

The Healing Pain of

Blinding Darkness.

The Foggy Clarity of

Knowing without Sight.

Being Held in Solitude,

Alone in Community.

Moving through Stillness,

Waking Sleep.

This is Life.

Numbers add up.

Gravity pulls down.

The sun rises and sets.

Every Day.

But the Heart,

The Infinitely Dimensional Heart,

Holds All with Bursting Emptiness.

Yin,

Yang,

And.

This is Life.

Death is part of Life.

And Life, of Death.

Joyful Sorrow.

holy mess

2011-10-15T21:38:00.000-07:00

What a Holy Mess of a Day.

From the moment his eyes opened this morning, Luke was particularly Wild-Animal-Kingdom-esque. Three years of work, taming this child for the captivity of domestic life, seemed for naught as I watched him flail about, dancing one minute and throwing random objects across the floor the next, dissolving into fits of fury and fits of giggles within the same breath. Basically, he acted his age. I tried my hardest to slam a cup of coffee in the hopes that I could keep up with this Tasmanian Whirlwind, but each time I took a sip something else had broken or spilled or ended up outside when it should have been inside, or vise versa (Dirt in the kitchen? No, thank you.)

I wanted desperately to employ my best, creative Mama Thinking. Distract, Divert, Design a tactile project that would engage his five senses and captivate his buzzing brain and pool his exploding energy. Sadly, caffeine had not reached my bloodstream in time to activate Mama Thinking.

So, we went for Mama Auto Pilot. Aka: Run For My Life.

When Luke leaves his body and is past the point of no return, the only way to bring him back together is to strap him in and move toward Beauty. (I work in quite the same way, lacing up my shoes and hitting the road.) He got quiet, my brain got quiet, and we settled into Sunday Morning along the coast. My muscles warmed, my breathing evened, my eyes opened, my mind cleared.

At one point I looked over my shoulder to see a lovely Divine Gesture…some Love from Up Above:

Mama Thinking began to kick in as I declared an intention of fun. I stopped at Natural Bridges where I could stretch my weary body and Luke could run like the dickens he is. We spent a long time there, though I did more playing than stretching (more playing is always good for me). Over and over we climbed and jumped off of a fallen tree, Luke yelling, “Ready, Set, GO!” and me whispering, “We’re not supposed to yell in here; we’ll scare the butterflies!” But those monarchs didn’t seem to mind; they flew over and around and through our games. “They’re dancing!” Luke said.

Feeling ever the good mother, I got Luke back in the stroller and jogged the four miles home. Eight miles, little coffee, and no food…I was getting crabby. I told Luke that our first order of business would be to eat. We parked in the front yard and I unbuckled his straps. I may as well have unbuckled his body. Chaos resumed in full force and that Giant Spirit of a kid flew in every direction.

The rest of the day went on like this. Despite frequenting two big, beautiful parks, one aptly named after Denace The Menace, and spending hours in pure energy burn, Luke's Well of Spirit did not run dry.

Mercifully, my dear friend Anna met up with us at Park #1 and blessed me with her beautiful presence and encouraging spirit and kindred Holy Messiness as we watched my child fearlessly cheat death (or at least serious injury) on more than one occasion.

And we enjoyed some good Family Time at Park #2, Luke riding his bike around and around with Daddy's encouragement.

Ah, Community.

Still, there was no winding down. This evening, Luke wanted to throw trains. So, I took him outside and we threw a ball. Then, he wanted to throw dirt, so I put him on a “Dirt Island” with specific parameters for the filth. I turned my back and dirt was flying in my house with a muddy-footed boy right behind. I picked up said Mud Child, threw him in the tub, and started vacuuming the kitchen. Not two minutes later, I went back to the bathroom and found the entire floor covered in water, Luke throwing handful after handful of suds out of the tub. Unpacked bags sat in the puddle, entirely soaked. I believe my exact words were, “Dammit, Luke, we’re going to church!”

And go to church we did.

On the way there, I told Luke that I love him dearly, but that I was so frustrated at the way he disobeyed me today. I told him I was stressed, that I was doing my best to breathe through it and be strong and kind, but that I had hit my limit. I told him church was a good place to go when we’re frustrated, tired, stressed, or angry.

We parked the car and walked toward the sanctuary. “I like going to church,” he said. “Me too,” I told him. “Are you happy?”, he asked. “Yes, I am.” “You go here when you’re frustrated,” he said. “Yeah, I go here when I’m happy, too. I always love coming here.” "Me too," he said.

The candles flickered in the stained-glass sanctuary and the musicians warmed up in preparation for the service. Luke sat down (first time all day that he did so voluntarily). And as the music played, he got up, stood in front of an altar of candles, and danced.

Sweet, Holy Mess.

On the way home I talked about the word we sang, Hosanna. “It means God keeps us safe, honey; he takes care of us.” “God takes care of me,” Luke said. “And, he made me really funny.” “Yes,” I told him. “He did make you really funny.” He went on. “Yeah, and God breathed his wind on me and made my hair!” I imagined Beautiful God gazing at my infant son as he slept, breathing over this precious little one…creating a soft, whispy lock, flipping it into the tiniest curlie-cue that I would discover with delight the next morning. “Yes, Luke…God did breathe you into being.”

*Sigh*

There was lots of sighing today.

Eventually, we made it to bedtime and Luke fell asleep in my arms as I sang. The Long Day Is Over, so sings Norah Jones as I write…

Though he had an…energetic…day, Luke continues to move through this transition beautifully. His spirit is light, he is talking through each step we take, but he is doing so with joy, without resistance, and with an understanding beyond his years. While I am riding extreme waves of emotion in my own Holy Mess of a soul, this child is really quite steady and that is heartening.

A friend encouraged me recently to not project my feelings onto Luke. “Let him show you how he’s going to feel about all this,” she said. “Who knows? This could even seem like an adventure to him.” I’m so glad she said this. Jim and I have both been able to step back and let Luke respond in his own way, and so far, his way is rather peaceful. It’s astounding, actually. Full of light and dancing…

In fact, in the spirit of Holiness, while going through all of our music yesterday, Luke and I discovered some CD’s I received as a parting-gift from my Seattle students years ago. I kid you not, one was labeled “Holy Hip Hop”. I laughed so hard at the title that Luke insisted we listen. Oh My Dear God, here you have it:

do you know?

2011-10-12T22:07:00.000-07:00

The morning of Moving Day, Luke found a small flashlight in the midst of our clearing out, and he ran around the house shining it in our faces. In the moment we were nothing but annoyed.

Before doing much else, I couldn't resist putting Luke in the stroller for one Last Run from that front door. He was still carrying that flashlight, waving it around for all to see. I envisioned us from a bird’s eye view, and I saw my weary body/mind/spirit pushing hard…moving through…and I saw Luke out front, holding the Light.

Hold the Light for us, Child. We are all Holding The Light.

Saint John of the Cross writes movingly, hauntingly, wrenchingly of the Dark Night of the Soul.

I thought about this Dark Night late Saturday as I packed...as I sat in the midst of the Stuff that represented ten years of my life. I sat in the transition zone from one Season to the Next. I sat in the dark, waiting for the Light. I wept.

And as I sat in that space, in the eye Eye of the Storm, I asked God to come.

Emmanuel. God With Us.

A light flickered. It was the light from my phone. God Bless Technology.

I had received a message from a student (now friend) who was in my class eight years ago. It read as followed.

~

Sarah, I was remembering recently a conversation we had my senior year at King’s about St. John of the Cross and the “dark night of the soul”. I am grateful for the teacher you were to me at that time in my life and the teacher you continue to be. The following is one of my favorite poems and I thought of it as I have been thinking of you often the past few days:

Do you know how beautiful you are?

I think not, my dear.

For as you talk of God,

I see great parades with wildly colorful bands

Streaming from your mind and heart,

Carrying wonderful and secret messages

To every corner of this world.

I see saints bowing in the mountains

Hundreds of miles away

To the wonder of sounds

That break into light

From your most common words.

Speak to me of your mother,

Your cousins and your friends.

Tell me of squirrels and birds you know.

Awaken your legion of nightingales –

Let them soar wild and free in the sky.

And begin to sing to God.

Let’s all begin to sing to God!

Do you know how beautiful you are?

~

I am beginning to see.

~

transition

2011-10-11T09:19:00.000-07:00
My Dear Community,

This is an odd time we live in, with this social media. Whereas silence and discretion have felt most True to me in recent days, the reality is, people find out, and people wonder, and people guess, and people assume, and people want to ask…

And I know such inquiry is born out of love and care for our family, for which I am deeply grateful.

So, it seems more helpful to make a statement. Yes, Jim and I are in the process of getting divorced. I moved into a new home this week, and Luke is so far quite enjoying the fact that he now has two houses. Mommy has a house, Daddy has a house, and Luke is at Home in Both.

Yes, social media brings much more nuance to such life experiences, especially when you post family pictures on Facebook, and when you blog. (guilty) So let me just say here that I have never written, posted, or shared anything untrue. There is so much beauty in my life and in the relationship shared by Jim, Luke, and me. I take great joy (and feel much authenticity) in writing about and sharing that beauty. And, what has not been written, posted, and shared is significant. But it would be inappropriate, dishonoring, un-called-for to share all of that. And I will not go on to share all of that.

What I do want to share is, as I believe has always been expressed in this forum, my heart is authentic, open, and connected deeply to God. A decision of this magnitude would not be reached lightly, without much prayer, input, counsel, and weeping. A decision of this magnitude would not be acted upon without Peace.

Divorce is always complicated; there is always more to the story in situations such as this.

With all due respect to the loving community around us, the “more to the story” is between Jim and me.

I am not writing this as an invitation to a public forum of discussion about the completion of my marriage. I am writing this with the intention to clarify, to answer a question floating around, and to speak my heart that is connected to, inspired by, and motivated to Love, Honor, Truth, Grace...God.

I am honored that so many of you stop by on a regular basis to hear and see my heart "on paper". I have shared this heart openly with you for the past three years and I want to continue to do so. I intend to do so with honor, with tact, with grace, and with raw authenticity.

I want to keep writing, keep sharing, keep communicating a message of Love, Peace, and an Open Heart.

I love Jim. And I love his relationship with Luke. I do not see myself as parenting “on my own”. Jim and I have every intention and desire to continue to raise Luke together with Love. As I said, Luke has two homes now. He is not being taken away from anyone or anything. In my view, he is being given More.

I invite and welcome your prayers. I invite and welcome your communication, though I ask that it be done in the more personal form of email or a call, as opposed to a public and potentially anonymous comment. I invite and welcome your listening eyes and ears as I continue to share the stirrings of my heart through this profound, exciting, heart-wrenching, and heart-opening time.

Much Love and my Deepest Gratitude to you all for Listening and Loving through these years,

Sarah

enough

2011-10-04T10:15:00.000-07:00
When life gets hard, I work harder. When I get tired, I drink more coffee. When facing a deadline, I add one more book to the pile, just to pack a punch of desperate inspiration. When my heart aches, I ask my body for more miles so the ache of my muscles can overwhelm and soothe the beating in my chest. My prescription for pretty much every malady of body, mind, or spirit is a good dose of vitamins and sweat.

When Challenge approaches, I run head-first into its mysterious grip, typically finding a blessing within. I cannot resist the eye of the storm because God is always in there providing something beautiful - an embrace, a gentle stretch from which I grow, or simply an ‘atta girl.

This is why this morning, when my beyond-early-bird of a child crawled into bed with me not four hours after I’d fallen asleep, I wiped my eyes, still red and puffy from a holy mess of a night, and snuggled him for the 4.7 seconds he could bear to lay there before jumping up and exclaiming, “Let’s go feed the kitties now!” I brewed a larger than normal pot of coffee and drank in the energy from my cup…drank in the Energy from my son whose endless strain of lively conversation makes my heart sing: “We eat flour but not flowers – Ico eats flowers, though, the ones in the grass. I play soccer in the grass, without my shoes, because they just get wet anyway. Mommy can we listen to John Legend? The one with the guitar player? And then we’ll listen to the one where he’s wearing a sweater and just playing the piano. And after that we’ll listen to Joy and John Paul. I’m a guitar player like John Paul. And I’m a Piano Man too. I’m a swinger. La la la la la…” Ah, Honey, you are So Much.

After about an hour, that So Much of a child lay on the floor in a heap of Tantrum over...what was it, exactly? Tired mess of a kid...why won't he just sleep?

Hmmm...apples...trees...

"Enough", I told him. And despite putting more miles on this body (and this heart) in the last two months than I have in years, I packed Luke in the BOB while the sky was still dark, and with an ache in my chest far deeper than that in my legs, said, “Come on kiddo; let’s rock this” as we embarked on, what else, but an absurd interval workout. Today was not on the clock. No “6 sets of 3 minutes hard, 2 minutes easy”. Today, Weariness was my gauge. Each time she reared her honest, sad little head, I ran faster. I pushed ridiculously hard. I really needed to see God’s face today.

And I did.

Actually, first, I heard his voice. “Enough.”

I slowed down.

“Enough,” he breathed again. “Look up.”

There it was, directly above me, a bright, full rainbow, shining end to end in all its Glory. (When had the sun come up to light the sky?)

I stopped and turned the stroller to face this Gift. “Look,” I told Luke. “Do you see the rainbow?”

“Yeah…” came the breathless reply from my old soul of a little boy.

“That rainbow means God will always be with us,” I told him. And I ran home. Slowly. Gently.

Beautiful Grace.

It is Enough.

the through

2011-10-02T22:12:00.000-07:00
Sometimes we want so badly to get to the other side that we resist moving through. We wish we could manifest our visions in an instant, creating reality at the very moment its dream is birthed. Yet this is not how it works. “The through” is essential. Therein lies the growth necessary to become who we must be on the other side.

And sometimes the other side seems so terrifying, so mysterious, that we never want to leave The Through. This, too, is a form of resistance.

~

I always run with intention. Whether it is to pray, relax my mind, wake up my spirit, sweat, practice speed, practice strength, practice endurance…there is always intention.

Today, more than ever, I ran with intentention. Profound intention. Heavy, weighty, life-changing intention. My intention was to move through.

I had a lot to process today, moreso than usual, so I headed out for my favorite twelve-mile route thinking that it would give me the time to find a rhythm, sweat out the toxins, breathe in the clean ocean air, and clear my mind to the point where Truth has room to be heard.

Twelve miles were not enough today.

I found myself fairly blissed out at the turnaround - maintaining a sweet, strong rhythm with my stride, sweating profusely (or as my mom likes to say, “sparkling”), breathing evenly and powerfully…but my mind was not clear. And the cliffs in the distance were calling to me. So I answered.

As I wove my way around those cliffs, clouds hanging over the ocean, sun shining over my head, I rounded a corner and came face to face with Beauty. Her presence was so striking, I immediately slowed my pace and walked to the edge where dirt and rocks meet sky. Had I been on any drug but endorphins I’m sure I would have jumped without thought.

Sunlight met water in a thousand twinkling stars, dancing across the surface of this glorious, vast body. I could not stop laughing, could not stop smiling, could not stop repeating a breathless prayer, “God…Beautiful God…Beautiful…”

How I wished I could have stayed there. I wanted so badly to dive in and swim in those waters forever. I wanted to stay in The Through. But this is not how it works.

So I bowed my head and put my hands to my heart. I made the sign of the cross over my chest and breathed out my gratitude. Thank You.

And I kept running.

If you run long enough, there comes a point at which the body is too exhausted to bother the mind with its complaints, so it just keeps running. The muscles, bones, joints, ligaments, heart, lungs, blood…they all finally realize that resisting the process requires more energy, and so they surrender to the beautiful rhythm that is the body in movement. About this same time, the mind, which has been circling and playing out a thousand stories and thoughts and worries and fantasies and what-ifs, lets out a big, fat sigh and finally shuts the hell up.

This is why I like to run long.

There comes a point, after so many miles, after so much sweat, when the body/mind/spirit has only enough strength left to run toward Truth.

Today, this point came around mile 14, one mile from home. Beautiful, delirious yet grounded, exhausted yet exhilarated, feet pounding, heart beating, breath moving in and through…surrendered.

In this final mile I found Surrender. I embodied Surrender. Surrendering to the beauty and comfort of The Through, surrendering to the inevitability of the other side. I ran this final mile with openness to the eventual, and in some ways already present Beauty in the other side.

In this final mile, I moved through.

avatar

2011-09-22T12:44:00.000-07:00
I had planned to run easy today. I did a long, hard threshold workout pushing Luke in the BOB yesterday (that stroller isn’t getting any lighter), and I was still sore from a glorious, killer session on the trails the day before. This morning I was in the mood for one of those gentle, meandering, running-as-life excursions around the campus track, looking out at the fog and trusting there’s a big blue ocean of life Out There.

I suppose today’s was a running-as-life excursion, though it unfolded quite differently than I had imagined.

I slowly made my way up the steep hill to UCSC, and just as I folded myself into the movement around the track, a guy in fancy running clothes with flashy blue shoes and a sleek ipod strapped to his arm came bolting down the straightaway. Out of nowhere welled up in me a fierce resistance to his passing me. Not today, I declared under my breath.

I picked up my pace to stay just in front of Mr. Flashy, and he sped up too. I could tell from his garb that he was not a “real” runner, so I kicked it up another notch (and then I repented for my judgmentalness). I knew he wouldn’t last more than a quarter mile like that. He ran faster, as did I, and the game continued for 400 meters, just as I suspected, before I finally got him off my tail. Still, I wanted to be sure, so I maintained my speed for a while. Not much later, I rounded a corner to see him up ahead in the distance. I could lap this guy! I went after it, and just as I was about to blow by him, he pulled off the track. I almost said out loud, “Come ON, are you serious?!”, but I refrained.

I kept up my pace so it wouldn’t look like I was playing cat and mouse (which I was), and as I finished one more lap I noticed Mr. Flashy up ahead starting to jog again. I smiled.

Sidenote: I read an article yesterday about a fascinating study done with cyclists and computers. The athletes pedaled on stationary bikes connected to screens which showed them each two avatars. One avatar represented the biker at the exact pace he traveled in that moment; the other represented the “limit” of the biker, the fastest pace he had ever ridden (or so he was told). The second avatar was actually programmed to go faster than the cyclist had ever ridden. The cyclists, believing they were chasing their fastest selves, caught up to them, exceeding their limits quite literally. I loved this beautiful demonstration that we are always capable of more than we think.

Back to my story…when I saw Mr. Flashy starting another lap a good distance ahead of me, I immediately thought, “He’s my avatar!” I found yet another gear and set my sights on the blue shoes up ahead. “You're mine,” I said, just far enough away that he wouldn’t hear me, but close enough that I knew it was true. A few moments later, he was behind me and I kept flying. Ahhhhhhhhhh…..

I don’t know how many miles I ran at that blistering pace – the pace I didn’t think was in me today because of sore muscles, tired legs, bad sleep, the half of a mango and cup of coffee as I’d had as “fuel”. But somehow that pace needed to be realized this morning. We are always capable of more than we think. How many life experiences must I have before I am no longer surprised at the manifestation of that truth?

I did not run easy today. I did not wax poetic as I gazed out at the sea of fog in my midst. I ran hard, and kept my eyes fixed on an ordinary, recreational runner who, God bless him, served as my motivation to exceed my limits. If it didn’t sound so condescending, I’d have liked to run another lap around Mr. Flashy and express my gratitude.

I did take my foot off the gas on the jog home. I took my time heading down that hill, and I found myself breathing deeply at the sight of those clouds, knowing that Dear God Yes, there is a big, beautiful ocean full of life Out There.

three

2011-09-13T21:31:00.001-07:00

My Dear Luke,

Happy birthday. You, honey, are extraordinary.

I’ve spent the last few days taking notes, preparing my heart to express to you my love, my joy, my observations, my absolute delight in who you are. And in so doing, I’ve realized that this year’s letter to you is not so much full of cute anecdotes and precious things you’ve said or done. This year’s letter is not addressed to a baby. This year’s letter is to a boy. Let me count the ways I love you…

In the morning, when your curly blond hair is springing out in every direction and you sprint into our room and jump into bed and say, “Is it time to get up? Let’s feed the kitties!”…you simultaneously melt my heart and awaken my spirit.

You still have a thing for the crack of dawn, and most days I love you for it. The first thing we do together everyday, you and me, is brew a pot of coffee and grab the cutting board. Some days it’s a mango; others it’s an apple. We slice our fruit, we eat, and we chat. This is quite possibly my favorite time of day.

God bless you (and me for that matter), we still run together most every day. While we’re at it, let’s ask God’s blessing on the BOB jogging stroller. Three years, countless miles, and we’re all still going strong. Your 35+ pounds of muscle-y goodness have made me a better, stronger, more courageous and just plain tough runner. And all the time we've spent talking over the miles is a true gift. We’re past the stage of pushing the stroller with one hand while holding a pacifier in your mouth with the other, picking up toys you’ve thrown onto the street, throwing snacks at you to make you last another mile, or singing ridiculous songs to keep you interested. We’ve found our rhythm, and I love that we can just tell each other how we’re feeling about the day ahead, or sometimes just be quiet and enjoy the silence of early morning miles. As I say every morning when we return home, “Thanks for running with me, Luke. You’re such a good running buddy.”

You’re a good runner, too, let me tell you. You love to race, crouching down in a three-point stance, calling out “on your marks, set, GO!” and taking off at full speed. You’re superfast, and strong, and exuberant, and gutsy. All the makings of a good runner.

While incredibly athletic, you are not just a jock. You are a passionate musician, a brazen dancer, an artist of the purist kind. You feel everything in your body, and you move it all through with such beautiful (and at times overwhelming) energy. It’s downright inspiring.

I’ve said it before and I’ll probably say it as long as I know you. Your body can hardly contain you. This is why we spend so much time outside. Outside is the only place you don’t throw temper tantrums or knock your friends over (most of the time, anyway). You need to be in spaces that are bigger than you, and the only space bigger than you is the uncontained, open, God Country. So we go there a lot. Fields, trails, mountains, ocean…you are at home there. And so am I.

This morning, as we headed out for our run, you said, “You were sad inside, mom, but you’re happy outside.” You are deeply intuitive, Luke. I told you that yes, I was getting overwhelmed in the house, but that I was on my way to being happy, and Outside often does the trick for me. You told me that you were happy outside too. I know, sweetheart. You are. This afternoon we spent hours picking weeds and watering flowers and exploring an empty field, you on your bike and me on my feet. Bliss.

And as you rode your bike and watered the garden, you told me stories. At one point you weaved a tale as you walked around in a tiny circle, adding layers and layers to the narrative with each go-round. (Again, you work things through with your whole body.) You told me about Red the Fire Truck and Lightning McQueen (you’ve fallen in love with “Cars”), you told me about Snoopy and The Masked Marvel (you also love your daddy’s Charlie Brown books from the 70’s), and you told me about Sanka (your imaginary friend). Your imagination is a beautiful thing to witness in all its detail, enthusiasm, and texture.

You do well in your own little world, and yet you do well sharing the world with others. We both delight in and grow from playdates with our pals. And oh, how we love Flutterby Preschool. You paint beautiful pictures (on paper, on flower pots, and on your clothes); you bake delicious treats (rolls, pretzels, cakes, pizza!); you care for the animals; you attend to your classmates; you clean with gusto; you sing with even more gusto; you come home happy and full of Life.

You ask lots of questions (Why? What is she doing? Why? What is that? Why? How do you do that? Why? What is that supposed to be? Why? Can I try that? Why is it a Tuesday? I think it’s a Fives-Day!”). You read lots of books. You hate washing your hair. You hug people full-throttle. You would eat popsicles all day if I let you. You would be naked all day if I let you (you say you dance better without clothes). You love the cats but hate it when they sleep on your bed. You love to play baseball but you call it “base-ket-ball”. You light up with absolute giddiness when your dad walks in the room - the sight and sound of you two playing together just warms my heart. You are obsessed with bobsledding and therefore push chairs, strollers, and laundry baskets across the kitchen floor before jumping into/onto them. You write and sing songs every day. You break something every day. You live out loud, baby.

Your every expression is intense, heartfelt. It is positively exhausting and exhilarating being your mother.

I still rock you to sleep every night, though your long legs dangle off the edge of the chair and your whole body engulfs mine. This is the most peaceful time of my day. This is the time of day when I hear God's voice most clearly. Thank you for inviting me to stillness, to breath, to God.

My dear, you are radiant. Your laughter is contagious. You smile with your whole body. My heart for you, Luke, my greatest intention as your mother, is to encourage and enable you to be all that you are, to be extraordinary with grace, to reflect the exquisite God who made you.

You, my child, are a gift.

Happy birthday, honey. I love you somuch, somuch.

Mom.

~

PS - Remember when you were:

(nearly) two

(almost) one

mother love

2011-09-01T20:24:00.001-07:00

I’ve never been one to ask my child to meet the needs of my heart. What pressure!

But oh, how lovely, when just being with that precious, honest, infuriating, intoxicating creature can bring healing to your soul.

My soul is tired. My heart hurts. And yet, one day spent Being with my kid, and I am well.

Not because I asked him to heal me. Not because I “put on a happy face”. But I happen to have one of those little boys who can’t help but make you smile. (not a bad photographer, is he?)

All we did was play.

Explore.

Tickle.

Laugh.

Pause.

(And clearly, we took a lot of pictures of ourselves being silly, and got quite the kick out of that.)

Then we came home and danced. Serious grooving, mind you. We put on the Mary J. Blige (no apologies here), and we got down. We laughed hysterically at each other as we made our best efforts at busting a move. Luke alternated between hard-core boogie-in’ in front of the TV (where he could see his reflection), and running into my arms for a spin-around. This went on, and on, and on.

And by the time it was over I was a sweaty mess, he was a tired mess, but there was so much more air in the room. We could breathe. It was a happy mess.

These aren’t moments one can contrive. These aren’t moments one can expect. These are moments that happen upon us, and when they do, we simply smile, say “thank you”, and we dive right in…

last day

2011-08-30T20:43:00.000-07:00
This afternoon I closed my office door and felt like crying for the first time since All This went down.

Tomorrow I will walk into my office for the last time. I will be there for the Closing Of The Doors of Bethany University, and I will walk away from what is, as of September 1st, Olivet University.

I did not expect such sentimentality. But alas, here it is. Not only is this the end of my four years of teaching and counseling and coaching and directing and facilitating and researching and administrative assistant-ing at Bethany University. This is the end of nearly 100 years of an educational institution that served thousands and reached millions worldwide.

And I have been part of the Process.

Throughout the last month I have gone through nearly every transcript, typing the names of nearly every graduate into an enormous spreadsheet that will go to Vanguard University as they house our records. These names represent people, people who have studied and grown up on this campus since the early 1900s. These names are stories. And now, these names are history.

Throughout the last month I have watched dedicated, overworked employees, the Last of the Bethanites, empty drawers and shred documents and box up resources and tie up loose ends. I have seen movers come in, load our file cabinets onto weary dahles, taking Bethany University somewhere else. I have held the hands of the spontaneously-out-of-work and prayed prayers and given encouraging glances and searched for jobs and edited resumes and passed out food and organized work parties and…

When I leave my office tomorrow, I will be leaving not only my job of the last four years. I will be leaving an institution that is breathing its last breath. An institution I have wrestled with immensely, but that has done Good Work in this world. I have been blessed to be a part of that work. I will be walking away from not only a past, but a future I had looked forward to genuinely. I will be walking away from certainty.

I thrive in the unknown. I crave new beginnings. And I am about to have many. But for now…

Let me savor the past. Let me honor the past. Let me take a moment, take a breath, shed a tear…

open heart

2011-08-28T21:31:00.000-07:00
Mindfulness was a key skill taught in my Counseling 101 course. Thank God. In most sessions (and in most conversations), it is quite easy to find oneself catapulted straight out of the present moment and into the terrifying lands of Worry, Planning, Regret, Wishing…

As counselors in training, we were all too familiar with Wandering Mind (“Wait – what did he say? Did I really just spend the last ten minutes thinking about what to make for dinner?!”)

And as fellow human beings dancing the same beautiful, complicated dance as our clients, we understood suffering. Suffering is what we feel when things aren’t the way we want them to be.

And so, with the intention of being good listeners (and good people), my fellow students and I practiced mindfulness – paying attention to the present moment with kindness.

One of my teachers, Shauna, consistently reminded us that mindful energy is open. When we find ourselves grasping, constricted, tense, clingy…we know we are not in the present moment.

I get that.

I know what it feels like to grasp, to hold on too tightly to things, ideas, people, experiences, memories past, dreams for the future. It’s like the water-in-the-hands analogy taught in every parenting class worth its salt (water being the child, if you aren’t into analogies). Whether held too tightly or not at all, the water can’t help but fall from your grasp. Cup your hands loosely but firmly, and the water has a safe place to rest. ‘Tis the same with our things, our ideas, our people, experiences, memories, and dreams.

Hold them loosely. Hold them firmly.

How on earth do we do that?

Open heart, baby.

And how on earth do we do that?

Practice.

In the spirit of practice, I am paying attention to what opens my heart and coming back for more.

I am dancing. With Luke. By myself. Whatever. I am dancing.

I am playing. With my kid and his pals in their crazy just-about-3-year-old world. By myself on the trails of Santa Cruz, running as far and as fast as I can just because it feels good. Whatever. I am playing.

I am praying. Listening to God. Speaking to God. Sitting still with God (my favorite). I am praying.

I close my eyes when I encounter Beauty, I breathe her in, and I release an audible sigh. Beauty is in my son’s face when he eats a plum. Beauty shows up at the sight of my friends dancing with their children while the sun sets and the fog rolls in. Beauty speaks in a soulful, haunting chorus of voices praying in song on a Sunday night, lyrics about hope and heaven echoing through a stained glass sanctuary. Wherever Beauty arises, I breathe her in. Somehow this ritual makes me feel like She has become more a part of me, given me strength, given me courage, given me Life. And I move through these encounters with a sense of wholeness and moreness, as though my arms and my heart have grown enough to hold whatever comes next.

I invite an open heart. I dance for it. I play for it. I pray for it. And every once in a while fear enters in and makes me wonder if my heart might open so wide I bleed right out. But that lands me in Worryland, not in the present moment. I catch myself grasping and I let go. I open. I let Love pour in and through until it’s all I feel, all I know, all I want.

running on empty

2011-08-21T20:45:00.000-07:00

Just call me Queen of Crappy Race Preparation. A sport psychologist could have a field day with me.

Here’s my recipe for success:
- Don’t sleep or eat well, if at all, for one month prior to race day.
- Cry a lot in the weeks before the big day. Get good and dehydrated.
- Be sure to wake up several times the night before you race. Welcoming a sleeping toddler into your bed - one who kicks a lot in his sleep - is particularly helpful.
- Be sure to run a lot, and hard, in the weeks and days leading up to your race. Don’t rest. Rest is for people who plan for their competitions. You don’t plan. You don’t even decide you’re racing until the night before the event.
- Finally, pick a race you’ve never run - preferably, a race that when uttered to anyone in the know, provokes a “oh, you mean the one with The Hill…”

I am making light, but truly, this morning I was running on empty.

I knew this going in, so instead of setting goals and making deals with my husband as I am typically want to do, I made a deal with God. Not so much a deal, I suppose, as a request. It went something like this:
“God, my Crappy Race Preparation is not my fault. I haven’t been recklessly negligent; life has just been hard lately. Really hard. I suppose you could say I’m choosing to run a race in this state of non-well-being because I have masochism issues, but I’m viewing it otherwise. I’m looking at this as an opportunity to experience You in a profound way. I have nothing. Nothing. So any strength I display during this 10k will come straight from you. Running on empty is an incredible opportunity to experience a Greater Power. So here we go. Let’s do this…”

We did.

I stood at the starting line of this Race Through The Redwoods listening to the veterans strategize and kvetch about The Hill. One nice lady asked me if I’d run this one before. “No,” I said, “Not this one.” She smiled knowingly, as if to say, “Oh, honey. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Because of my less than stellar condition, and the legendary hill everyone was talking about, I had no goal time in mind for this 10k. Yet for some reason, I wanted to win the sucker. I really, really wanted to win. Sometimes we just need a victory, you know? So I asked the Good Lord to have mercy on me, and away we went.

I immediately settled into a very comfortable pace, nestled in a nice group of guys. (Most of them were nice; a couple tried to run me off the road. Too bad for them, I’m a tough little cookie.)

Mile 1: 6:30. Perfect. I could see the leaders way up ahead, and the person in fourth looked potentially feminine. When I rounded the corner and saw my cheering section (Luke and his Daddy), I asked if I was the first woman. They said yes. I wasn’t sure. I asked Jimmy to take another look at the person in fourth.

Mile 2: 6:27. Perfect. I saw my boys again and they assured me I was winning. In fact, from that moment on, every time I turned a corner people were cheering, “First woman! First woman!” And there’s always that dear, old white lady who says, “You go, girl,” and makes me smile.

I kept cruising along at my comfortable pace, telling myself to rest in whatever energy God was providing, and not to push it. Just an easy 6 miler, 5 miler, 4 miler…

We began a gentle incline that quickly turned into less gentle and more incline. I greeted The Hill with the genuine delight only a rookie can muster. Let’s do this. I think I knew this was my chance to see God face to face, to feel Divine Power in my body, if ever I was going to feel it. So I did what I do when facing a tough climb. I pulled down the bill of my hat so I wouldn’t be able to see how much higher I had to climb. (This also makes me feel like a badass.) I put my head down and took it one step at a time. I kept my eyes on the path directly in front of me, ready to navigate rocks and twigs and roots and loose dirt. I took short, choppy steps, just like the Pogonip deer have taught me to do. I kept my arms light and bouncy, strong and efficient. I tapped into that Power and determined to keep going until I reached the top. And do you know what? I got there.

(insert running-as-life metaphor here)

In all it was about a two-mile climb, each one taking me about 8 minutes, which thrilled me. (That hill was steep.)

And just like that I was flying down a concrete mountain that could wreck two perfectly good knees if I let it. The only way to handle a decline like that is to let loose, let off the brakes completely, and pray you don’t crash. I let loose, I prayed, and a completely out-of-control six minutes and seven seconds later I reached the 5-mile marker and the road leveled out.

(insert next running-as-life metaphor here)

The last mile-point-two was sublime. Crowds of people I didn’t know were cheering for me as “First woman!” I saw spectators I knew and somehow had the awareness and ability to nonchalantly holler, “Hi!”. And every time I started to worry a woman was catching up to me, every time I started to push my pace beyond my limits, I heard a clear, calm voice within: “My grace is sufficient for you. My Energy is sufficient for you. Stop trying to run fast. Run with what I am giving you. It is enough.”

And it was.

(insert final running-as-life metaphor here)

I rounded the final corner to be greeted by a dozen 8-year-old girls (wearing their medals from the earlier kids’ mile), cheering for me with the gusto of…a dozen 8-year-old girls. I blew them a kiss and shot them a smile. Cheezy, I know, but in the moment it felt right.

The people of Felton are grand. The last stretch was lined with encouraging people. I felt like I was in the freakin’ Olympic Stadium. I sprinted through the finish, saw my little boy and his dad, and shared some kisses and sweat.

I won. Sweet Mercy, I won by over 2 minutes. First woman. 16th overall.

It was the modest 2011 Race Through the Redwoods. 627 mostly recreational runners. But it was a victory. A victory I needed. I survived the ups and downs and made it out victorious.

Sometimes running on empty is an incredible opportunity to experience a Greater Power. Glory be.

bonus footage: my warm-up

fresh air

2011-08-16T19:31:00.000-07:00

I did not run today. I ate.

Lately it’s been the other way around.

There are certain seasons of our lives in which we forge ahead, doing what we must do. But some patterns are simply not sustainable. And so we listen for the cue that it’s time to rest.

This morning, I received my cue. My body/mind/spirit/heart told me we’re tired, baby, and it’s time to be still.

So I took my boy to school, did some walking and talking with my husband, and then I came home and ate. And I sat. And I ate. And I sat.

Then I picked up my boy and my husband and we got ourselves some God-blessed fresh air.

Tonight I built lincoln log cabins and read silly stories. I made yummy dinner and I folded clothes. Tonight, I rocked my not-so-little boy to sleep and realized that nothing warms the heart quite like a sleeping child in your arms.

it is there

2011-08-15T07:27:00.000-07:00
For weeks now I have run every single day, sometimes twice, trying to sort things out. I keep thinking I’ll take a day off, but morning comes and Luke’s schedule jives, and before I know what I’m doing my shoes are on and off I go. I’m so tired I can’t even feel it anymore.

It’s a similar sensation to having a newborn. There is no way the body should be able to endure sleep deprivation, creating milk, nourishing a child, creating more milk, changing countless diapers and attending entirely to another human’s needs at the expense of its own for days, weeks, months on end…yet we do it, in a fog. The funny thing is, it’s not our little world that’s foggy. It’s the world out there. Moms and babies zero in on each other in striking clarity. We see nothing but each other. So the fact that we’re both covered in tears, milk, and poop is completely irrelevant. The fact that phone calls go unreturned, work goes undone, and other people get ignored…who cares? We know what matters in those precious moments together.

Technically, I’m pretty exhausted right now. The world around me is a total blur. And I likely appear quite the mess to those who dare to glance my way. (confession: I don’t always wash my hair after I run.) But I’m in my zone. Running gets me there. I need to be there. My body starts moving, and so does my mind. The tangled mess of thoughts and feelings starts to sort itself out and I begin to see clearly. I start breathing, because it’s either that or fall to the ground. I cannot fall to the ground right now.

So I run. Today, I ran up to the sky. There is a long, winding track around the university field. It overlooks the ocean. I know it does because I have seen that ocean. But I couldn’t see it this morning. All I could see were clouds. A giant sea of clouds and fog.

Yet the sun was shining on me – I was above the fog, for once. More often when I run this track I can barely see across the field to the other side. This morning, I ran in warmth. I ran in light. I appreciated this divine gesture, as there were no deer this time to nod and encourage or simply acknowledge my presence. But the presence of the Sun…I most definitely felt seen. Exposed, even.

It was just me up there. Moving one foot in front of the other. Sorting one thought at a time. Glancing down at the sea of grey and trusting…trusting there is an ocean out there…a deep, wide, brilliant ocean full of life and possibility.

I cannot see it. But I know it’s there.

At the same time I am looking down at the clouds, there is One above me, looking down with pure clarity. How lovely to know that while I cannot discern what is out there, I am entirely transparent and perfectly seen. It is all perfectly seen. Me. That Ocean. Life. Possibility. The Way to it all…

All this time and energy spent running, praying, sitting, opening…it’s how I invite that Way to be revealed to my soul.

Reveal it…

may we all be well

2011-08-13T20:44:00.000-07:00
May we all be well.

About the same time I got pregnant with Luke, I began taking some incredible classes and meeting some phenomenal spiritual teachers.

The pre-natal yoga and the heart-opening prayers melded together to form a tradition that is going on four years strong.

The stretches stayed with me after Baby was born, as did the prayers. I repeat them all in a nightly ritual I hold dear.

I move, and I pray.

May we be peaceful,
May we be joyful,
May we be healthy,
May we be filled with lovingkindness.

I’ve written about this before - about how this “metta” meditation has transformed me…

Somewhere between then and now I added a line.

May we all be well.

One of my more recent teachers, Dr. Stahl, signs every letter this way, and I love it. It always breeds an “Amen”, and I love it when a writer can turn peoples’ attention from his or her words to God’s. And so this phrase has stuck with me.

May we all be well.

I suppose this could be seen as a flippant, impersonal catchphrase. Though I feel it much more deeply, like the “Peace Be With You”’s exchanged every Sunday at my grandparents’ church. I have never experienced an un-genuine passing of the Peace.

And how could you not utter “May we all be well”, and mean it?

This is a time of transition. In my home, in my community, and in this world. I can hardly think of a more appropriate prayer than…

May we all be well.

2011-08-10T07:11:00.000-07:00
Oh weary, tired, and worn,
Let out your sighs.
And drop that heavy load you hold
‘cause mine is light.
I know you through and through.
There’s no need to hide.
I want to show you a Love that is deep,
And high,
And wide.
I am Constant.
I am Near.
I am Peace that shatters all your secret fears.
I am Holy.
I am Wise.
I’m the only one who knows your heart’s desires.

Eight years ago I was teaching religion and philosophy classes to 11th graders in Seattle. Despite a mere 5 years of difference between our ages, it worked. Sure there are a million things I would do differently were I to teach that class now at the ripe, old age of 30, but one thing I wouldn’t change is the IMP. If they remember nothing else from my classes, ask any of my students about the IMP and they will say “Inspirational Music Presentation!!!!!!!!” It was the highlight of our week.

Every Friday a few select students would share songs with the rest of us - songs that meant something to them, that spoke to them, that moved them somehow. They would bring copies of the lyrics for everyone in the class (#1, so we could understand some of the more indecipherable stanzas – um, Eminem??? and #2, so we all knew where to look when the song was playing - high school is awkward enough).

Speaking of Eminem, I think my students loved IMP Fridays because they were allowed to bring in music with swear words. (“If it adds meaning to the song, it’s fine,” I told them. “Can we be mature enough to not giggle?”)

I loved IMP Fridays because it gave me an extraordinary window into each of my students. Not only did the songs they selected speak volumes about who they were as people, but the way they spoke about the music, the way they listened to it, the way they stood in front of their peers and shyly or bravely said to an adolescent crowd who is otherwise known to be extraordinarily narcissistic and judgmental, “I like this, even if you don’t”… it was lovely in that way.

I also loved IMP Fridays because it gave me a break. There were certain truths that it was my responsibility to present and explain to these precious individuals that I couldn’t begin to understand in my own soul. I think we spent most of our time supporting one another as we tried these concepts on inside, shifting and repositioning ideas until some found a fit, and some realized they did not fit at all, in which case they threw them aside in great displays of liberation. I admired and applauded them all. Authenticity was our motto. Seventeen-year-olds are brilliant at authenticity if they’re safe enough. And when they brought in their music, their personal anthems of inspiration, they got to share truths with me. I was moved more than they knew.

I remember one student and his piece in particular - a haunting hymn sung by a soulful, southern white girl, “Come to Jesus” was the last thing I thought this thug of a kid would present. I was sure he just grabbed a random CD from his mom on the way out the door that morning out of either laziness or intent to prank. Either way, the music played and I nearly wept. I looked out at the diverse, beautiful faces around me and they read the same way. When the song ended, Thug Boy got up and said a brief word about how his mom likes Mindy Smith (he made sure to let us all know he had never heard of her before and just needed something that would work for “Bible Class”). And then, with the speed-talking skills unique to teenage boys giving presentations and auctioneers alone, he added that he liked this song because it calmed him. When everything else seemed crazy, he could close his eyes, hear these words, and feel deep peace. I could tell he meant that. Everyone in the room meant that.

~

I didn’t sleep last night. For hours I moved through a ritual of sitting, meditation, stretching, prayer, listening…over and over the still, small voice said, “Go to bed, sweetheart.” I would lie down for a while, then get up and sit some more...meditate some more...stretch, pray, listen some more. It was oddly comforting. And when morning came, and I slid into my shoes and out the front door, my feet pounding the earth and my breath powering my body, I heard it.

Oh weary, tired, and worn,
Let out your sighs.
And drop that heavy load you hold
‘cause mine is light.
I know you through and through.
There’s no need to hide.
I want to show you a Love that is deep,
And high,
And wide.
I am Constant.
I am Near.
I am Peace that shatters all your secret fears.
I am Holy.
I am Wise.
I’m the only one who knows your heart’s desires.

This song, brought in by a student I cannot remember, sung by an artist I cannot remember, on a Friday I cannot remember, came flooding back, bathing me in profound safety. I sang it aloud as I ran. And at a time when everything else seems crazy, I was able to close my eyes, hear these words, and feel deep peace.

distractions

2011-08-07T15:30:00.000-07:00
I am in my breathing corner, my beloved space in an otherwise shared home, sitting on my beautiful green cushion next to an open window, resting under a tile mosaic that reads “breathe” and trying desperately to do what it says.

To say I’ve been distracted lately would be a serious understatement. Now more than ever before, “to be here now” is an incredibly elusive intention.

Three years and some months ago, Luke’s existence somewhat forced me into the present moment with his pure, newborn neediness and his heartbreakingly blue eyes. But something’s happening. We’re growing up. He can play with a train for an hour and not need me one bit. This morning I got back from my run and he told me to go back out there; he was busy. He likes being on his own every now and then, and I seem to get in his way. Frankly, I’m enjoying being on my own every now and then too. While I love the snuggly, tackle-y reunions with my kid, it’s nice to start feeling like I have some existence separate from him.

With that separation comes more room, more mental space. I actually have enough energy to really think about my professional aspirations, my relationships, and other major realities of life. And as I delve into all that, I’m finding it hard to pull back out at a moment’s notice and act out the story of Lightning McQueen. I’m finding my mind wandering faster and further than it has since Luke was born. And just as I wrote about needing to be seen, I am trying desperately to remember that Luke needs to be seen too. What must it be like to be that little and to look up with excitement about a train or a monster or the color pink, only to be met by half of someone’s attention, the other half typing into her phone or gazing off into space? I don’t want to be that mom. I don’t want to be that person.

And so I’m sitting in my breathing corner. Remembering.

Remembering that there is a time for everything. Remembering that dreams and experiences I look forward to will come to fruition, whether it’s a night out, a new job, or simply a shower. Remembering that this moment, right here, will never exist again. And I don’t want to miss a thing.

This life is too beautiful to miss a thing.

surprise

2011-08-06T23:05:00.000-07:00
This morning I woke up like I always do – in a bed full of family all snuggled up together (read: 5am, Luke’s feet in my face, pillows flying as he tries to get comfortable and fall back asleep, which he never does). It was delicious.

I made my coffee like I always do and sliced a mango for Luke and me like I always do. It was delicious.

And after an hour or so of playing trains, cars, and human jungle gym, I threw Luke in the BOB like I always do.

Only I didn’t take off at my usual wake-up/warm-up pace. I simply took off. We were moving, and it felt so good. Yet somehow, this crazy pace still served as a warm-up compared to the pure flying we did after that. Throughout the run I moved from fast to faster and back again, getting in my first good interval workout since pre-Wharf to Wharf. During one lull Luke said, “Run faster, mama.” Between gasps for air, I told him,

“This is an interval workout, honey. Intervals mean we go really hard for a few minutes, and then we pause to catch our breath before we go again. This is my pause.”

And as I said these words I was woken up again to the running-as-life analogy. I have always moved quickly. I dive in. I feel it, and I go for it. Only recently have I learned the beauty of the pause. The pause enables the next surge. The pause enables the soaking in of what has come before, the embodying of the present moment, the reminder to be conscious, present for what lies ahead…

I began my last interval as I always do, expecting it to be my last, as it always is, and after catching my breath, I realized there was more. An unexpected rush of energy. An unexpected burst of Light.

I love it when my body moves before my mind can devise “the plan”.

These are the moments that make runners keep running – the moments when the body...when the soul...takes on a life of her own and with a twinkle in her eye, says, “Surprise. There is more here than you could possibly imagine.”

These are the moments that make people keep living.

true love

2011-08-05T10:03:00.000-07:00

“True love is made of understanding – understanding the other person…understanding their suffering, their difficulties, and their true aspirations. Out of understanding there will be kindness, there will be compassion, there will be an offering of joy. There will also be a lot of space, because true love is a love without possessiveness. You love and still you are free, and the other person is also free.”

Thich Nhat Hahn is one of my favorite writers. He is a Vietnamese Buddhist monk who writes, among many things, about Jesus. As a Christian, I find it tremendously refreshing to read about my faith from someone who does not particularly espouse it. So called “Christian” writers often get caught up in language that has lost its meaning to those of us who have heard it day after day, year after year. “Christianese”, we call it. And so when a person of another culture, of another faith perspective, sits down to write about the beauty of Jesus, it’s like having your great grandmother “friend” you on Facebook. While she may not use it for the same purposes or in the same way, you discover entirely new ways of looking at it, and it enhances your experience a great deal.

In the above quote, Thich Nhat Hahn could very easily be talking about the love of God. He could be talking about the love of a child. He could be talking about the love of a friend. Or he could be talking about the love of a spouse, which I am inclined to think about since my husband and I celebrated ten years of marriage this week. I think he's talking about all of those things.

I keep re-reading that passage with a different face in mind. The face of Christ. The face of Luke. The face of my friends and my family and my partner. Each time, it inspires me.

Ten years I’ve been married. One third of my life. I’m sitting in the same room, overlooking the same coastline, with the same person as I did ten years ago this very moment. There is great comfort in that.

And as we look back at how we’ve grown, set intentions for the coming years, and look right where we are now, in this moment, there is understanding.

There is kindness.

Compassion.

There is an offering of joy.

And there is space.

Freedom…
For this I am grateful.

to be seen

2011-08-01T08:05:00.000-07:00
We do extraordinary things to be seen. And if too much time goes by spent feeling invisible, we either do something unexpected and amazing, or we stop trying. We hide. We hide behind our beauty, our bodies, our children, our stories. Because the risk is too great…the risk of rejection.

There is not a run long or hard enough to work through all that is going through my head this morning, so I made the most of the time I had and decided to gun it for the university. I have an application in up there for a “dream job”. Mine is one of 112 applications. I want to be seen.

As I neared the top of the hill, two deer stood to the side of my path. Normally, deer startle and draw back when they see me coming. Not this time. The deer closest to me stood still, stood strong, looked me straight in the eyes, and nodded. Gently and firmly, she nodded - twice. It was a gesture of encouragement. “Go for it, honey.”

Her partner stood right beside her and watched me too, a look of complete peace and agreement on his face.

I really appreciated that.

I wanted to keep running at breakneck pace, to run to the point of exhaustion, to the point where my legs buckled and I fell to the ground breathless…that moment of having given and gotten all I could is so healing...Though I suppose then I may never have made it home. And a little boy and his dad were waiting for me there.

Not everything can be resolved in an hour. But that hour helps. That hour helps to encourage, inspire, awaken, ignite…that hour provides opportunities for healing moments, moments of clarity…that hour creates the space for new dreams to surface, new words to form and begin to make sense of what we’re all doing here…That hour turns two deer grazing in a pasture into kind friends who see me.

Those two deer may be the only ones at UCSC who saw me this morning, and while I’m crazy enough to think they threw me a heartening glance, I’m not about to expect them to put in a good word for me with the Dean of Students. The gentle, firm nod of the lady deer may or may not have suggested that my pursuit of this dream will end in its realization. But it did serve to remind me to go for it nonetheless. There are 112 applicants, and I am one of them. I am not invisible. I do have a lot to offer. And so I will offer it. I will be seen. And if this place isn’t it…I will find my somewhere else.

But dear God, let us not stop trying to be seen. Let us not hide. Let us know who we are and what we’re worth and find our place in this world where that gift can be cherished…the place in this world where we can genuinely, authentically, do our good work and be our good selves.

perspective

2011-07-30T13:45:00.000-07:00
I cried last night. For the first time since all this went down with the university closing and the double-job-loss and the commencement of the exhausting-job-searching…I cried.

I cried because I was sad…sad about the loss of a future we thought we would have…a future that included me loving my job as Director of Support Services at a small college in Santa Cruz…a future that included my husband loving his job as a coach at a small college in Santa Cruz…a future that included us loving our work and loving our home.

I cried because I was exhausted. Entirely, holistically, exhausted. As I described the sensation to my husband, "It's like a panic attack without the panic. I'm too tired to panic." My mind, my body, and my spirit are completely spent. Since May I have had “two more weeks” left at BU. Each time that gets extended I feel simultaneously defeated and grateful. I am thankful for employment (as of now, my last day is August 26. That may change to August 31. But unless the school that’s buying Bethany University wants to hire me, I won’t work there after August 31). In an economy like this, any job is worthy of gratitude. And yet my heart is just so tired.

I cried because for the past two months I have held the odd role of providing others with the very service I need. I am helping people find jobs and connecting them with generous alumni who want to provide money and food and other basic needs. I don’t know if they know my family may soon need those things too, if we don't already.

I cried for good reasons. But why last night? As I slumped against my pillow at 9:04 on a Friday night, eyes swollen shut from tears and fatigue, I realized why.

It’s human nature to need a goal. We all need something to strive for. And if we look at humanity in its various seasons, we see this reality in inspiring and sometimes heartbreaking clarity. Olympians from third-world countries dream of blessing the homeland, restoring glory, and bringing home gold. So they train passionately, they overcome odds, they keep their eyes on the prize, and they come home victorious. The tortured prisoners in war camps pursue their dreams with similar passion and determination. Only in their reduced, deprived worlds, their walls are smaller, their scope is restricted, and so they dream dreams and expend energy and build entire schedules around things like an extra piece of bread. The bread and the gold medal hold equal meaning to their respective pursuers. We all need something to strive for.

I am not an Olympic hopeful from a third-world country. I am not a prisoner of war. I am simply a woman who lost the security of employment and is face to face with the hard work and hard choices that go with moving forward. And in this state, I needed a goal.

Silly as it seems, the Wharf to Wharf was my goal. A job may sound like a more practical aspiration, but if you know anything about the current job market, obtaining a job is not entirely in my control. So while I remained dutifully searching, applying, and contacting companies, I ran. I ran toward something I had a little more control over: a Wharf to Wharf jacket.

I invested my heart, my mind, and my body in this pursuit, not giving room for or voice to negativity, exhaustion, or defeat. I was bound and determined to be part of something celebratory. As I sat day after day in an office at a, for lack of a better term, “losing” school, I needed to be in a winner’s circle.

So I did it.

I got the jacket.

And now I’m tired.

My body, mind, and soul knew what they needed to do to get the job done and now they’re allowed to exhale and feel everything that was pushed aside during the quest. And because I needed this jacket, I pushed aside a lot.

Looking back now, with a week of perspective, I honestly cannot believe I ran 39:10. I am quite amazed that I broke 40:00, or that I even showed up to run the crazy race. I am not only satisfied with my “second best” time, I am over-the-moon inspired by it. I put this race in the category with all the others that blow my mind in a “I had no idea I could do that!” kind of way. I had no idea how weary I was until it all came out last night. And to run like I did, as weary as I was, is an accomplishment I’ll hang my hat on, thankyouverymuch.

Yet I also put this race in the category with all the others that reveal how much of a village it takes to reach my goals. As proud as I am of my own fortitude and determination, I am equal parts humbled and grateful to the countless hands and hearts (and the Ultimate Hand and Heart) who support me to carry it through. I do nothing alone, and what a beautiful, gratifying thing to share the joy of an accomplishment after having shared so much of the hard work to get there.

So here I am. Sharing it. The accomplishment…the tears…the questions…

For one more month I will sit in my office and practice Peace, Joy, and Lovingkindness, doing my best to bring wholeness and meaning and blessing to a wounded community. I will try to remember that I am part of that wounded community too, and so I will extend Peace, Joy, and Lovingkindness to my own soul.

And I will set a new goal. I hear there’s a “Race Through the Redwoods” on August 21…

second best

2011-07-24T22:09:00.001-07:00

Second best. The phrase has a negative connotation to people like me - people who are ridiculously competitive and obsessively ambitious. And yet one of the most important lessons people like me can learn is that we simply can’t win every time.

To clarify, my competition is with myself. Sure, I like to make use of the runners around me as a way to push my limits, but I am not the caliber of athlete who can realistically come in first place in every race. I am pretty good in Santa Cruz. I am not headed for the Olympics. My obsessive ambition is to drop my own times. To improve. To beat my younger self.

I have run the Wharf 2 Wharf six times now.

2006 - I ran with my husband and his brother. I finished in 42:somethingorother.

2007 – I ran by myself, as hard as I could. I finished in 40:39.

2008 – I ran from Wharf to Wharf with a 7.5-mo pregnant belly full of Luke. We finished in just under an hour.

2009 – I ran a magical post-partum race, exceeding all goals and finishing in 39:58.

2010 – I ran another magical race, exceeding all goals again, finishing in 38:30.

2011 – I ran my second-best race, meeting none of my goals (except the one to finish), crossing the line in 39:10.

Dropping times in a race is similar to dropping weight. You start out with a lot of room for improvement, seeing big decreases that become rather addictive. Yet the more you continue to drop that number, the harder it is to see improvement. Just like a person can’t expect to see continual 10-pound weight losses quarter after quarter, a runner can’t expect to see minute-plus drops in time every year.

Still, this runner wants to.

Every year I set my “primary goal”, my “stretch goal”, and my “in my dreams goal”. My primary goal always involves a new PR (personal record), so this year’s was to break 38:30. My stretch goal was to hit 38:15. And my dream goal was to have a “magical” race in which I would hit my “magical” 6:20 pace every mile, and then fly through the 6th all-downhill mile in a “magical” sub 6:20 and subsequently drop under 38:00. Hey, it could happen.

Someday it might.

Not today.

Today was ordinary. I took it out in 6:09 which I considered a success. The start of this race is so insane that even at that (in my opinion) blistering pace I was getting passed left and right by crazy people running like there was no miles 2-6. I kept my composure, and compared to the 5:50 I started with in my last race, 6:09 was decent.

I got myself under control and determined to find a pace I could hold all day long, or at least for the next half hour. I found it, and mile 2 was 6:28. Mile 3 crept up into the 6:30’s. I knew at that moment it was not a “magical” day, that there would be no PR, but I resolved to keep running hard and do my best on an “unmagical” day. I told myself to maintain for two more miles, trusting that mile 6 would be its usual downhill, make-up-some-time, goes-by-quickly last stretch. Miles 4 and 5 were hard. I didn’t feel terrible or depleted like I did in my half marathon last spring. I merely felt whatever you feel like when you run 6:30 pace for an extended period of time. It was work. I powered through, began mile 6, yearning for the downhill with every step. I saw two women ahead of me who had passed me a few minutes earlier. I lifted my knees, ignored my screaming quads, and barreled down the asphalt past those ladies and through the finish. 39:10.

First thought: Shoot. (I know, moments like this usually call for profanity but even my head is PG. You can credit my mother for that.)

Second thought: That was my second fastest time ever. And by a lot.

Third thought: Who’s calling my name? It’s Grandma Susan and Luke! Hi sweethearts! I did it! Yes, Daddy’s coming too! Yay!!!!

I wobbled through the finish area and someone gave me a card with a “31” on it. I got my bag of goodies and stood in line for my jacket (top 100 get jackets). I got a glimpse: blue for boys, hot-pink for girls. What is with this?!

I found out later that while I was the 31st woman to cross the finish line, I was the 55th fastest woman. This is the first year they’ve done chip timing, which means a microchip is attached to the race bib and registers when runners cross the start and finish lines, giving them accurate 6-mile times. My 31st/55th place discrepancy means that while I crossed the finish line before them, 24 women had faster start-to-finish times than me. They simply started further back and couldn’t catch up to me before I was done. Confusing? Yes. Frustrating? Sort of. But whatever. This is all supposed to be fun, right?

Second best.

It dawned on me today that I ran my second best Half-Marathon this year as well. The 1:33:52 that felt so devastating in April was by far my second-fastest time at that distance, bettered only by the “magical” 1:31:00 I ran a year earlier. A 1:33:52 in 2010 would have made my heart soar.

Second best.

This is the second best year of my running career. I’m still competing far better than I ever did in college or high school. I’d like to think I’m still on my way up. And while this racing season hasn’t been “magical”, it’s been transformative. This season has held a whole lot of adversity off-the-track that, like it or not, has made its way into my body and soul. Running is largely how I work it all out, but it takes its toll. I’m not making excuses so much as I am grasping some context of what I have “run through” this year versus the last. And to have come through it second best is a victory as far as I’m concerned.

My 38:30, my 1:31:00...those were magical accomplishments. That’s not to say they weren’t hard-earned, but I was riding a higher grace and power to those victories. To make magic out of the ordinary, out of the challenging, out of the heavy-legged, heavy-hearted moment in which I’ve found myself…that calls for a grace and power all its own. Not so much magical as raw and gritty.

Before every race I ran in high school I would stand at the starting line, close my eyes, and say a simple prayer: “Give me the strength and I’ll give You the glory.” This morning I found myself uttering those same words.

I received the strength today – the strength of mind and body to find “second best” when it would have been easier to settle for third, fourth, or fifth. And so I give the glory.

I give glory to my God for being not only magical, but raw and gritty.

Second. It’s not so bad. Except when it’s a second hot-pink jacket.

But whatever. This is all supposed to be fun, right?

delicious distractions

2011-07-21T06:26:00.000-07:00

*Disclaimer: I am not a food blogger. I am not a foodie, a wine snob, a cheese connoisseur, or an expert in any other area of the culinary world, delicacy or not. I like food – particularly that which is both nutritious and tasty. My knowledge of food comes from stuff I’ve heard, stuff I’ve seen, stuff I’ve tried, stuff I’ve read (in magazines like Oprah and Real Simple – not researched). I don’t measure (which drives my husband crazy), and while I can typically remember what I put in a particular dish, it’s rare that I repeat the same combination twice. I like to think that I cook the way I live. I plan the big stuff but am rather spontaneous about the details. I like to see what a particular moment has to offer and add those unique discoveries to the mix.

*Confession: I have had a Cuisinart (a Premier Series 9-Cup Food Processor, to be exact) in my closet since February. It was a birthday present - one I had pined for every time I toiled over blocks of dark chocolate, hunks of cheese, piles of nuts, and every fruit or vegetable I faithfully ran through my hand-crank baby food mill until Luke could eat solid food. I received this gift on the day I turned 30. It was such a grown-up gift. Maybe I haven’t felt grown up enough to use it until now. Or maybe it took this many months for me to reconcile my inner debate about whether food is as delicious, as authentic, if it is made with the push of a button instead of my own sweat and muscle. (The jury’s still out on that one, but I have taken the step of acknowledging there is a place in my life for this culinary miracle – even if it produces slightly less authentic fare.) Last night, I took her for a spin.

It was my husband who took all the pieces out of the box, washed them, and assembled the ones I needed to make my first dish. I don’t read directions. My husband reads them for fun. I don’t like unnecessary doodads and add-ons. My husband looks for ways to use them. So I left all that nonsense to him and stated all I wanted was the basic blade that would get me my pesto. I played in the garden with Luke while Jimmy turned the giant box full of bells and whistles into the food processor of my dreams. What a guy.

I should also note that it’s my taper week in preparation for this Sunday’s Wharf to Wharf. Runners get a little nuts during taper weeks. We have unused energy that we’re supposed to reserve for the big day, but we want to use it now, and on top of all that bubbling vigor are the nerves that build and swirl and take over our lives. I happen to get ridiculously amped up for this particular race, so you could say I’m a bit of a nut right now. (I believe I just criticized my husband for biting into his chocolate too loudly.) All that to say, I’ve got some extra energy floating around and I need to do something other than run. I’ve been thinking a whole lot about running this week, and I need to think about something else. The first thing that comes to my mind is food.

Anyway, last night I decided to make pesto. Traditionally, pesto is made with basil. I don’t have basil. However, my garden is bursting with kale and I’ve heard you can make pesto with kale. Traditionally, pesto is made with pine-nuts. I don’t have pine-nuts. I do have cashews. I googled “Kale-Cashew Pesto” and found a recipe that required parmesan cheese. I don’t have parmesan cheese. I have goat cheese. I googled “Kale-Cashew-Goat-Cheese-Pesto”. Voila. (Or whatever "there it is!" is in Italian, because pesto sounds Italian to me)

I set about preparing my ingredients. I roasted cashews in the oven while I played cars with Luke. When I began to smell the nuts I remembered to take them out. I roasted garlic in the oven while I wrestled with Luke (read: he jumped on me repeatedly), and after checking incessantly between bouts of WWF, I removed it when it “looked” right. I chopped green onions (the recipe called for shallots but I didn’t have those). I sliced some lemon for the juice (I didn’t have those either but I plucked them from my neighbor’s tree – it’s okay, we’re related). With everything laid out and ready to go, I took a long, hard look at the Cuisinart.
Luke climbed up on a chair to see what all the fuss was about. Cautiously, we loaded the work bowl (that’s what it’s called – I peeked in the instruction book!) with kale. I didn’t know if I should “cuis” between additions or just throw it all in there at once. So I threw it all in there. (I cook like I live, remember?) Luke and I counted to three and pushed the “on” button. I watched in amazement how in mere seconds this

became this. (notice the eager little hand)

And with that, I became an addict. A can of garbanzo beans that’s been sitting in my cupboard for months became a batch of hummus. And if Luke weren’t in serious need of a bath and sleep by that point, the bag of almonds would have become almond butter. Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow.

I love making good food. I love sharing good food with my family (Luke and I gave a bowl of pesto to the neighbors and Luke ate about half of it before we came back home). And perhaps it’s just my inner purist attempting to justify herself, but I just have to say…

Last week, when Luke had the stomach flu and I was beginning to morph into race-hydration-obsessive-nut, I used technology when I blended mangos and coconut water to make a rejuvenating drink. (Coconut water is nature’s Gatorade – full of electrolytes and no sugar. How 'bout that?).

I use technology every time I make a smoothie (which thanks to Luke’s new smoothie kick and our need to back off on Jamba, is a lot).

Also on stomach-flu day, I used technology to bake the banana-apple muffins which turned out to be the only thing the poor kid ate all day.

I use technology every time I brew coffee (except for my weekend French-presses, though I use electricity to heat the water).

I use technology each time I buy something that needs to be refridgerated, for crying out loud.

So, while I will continue to mash avocados and crush garlic and chop tomatoes by hand when making guacamole, I will embrace my newfound love, my Cuisinart, and include her in our meal-making adventures. It is only fair. It is only right. Right?

If nothing else, playing with my fancy, grown-up toy provides a temporary (and quite tasty) distraction from the pre-race jitters.

2011-07-18T07:10:00.000-07:00
Rest.

When said out loud, this word feels so peaceful, so freeing, so luxurious. It sounds like such a good idea. And yet when push comes to shove, rest is ridiculously hard for me. I have no trouble resting when I’ve “earned” it (after a long run, a big day at work, enduring hours of endless whining with grace, that kind of stuff). But to cease doing, when I’m not even exhausted, feels quite unnatural.

The Wharf to Wharf is this Sunday, which means it’s rest-time in my training cycle. On Saturday I ran an easy couple miles, did a few race-pace intervals, then cooled down and stretched. I didn’t run at all yesterday or today. Tomorrow and the next day I’ll do some light running to keep my body awake, then I’ll rest again Thursday and Friday. Saturday I’ll shake things out with a slow jog, some stretching, and some strides. And Sunday, I plan to run like the dickens.

After months of hard training, I always think I’ll be ready for a break. After the big race, I am. But the break that comes before the race feels counter-intuitive. It takes discipline and mental sharpness to remember that not doing anything in preparation for the big day is the absolute BEST way to prepare. The hard work is done. The way to fast, fresh legs is to give them a chance to rest and re-charge. Let them burst out of the starting gate hungry. As my husband said Saturday, “the best way to end a workout during your taper is to leave wanting more”. I want more. I want to hit the trails today for a jaunty, fast, light-on-my-feet kind of run. I want to go as hard and as long as I darn-well feel (which right now is hard, and long). But I need to save it. I need to hold back. I need to tell my twitchy self to take a deep breath and to hold on a minute. I need to remember my own words: keep my feet on the ground and remember my intention. Today, I want to run fast. But my intention is to run fast this Sunday. Today’s actions must support my intention. Moreover, the actions of this moment must support my intention. How many times does a split second decision derail our pursuit of a goal?

The actions of this moment must support my intention.

Beyond my little running world, this statement speaks volumes to me.

There are other areas of my life in which rest is critical to the realization of intentions. Not long ago I wrote about pace, and rest is an essential element of pace. So as I continue to plod on toward the finish line of my job, and as I take my daily trek through the motherhood, and even as I run my literal race this weekend, I will remember my intention.

And I will rest, so that when it comes time to do the necessary work, I will be ready to go.

2011-07-14T07:53:00.000-07:00
It is a noble truth that suffering is the result of unmet expectations. I suppose the first step toward healing is to acknowledge that things are not the way I want them to be.

Done.

The next step, then, is to with heart-wide-open, invite something better.

~

As the university where I work has moved through the process of closing down, I have participated as a support and resource person. Mostly, I have gained great satisfaction in this role. Making meaning is important to me, and I deem it an honor to help others do the same.

The closure process is almost done now, and I have felt a shift. My heart and soul are drained. One can only be a light in a dark place so long before the light is extinguished. And as a friend told me this morning, we have a choice where in all this darkness we put our light. I am choosing to move my light to a healthier place.

A couple of days ago, I took my light here for a little pick-me-up.

After an hour of soaking this in, everything felt possible. I was excited, motivated, ambitious, confident.

That is who I want to be. In fact, that is who I am.

~

This is how my soul untangles life…

By looking out at something bigger than me,

By looking up at something bigger than me,

By realizing I am made of the same stuff, by the same Hands,

Reminded I, too, am majestic and holy.

As I saw my tiny son snuggle into a giant redwood, I thought how important it is to remember one’s place in life. Not in a “we’re so small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things” kind of way. But in a“we belong here” kind of way. There is so much Beauty in the world, and we are part of it – we are part of something enormous and grand and lovely.

~

The other day a friend of mine said longingly, “I just love looking at your pictures. It seems like you all have such wonderful days together…”
I sighed as I told her we have wonderful moments together.

Lately, we have had long, hard days, but we do weave in moments of beauty, moments to exhale, to laugh...

Not a day goes by that I don’t express gratitude for the people and the God that allow me to live in this particular setting of beauty. I feel so at home here, and my heart wants to stay here forever. I don’t know that it will get to, but either way, for now – in this moment – I am here, and I am grateful.

I hereby set the intention to seek out and acknowledge beauty wherever I land. Whether that beauty is a single blade of green grass poking through a rock in the parking lot, or a vast ocean surrounded by ancient trees, life is everywhere.

And life is beautiful.

beauty

2011-07-05T07:01:00.000-07:00
i crave beauty.

as creations of Beauty, it makes sense that we are drawn to Beauty, particularly in those seasons when it's hard to see who we are.

sometimes our identities can be blurred, clouded over by significant changes, losses, transitions, and shifts that leave us struggling to keep our feet on the ground and our hearts in our chests. sometimes without certain markers around us, it is hard to see ourselves clearly.

in these moments (i happen to be in one), i find it helpful to go back to where i came from. to seek out Beauty and let the Creator speak truth to my soul of who i am and what i'm doing here.

this is how i've experienced beauty lately...

beauty is riding a train through the redwoods,
and looking up.
beauty is eating a popsicle on a hot day, wearing nothing but a hat.
beauty is a hike through the trees with a monkey on your back.
beauty is pausing for the monkey to rest .
beauty is ocean air in the face.
beauty is sandy toes.
beauty is whipped cream on your tongue.
beauty is a sandy hill that leads to...
...the ocean!!!!
beauty is so big, it can cause the wildest child to pause.
beauty is holding a friend.
beauty is holding your baby,
realizing he's no longer a baby,
realizing he's actually a pretty cool kid.
beauty is a tree full of cherries.

branches grey and bare mere months ago
now burst forth with life.
the sweetest fruit awaits our delight.
without our hands to pick,
and our mouths to taste,
its flavor is wasted.
spoiled.

beauty is here. let us pursue it, grab hold of it, take it in and let it become a part of who we are, that we may be beauty for others.

solo

2011-06-27T22:37:00.000-07:00
I had forgotten how therapeutic an evening run could be.

I’m a morning runner. An early morning runner. An early morning push-the-jogging-stroller runner. A get-it-done-now-because-the-day-is-about-to-take-off-at-full-speed runner.

Tonight was different.

Tonight, I worked late. Tonight, I locked up my office when work was done, as opposed to when I needed to get to the next thing. Tonight, I turned left at the stop light instead of right. Tonight, I parked at the ocean instead of in the driveway. Tonight, I changed into running clothes instead of into mommy clothes. Tonight, I cranked out six miles instead of cranking out dinner and bathtime. Tonight, I stood under a eucalyptus tree and stretched for as long as I wanted to stretch. Tonight, I mozied on home, took a shower, and ate dinner. Tonight, I had two glasses of wine.

Tonight, I’m on my own.

I’ve been meditating on change, lately. Funny thing, change. Elusive by nature, the very essence of “surprise”, change is God’s way of keeping us humble, of keeping us healthy.

I was “supposed to” be in Minnesota this week. Luke and I were to fly out last Saturday morning and spend nine days with my mom and our entire extended family while Jimmy stayed here and worked (and played a little, let’s be honest). Not so.

Due to Friday’s ridiculous turn of events at work, it was evident that now is not the time for me to fly away to the land of 10,000 mosquitos. Going on vacation for a week is not the way to prove that one’s job is worth funding. And when one’s job is to support employees, and several of those employees are spontaneously laid off, it’s not the time to leave. So I stayed. And my boys left.

Let me back up.

I cancelled our flights on Friday night and immediately felt badly for taking away my husband’s nine days of freedom. I kept apologizing, to which he kept assuring me he was relieved we were staying home. He had been looking forward to some unscheduled time, sure, but he was dreading missing nine days of Luke (and me I think). But I kept apologizing. “You must be so disappointed – you were so close!” This is what we psychology folk call “projecting”. Translation: Maybe it was me who was craving some free time and space.

I took it upon myself to give my husband his blessed space (the space he was not asking for). I spent the weekend taking Luke to beautiful places, trying to feed and heal my exhausted soul with beauty and play. It sort of worked. My heart was full at the sight of my son basking in God’s Great Earth. But as I huffed and puffed, running at a snail’s pace pushing Luke in the BOB Sunday morning, I heard my heart whisper, “just ask”.

I came home and told my husband that I was perhaps just maybe a wee bit more tired than I had realized. All this *&%@ at work was taking its toll, and it was possible I needed some breathing room.

Pre-work-issues, part of Jimmy’s plan for the week was to spend a couple of days in Tahoe where his mom and step-dad were renting a house for the week. Given the turn of events, we changed the plan. Jimmy would take Luke up there for some grandparent/cousin/daddy time, and I would hunker down and focus on what I needed to do at work, and in my soul. I would spend my first night at home alone in nearly 3 years.

At 8:30 this morning my boys in their Subaru and me in my Focus caravanned as far as Scotts Valley. I exited, and they kept going, Tahoe-bound. I worked until 5:27 (27 minutes longer than I would on any other Monday), and you know the rest.

I’m proud of myself for how much I am letting myself enjoy it - this ability to embrace the freedom, to let go of the routine, and to sink into the old yet somehow familiar pattern of doing what I want to do when I want to do it…it’s encouraging. I know how to rest. I know how to take care of myself. In my normal, day to day life I do what I need to do, and I honest-to-God really love doing it. But I haven’t forgotten what I need. I haven’t forgotten how to relax, how to sit in a present, luxurious moment and believe I am entirely deserving of indulgence. Dear God, I pray I can always access this place, this peace.

May I never work so hard that I no longer know how to be still. And may I never work so little that indulgence is no longer delicious.

change

2011-06-25T21:56:00.000-07:00
I came across a poem the other day that stopped me in my tracks. It’s called “Want the Change”, by Rilke:

Want the change. Be inspired by the flame
Where everything shines as it disappears…
What locks itself in sameness has congealed.
Is it safer to be grey and numb?
What turns hard becomes rigid
And is easily shattered.
Pour yourself like a fountain.
Flow into the knowledge that what you are seeking
Finishes often at the start, and, with ending, begins.
Every happiness is the child of separation.
It did not think it could survive…

Read it again and let it sink in.

This is a season of change. For me, yes, but for everyone. None of us stays the same for long. And if we do, we harden as Rilke says, which is itself a profound change - though not for the better.

For the past several months my husband and I have ridden waves of uncertainty at our place of work. Decisions have been made (and publicized) to keep the school open, to close the school, to keep the school open, and finally (?) to close the school. And yesterday, within the span of two hours, my job was secured, taken away effective immediately, and secured again (temporarily).

If ever there were an opportunity to practice non-attachment, this is it.

There are many details about the closure of Bethany University which I could detail and comment upon, but I do not intend to use this blog for that purpose. This blog is called “Mindful Mommy” because it is a forum for my musings about practicing mindfulness and learning motherhood (Luke remains my greatest teacher in mindfulness, by the way). I suppose this is also a forum about running, which is my second greatest teacher in mindfulness and relates deeply to my parenting. But my point: this blog is not a forum about Bethany University.

Over the past several years as I’ve practiced mindfulness (and motherhood), I’ve learned that clinging (whether to people, emotions, or nap schedules) is futile. We waste so much energy wishing things would stay the same, or begging them to change. We miss so much when we do that.

We miss what is going on right here. Right now. Present moment, baby.

The present moment is not always pleasant, but it is always teaching us. And no matter what transpires in our present moment, there exists a divine Presence. There exists Peace. We are never alone.

Another teacher of mine shared this jewel recently: “any change requires both submission and commitment…simultaneously going for it and letting go.”

I take this to mean that with every change comes a surrender to what we cannot control, and a devotion to whatever intention we set in moving forward. We let go of what is done, and we relentlessly go after that which we’re called to pursue. We accept the turn of events, but we do not sit in helplessness. We participate in the change and we use it as an opportunity to take radical steps forward.

Sometimes the most unexpected changes cause us to try the things we never could justify trying before. When safety is taken away, what do we have to lose? In these moments, we transform our lives from ordinary to extraordinary.

What does this mean for me? I don’t know. A doctorate? A book? Another baby? An ambitious new job? (I applied – we’ll see.)

There are far more questions than answers at this point. But all I know is this is an opportunity. I share my prayer with you. Whether we face the changes we like, the changes we fear, the changes that wound, or the changes that heal, let us bring to mind the wisdom of Rilke’s poem…

Let us shine as we disappear, and let us welcome the ignition of a new facet of our light.

May we stay fluid and pure, flowing gracefully from one container to the next, from ending to new beginning.

May we, the children of separation, become happiness, knowing we can survive.

cousin love

2011-06-21T06:05:00.000-07:00
cousins tackle each other

cousins tackle their uncles

cousins snuggle

cousins work

and cousins play

ring-around-the-rosie

and cousins all fall down

cousins teach and cousins learn

cousins take care of each other

cousins love

pace

2011-06-16T06:04:00.000-07:00
I am practicing pace. Literally and figuratively. The literal, on-the-track with a stopwatch kind of pacing helps me with the fuzzier, figurative pacing in life. Numbers are clear, precise, and easy to read. Barometers in life are rarely so obvious.

This is an interesting season for my little family. My husband and I lost our jobs at a university that announced its closure this week. How long we can remain employed there through the summer as the close-out process unfolds is uncertain. This is a time of change (which I love) and new beginnings (which I crave). And yet it is a time of unsettledness and urgency as we face practical needs in our immediate future. I tend to dream big and idealistically (“Great! I’ll just be unemployed and stay home with Luke and start my PhD.”) My husband tends to think more realistically (“Doctorates COST money, dear”). This is why we’re good for each other.

While I feel fully supported by Jimmy in my desire to earn a PhD, join a fellow-dreamer-friend in creating a holistic wellness clinic in Santa Cruz, have another kid, write a book, win the Wharf to Wharf, and successfully grow a gosh-darned garden, I also sense my husband’s yearning for pace. I tend to approach life decisions with bursts of passion and immediacy. Sometimes this is good, but thoughtfulness and patience are also important.

So as I think through these essential (and elusive to me) qualities, allow me, if you will, to reflect and ruminate on what it means to pace myself.

Part 1: Literal Pace
It is no secret that my goal pace for the Wharf to Wharf is 6:20. On that fateful Sunday at the end of July, I intend to run six of them in a row and drop my PR by 30 seconds. Ambitious: yes. Doable: yes. If I run smart.

It is also no secret that my race strategy tends to be: take off fast, hang on for dear life. This is feasible in a 5k. Not so much for a 6-miler. And we all know what tragedies result in a half-marathon. (Oops). The erratic fast-slow, surge-crash, gut-it-out kind of running is a waste of energy. If I calm things down a bit and fall into a smooth rhythm, I can drop last year’s 38:30 down to a 38:00.

I got on the track last weekend to get a feel for this rhythm. I cranked out 10 800’s at or just under goal pace. At times I felt like a young coIt, begging to sprint when she first must learn how to trot. But the end result was a completed workout and the confidence that I can run six 6:20’s in a row. I also know I cannot run 6:00, 6:10, and then hold 6:20’s for four more miles. Run smart, Sarah.

*I need to keep my feet on the ground, so to speak, and remember my intention. If my athletic intention is 38:00, that means thoughtful, patient early miles.

~
Part 2: Mommy Pace
Accurate feedback is hard to find off the track. In my other worlds I rarely see the immediate results of my work. In my mothering world, for example, I can pour my heart into my toddler son and receive a tantrum in return. Sometimes I get sweet smiles and tackle hugs; other times I get whining and pouts. His behavior is not always an accurate reflection of my effort and skill. Not until he’s older, when our experiences and emotions have settled in enough to find some balance, will his full, healthy personhood be evident.

I am practicing pace in my relationship with my son. I am practicing staying even and calm as he flies up and down. I am practicing the art of not-freaking-out when emotions fly too fast, or boredom slows us down.

*I am trusting that we will find our balance if we keep our feet on the ground, and if we keep our intentions clear. If my maternal intention is to help Luke grow fully into his beautiful adult self, that means thoughtful, patient mothering right now.

~
Part 3: Professional Pace
When Luke was a baby I met with my professor/mentor/friend/inspiration Dr. Shauna Shapiro. As a fellow mother, she encouraged me in my academic pursuits and professional dreams while reminding me that I don’t have to do it all right now. And as I look ahead at the myriad of ideas and goals brimming forth from my heart, I am remembering her advice. I can’t do it all at the same time. It’s not possible to live every dream simultaneously.

*The only way to know where to begin is to keep my feet on the ground and my intentions clear. If my professional intention is to be of help, it will take thoughtful, patient consideration of the most appropriate means of doing so at this time in my life.

~
To pacing ourselves…

To thoughtfulness and patience…

To keeping our feet on the ground and our intentions clear…

Thanks for joining me in the journey.

mustard greens and wagons blue

2011-06-09T06:25:00.000-07:00
What have we been up to?

We’ve been growing a garden full of leafy greens.Mustard greens are Luke’s favorite. He must have eaten a dozen leaves the other night.We should have been getting ready for bed, but he felt the need for a twilight snack followed by the creation of several dirt and rock “graduation cakes” and a half naked moon dance.He thought that sounded more fun than bedtime. I agreed.

We’ve been hanging out with Sanka.

Sanka is Luke’s imaginary friend. Sanka was the fourth member of the Jamaican Bobsled Team in the movie “Cool Runnings”, but apparently he lives with us now and needs a seat reserved at the table and his very own real breakfast. The other day Luke and I went to Costco and Luke told me Sanka was sitting next to him in the cart.Then Sanka wanted to walk, so they got out and Luke held his hand as they shopped and ate strawberries.Luke washed Sanka’s hands when they got to school yesterday morning, and when I picked the boys up from school they were sitting at the table with Teacher Lisa, eating yogurt, along with two sharks and some gorillas.

We’ve been assembling a wagon.

During our Costco adventure the other day we came upon a wagon for sale.Every time we pass a kid in a wagon Luke looks longingly and often asks if he can take a turn. I looked longingly at this wagon, hemming and hawing, texting my husband for input, trying to explain to Luke (and Sanka) why this was a major financial decision. Ultimately, I decided it was time. We loaded a giant box into our cart (Luke and Sanka had to scooch close together), into our car (even trickier), and brought it home.

Upon opening the box I discovered, much to my dismay, the wagon was nowhere near assembled. Now I can hammer, I can screwdrive, I'm pretty good with a level. But my carpentry skills pretty much end there. When Luke and I unfolded the directions and I started reading about axels and capnuts I took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know if I can do this.” And just like that, Luke looked at me and said, “Sure you can, sweetheart. You can do it honey!”

What was I supposed to say to that?

We did it, people! It took me 15 minutes to realize I had the axel thingy upside down, but after that I got a wheel on. Then another. Then the back two (not realizing until assembling the last wheel that the plastic doo-dad in the bag was to help hammer on the capnuts and that the sideways hail-mary hammering I had been doing was unnecessary). At one point the capnut flew off along with a washer and my two and half year old son exclaimed, “Son of a nutcracker!” Elf, anyone?At long last, the wagon was ready.And despite running short two washers and deciding the back wheels didn’t really need them, it looks legit. We walked all the way to the park and back and nothing fell off or so much as wobbled. Before departing on our inaugural wagon journey I asked Luke if he needed a snack. He promptly walked upstairs and came back down with a bag of Frosted Mini Wheats (not that we ever keep such unhealthy treats in our house). As he and Sanka sat munching on those I added a bowl of fruit to balance things out. And we were off.Ah, it’s June. Long summer days. Hilarious adventures. More time with friends (visible and not).

More time to breathe.

now hear this...

2011-06-06T10:22:00.000-07:00

So much is going on. The past several weeks have been a whirlwind. We currently sit in a cloud of unknowing. And yet…

My husband graduated!!!

Let it not go unsaid, unannounced, un-shouted-from-the-rooftops, that my brilliant, devoted, hard working partner in life, father of my child, earned his masters degree in Kinesiology (emphasis Sports Management) from San Jose State University.

Let it not go un-bragged-about that when I met one of Jimmy’s professors at the graduation ceremony, she gushed about my man. She said his was by far the best project she’s seen, and she can’t wait to have him come back and talk to future students in her program. She said his work was brilliant, and she has an Australian accent, which made the compliment sound that much cooler.

Let it not go unmentioned that in a span of one week, my dear finished his final paper, took his final exam, completed his final project, attended his final class, and stayed home during the day with our sniffling munchkin when I couldn’t get out of work. He wrapped it all up by donning cap and gown and walking (gliding?) to Pomp and Circumstance that Saturday morning, earning the title James Jason Meyer, M.A..

Let it also be noted that for the past four years I have watched my husband work diligently on this endeavor. I saw him make a plan, as he always does, and stick to it – giving every spare minute to the ongoing work of writing, researching, designing, coordinating…until the last words were spoken, written, and deemed “A” work. I witnessed the unrelenting pursuit of his passion, not letting semesters lost to new jobs, a new baby, or financial hardship derail his efforts. I watched him choose wrestle matches with his son over work on the computer, saving the latter for late nights as he maintained and deepened the bond with his kid. Through it all, I looked on as he pressed on, and it fills my heart with joy to see the end result.

By the way, forgive the bragging here, but…Mr. Meyer, M.A. graduated with a 4.0.

I say all this not because I am proud of him. In fact, every time I start to say, “I’m proud of you”, the words catch in my throat. It sounds so…maternal. I’m not so much proud of him as I am just plain and simply happy for him. I know what this undertaking cost him. I know what it required of him. Only he knows truly how hard it was to achieve, but I got a good hard look and I am inspired by his perseverance to get it done, and to do it so gosh-darned well.

My dear, you did it. Yay you. And as we sit in the not-knowing of our future, may we remember the joys and successes of our past, may we acknowledge the sweetness of our present, and may we trust in the goodness of what lies ahead. I am glad to be headed there with you.

why i run at the crack of dawn

2011-05-24T06:40:00.000-07:00
A friend of mine (and former APU track teammate) recently e-mailed me asking for training tips. She’s thinking of doing a half marathon this fall and is struggling to balance work, school, and running. Early morning workouts seem to be her best bet, as her day to day schedule varies, but it can be so hard to crawl out of bed in the wee hours! I’ve received a lot of questions like this lately, so I thought I’d respond via blog.

I run in the early morning because I’m up anyway. Luke makes sure of that. And on the rare occasions when Luke sleeps in and I actually have the pleasure of hearing my alarm sound, I run in the morning because it’s either that or not running at all. When I don’t put in my miles, I find it very difficult to be a good mom. In fact, I find it very difficult to be a good person. This may sound counterintuitive, but running gives me energy.

The expenditure of energy through running is a sort of tithe, in my view. The more I exert, the more full my tank becomes. When I begin the day offering whatever little or grand amount I can muster, I receive tenfold. It is always enough - for my little boy, for my husband, and for the students I teach and counsel. When I miss a run, I find myself getting jealous of Luke as he climbs and plays at the park. When I’ve put in my morning miles, I celebrate his energy, and often join in. When I miss a run, I get antsy in long meetings. I envy students who walk in my office, fresh off the soccer field, grass and sweat stuck to their legs. When I’ve had my fix, I can share in the endorphin high of those young people. I can sit with (and pay attention to) them for longer stretches of time because I’ve used up my restless energy on the trails of Santa Cruz. I’ve moved. I’ve breathed. I’ve sweat. I am clean.

Running is like water to me. It’s become such an inextricable part of my life that I profoundly feel the effects of its absence. Without it I feel listless. Lethargic. Parched. I crave it. And as I tell the students in our Healthy Living classes, sometimes we have to teach our bodies what to crave. So sometimes we drink water, or we run, not because we want to, but because we’re teaching our bodies to want to. And over time, the most lovely transition occurs. We want to.

So I do it.

So, what is my training plan? Over the last two years and eight months (plus the 9 months before that), I’ve had to be flexible, to say the least. But it’s worked in my favor. I’ve had to find a balance between listening to my body and committing to key workouts, between pushing myself and resting myself, between meeting my needs and putting my family first. So here’s what I do:

- I run long once per week. For me, this means 10-13 miles. I try to stay away from “shoulds” when it comes to the blessed long run, but if you’re trying to put together a training program, your long run “should” be about double the distance of your other day to day runs. (And if you’re building up to a marathon or half marathon, this distance may increase more). I say I avoid “shoulds” because in my view, the long run is like a breath of fresh air. No particular pace to keep. No watch to…watch. Just you and the open road. For as long as you want. This is often the only stroller-less run I get to do, so I cherish it.

- I do one “tempo run” and one “interval run” (better known in the running community as a “fartlek”, or “speedplay”) each week. I almost always have Luke in the stroller, so I do these on pavement (softer terrain is better if you can swing it). Having Luke in the stroller also means I have about a 45 minute window to giterdun before he’s had enough. I jog about a half mile to warm-up, then dive right into the workout portion of the run, then jog another half mile to cool-down. I pace my tempo runs by looking for the “comfortably hard” sweet spot - the threshold of where I push my limits but can maintain that pace for 20-30 minutes. For my fartleks, I aim for 5-6 hard surges lasting 2-3 minutes each, with a 2-3 minute easy jog in between. (I often do this without a watch, so I use landmarks as my stop/start points – or I let Luke coach me by saying “Mommy, I want you to run superfast now!”). I’ve started doing my fartleks on a hill from time to time, using the uphill for surges and the downhill for rest.

- I run “easy” for the rest of the week. 45 minutes at whatever pace feels good. (If I didn’t have a stroller to push and a job to get to, this would probably be closer to an hour).

- I stretch. After my run I do a series of yoga stretches and some pilates, which Luke either joins me in (hilarious), or laughs at while he plays in the garden. I stretch some more before I go to bed so I don't wake up stiff. (at least not so stiff)

- I take at least one day off from running each week.

So, this has me running 5-6 days/week, 32-40+ miles/week. Many coaches assert that to run a quality half marathon an athlete needs to be logging 50 miles per week. It’s hard to know whether I’d run faster with that kind of mileage. It simply does not fit into my life right now.

I do know that quality miles are better than no miles at all. And when we make the most of the time we have, we can get a whole lot out of it.

As usual, I mean that athletically and spiritually.

pretty hard core

2011-05-23T06:37:00.000-07:00
Last Monday I began my training week with an intense hill workout, pushing 40+ pounds of stroller and child up the side of a mountain. Intention: build speed and strength and toughness.

Later that afternoon, I stopped in at Starbucks and happened to see a flyer advertising a road race for the upcoming weekend. What caught my attention in particular was the “motto” of RunSheIsBeautiful, the organization hosting this event:

"I believe in sweating every day. I believe running with your friends is better than therapy. I believe the happy girls are the beautiful girls. I believe strong is pretty."

Those words ignited a fire in my heart. They instantaneously resonated. Why had I not heard about this? And when I saw the words “5k and 10k, Sunday May 22nd”, I could hardly wait to sign-up.

What I found on the website delighted and encouraged my soul. A local woman who does marketing for Whole Foods, and who enjoys running with her friends, decided to start a new women-only race in Santa Cruz designed to celebrate the partnership of beauty and strength. Plus, 25% of the race proceeds would benefit Walnut Avenue Women’s Center. This is such a good thing.

I must admit I hesitated ever so slightly when I noticed this was also marketed as “the pinkest race in Santa Cruz”, and that pink attire was strongly encouraged. I’m not exactly a “pink” kind of girl. But I believe in teaching girls, and adult women, that it is oh, so possible to be feminine and hard core. And I believe in the mission of Walnut Avenue Women’s Center. So if I had to don a little pink to be supportive, I could do that.

I had less than a week to prepare. Having logged some heavy miles in the previous week, and having just done a hill workout, I was not exactly “peaked” for this one. So I decided to do the 10k and treat it as a “pace workout” for the Wharf to Wharf. I am shooting for 6:20's in this July’s 6-mile race. I need to teach my body what that feels like.

I was about to click “register” when it occurred to me to consult my husband. He is a coach, after all. “You should do the 5k,” he said matter-of-factly. “You already have endurance and stamina. You need speed. You need to practice a harder pace so 6:20’s don’t take so much out of you.” Ugh. I knew he was right. The 10k (6.2 miles) is my comfort zone. Long enough to strategize, to settle into a pace, to travel through various mental states on the way to victory. 5k’s (3.1 miles) are short and fast and they hurt like the dickens.

I registered for the 5k.

“Race preparation” with a toddler in tow is such a ridiculous concept. It honestly makes me giggle. I spent the two days before the race on my feet in the hot sun, chasing my kid, and loving it. We climbed trees. We hiked up dirt hills. We picked strawberries under the warm, Watsonville skies. We nailed each other with squirt guns. We chased each other around parks and beaches and fishing holes. By the time Luke’s head hit the pillow Saturday night, I was exhausted. Oh, and I failed to mention that while strawberry picking, I got hit in the back of the leg by an errant rock (guess who threw it?). It had begun to bruise and ache, so after getting my child to bed, I strapped on the ice pack, took an ibuprofen, and ate my pre-race rice bowl. Expectations for the next day’s event: low. Spirits: high.

I woke up Sunday morning and painted my nails. And I finally found a good use for that fruity 2009 Wharf to Wharf jacket I’ve been so bitter about the last two years.

I jogged to the lighthouse for the start of the SheIsBeautiful 5k, race plans swirling about my head. Jimmy suggested I run my first two miles at 6:20 pace, and then see what I have left. “Or,” he said, “you can run as fast as you want, but try to keep all three miles consistent”. I agreed. Until I learned what the prizes would be. The top three finishers would get gift baskets from Whole Foods. “Forget it,” I told my husband, “I am so racing this.”

There were 200 women in the 5k, and I had no idea how competitive it would be. Ultimately, I decided that if I had a chance at being in the top 3, I would go for it. If, however, a band of superfast 17-minute 5k-ers took off at the start, I would use the race to practice my 6:20’s and finish with a burst of speed.

Surrounded by so much pink, so much strong female energy, so much enthusiasm, and signs like “you make this look good”, “life’s too short to wear boring clothes”, and “go ahead, run your heart out”, it was hard to pay attention to how prepared I was or wasn’t to run fast. I just opened to the spirit of the day.

(I just secretly hoped the Spirit of the Day had a fast race in store for me).

We lined up at the start, a group of energetic ladies aged 8-80, ready to dash out from under pink and white balloons. And dash we did. As we rounded the first corner, five of us formed a lead pack. I’m in the race for top 3! One woman immediately assumed the first position. She was dressed in head to toe black, except for a splash of bright pink on her socks. “God bless her,” I thought. I settled into a comfortably-hard rhythm, one I knew I could maintain, but that still kept me in contention. I wanted to keep my first mile no faster than 6:10. We blew by the first mile marker in 5:55. Dangit. Jimmy and Luke pulled up next to me on the bike, and I did the strangest thing. I smiled. I laughed. I waved. I said, “There goes my pace!” Then Jimmy said, “If you can still talk and smile you must be alright”. Good point. I intentionally backed off, not wanting to later crawl to the finish line, but I kept my position in 3rd and felt really comfortable. Second mile: 6:20. Beautiful. The last mile was hard, but not terribly so. I was by myself, the top two ladies a good 30-seconds ahead of me, the fourth place girl a minute behind. I pushed myself, but I did not exhaust myself. I heard the encouraging words of my husband and son as they biked back and forth, and I simply enjoyed the experience. As I rounded the last turn I saw the clock: 18:55. I sprinted, but it was too late. I came in at 19:04. Mile 3: 6:10.

Friends, my previous fastest 5k was 19:21. The 18-Minute-Club has eluded me for years, a membership I never dreamed gaining, until recently. Had I known I was that close, I could have poured it on earlier. (Had I thought to look at the new watch my husband gave me prior to the start of the race, I would have known I was that close. But give me a break, I haven’t run with a watch in years).

Ah well - another race, another day, I'll join the club. Today I celebrate a 17-second personal record in the 5k. Today I celebrate the fact that speed does still reside in my body, and if I practice harnessing and regulating that speed in the next couple of months, I can hold 6:20 for 6 miles from Wharf to beautiful Wharf. Good Lord, I’m excited.

I received my “gift basket”: an apron and a dish brush. I kid you not.Apparently this race wasn’t so much about empowering women ("We can do anything!") as it was about affirming that we can work in the kitchen AND run AND be beautiful doing it! (Also true). And while I do enjoy cooking, and I have a freakish love of washing dishes, let it be known that were I to not partake in such activities, I would be no less a woman. No less feminine.

Let the record also show that the dish brush I received is in the shape of a flower, but contains several textures with which to gently brush and seriously scrub and ferociously chip away at gunk. It’s hard core. And it’s pretty. Kind of like we women who run.

these legs were made for running (alternately titled: we all have cellulite)

2011-05-20T06:15:00.000-07:00
I read a post last night on a blog I recently discovered. In it, the author (woman of faith, mom to 3, and kickass runner) admits that she has cellulite. This woman can run a 6:30 mile while pushing a double jogging stroller. She has completed 16 marathons, two of those in the 6 months since her youngest baby was born. Her most previous marathon (5 months post-partum) was her second fastest ever. The woman is fit. And she has cellulite.

I don’t have the stats, but I would venture a guess that 99% of women have cellulite. Cellulite results from fat tissue pressing up against the skin. So unless you don’t have any body fat (and fyi: 0% body fat is 0% healthy), you have cellulite. This means, essentially, that if you are a woman and you wear shorts and you sit down, a lovely “puckering effect” will appear on your thighs for all the world to see. It also means that if you run behind the fastest of ladies (if you dare keep up with her), you will see some jiggling. And there’s just not much we can do about it.

Men have fat too, but they typically carry it around their bellies (this means they can still wear shorts in public without being self-conscious). Before we cry “no fair!”, note that physicians consider fat around the mid-section “high risk” as it nears vital organs. Fat on the thighs is deemed "benign". It keeps us warm, provides a nice lap for little ones, and contributes to the alluring, "shapely" look. No worries, as far as the lifespan is concerned. (And isn’t that what we SHOULD be concerned about?)
Sure, some runners look like this: (And by the way, this is the one and only World Cross Country Champion Shalane Flanagan)

But most of us do not.

More runners look like this:
And I’ll tell you, I’ve seen some of the most elite women distance runners in America win races with little fat dimples peeking out from under their shorts. This makes me smile. Maybe a little too much.

My point is this: We all (almost) have cellulite. And it doesn't slow us down.

What I appreciate about the above-linked blog is that the writer, Dorothy, describes an appreciation for her legs. They are strong. They move. And they move fast. They help her run races, and they help her chase her three beautiful children all over glory. Ah, perspective.

We so often focus on what we do not appreciate (the cottage cheese effect), as opposed to what we do appreciate (the gift of walking, running, keeping up with our kids!).

Sometimes we have the honor of witnessing first-hand the most beautiful and inspiring displays of people doing what they were made to do. Hang out with a little one long enough and you'll see what I mean (kids tend to unabashedly head straight for that which moves their souls). Luke gifted me with just such a moment yesterday. I basked in gratitude and delight as he sprinted back and forth on the sand, chasing waves to and fro, his jiggly toddler thighs doing their thing. These legs were made for running, I thought.And so were mine.

I thank God for that, and I vow to use them for that very purpose, giving thanks every step of the way.

The MotherHood

2011-05-19T06:26:00.000-07:00
Last night Luke and I hosted Wednesday Night Dinner for several of our mom and toddler friends. A lovely intention. Only by the time they came over, my child was so beyond-tired that he was out of his body, completely filter-less. (You know, the filter that separates the desire to punch somebody and actually punching somebody?) I haven’t seen Luke go up to a kid and push him over in months. I thought we were beyond that. But when my kid is exhausted, there is no impulse control. (When I’m exhausted, I drink coffee and control my impulses until the company leaves). He had no capacity to understand that sharing toys does not mean losing them forever. No ability to let me cook a quesadilla without grabbing a mop and whacking someone over the head with it. For a good two hours Luke cried and asked to be held. He pulled at me and pushed at me, tugged on me and leaned on me, and made it known in the best way he could that he was just not up for all this. At one point he knocked over his good friend Kingston, and Kingston’s mom asked Luke what he was trying to say with his hands (I love her). “I’m trying to get his attention,” said Luke. Kingston’s mom showed him a different way to get Kingston’s attention: putting a hand on his shoulder and saying, “Hi Kingston.” A few minutes later I saw Luke put his hand on Kingston’s shoulder and say, “Hi!” (Yes!!!!!) Then he turned around and shoved Tenzin. (Oh, Sweet Mercy.)

These moments tear at me in the worst way. Like many moms, however Luke’s feeling, I feel it in my body. When I rock him to sleep, I feel an actual shift in my own body the instant he drifts off. A gentle flutter moves from my brain to my heart to my stomach and I just know he’s in dreamland. (And if I try to leave his room before I feel this flutter he invariable pops out of bed and follows me.) A different kind of flutter moves through my being when I know he’s miserable. Like last night. I could feel his fatigue as though it was my own (and frankly, some of it was). I knew that were it a typical night, without a dinner party, he’d be asleep by 6:30. But he was staying up later for the sake of the greater good, attempting to share his home and his stuff when he couldn’t for the life of him remember how, and my instinct was to just shove everyone out the door and meet his immediate needs.

And yet. We also have a need for community. I need it, no doubt. But so does Luke. And while last night’s circumstances may not have been ideal for my kid to practice community, it is also a powerful lesson to learn that our circumstances do not always cater to our unique needs in any given moment. Sometimes we have to roll with the punches (and pushes and shoves and tugs).

In the midst of the chaos, we were blessed. One dear friend moved about the home in her sweet way, and despite having two kids under 3 years old to keep watch of, she somehow cleaned up and helped to cook and checked in with knowing glances and “what do you need right now?”s. Another sweet mama made eye contact with Luke a couple of times and with a sparkling smile, whispered sweet nothings that made him giggle and grin like a newborn. Moments like this make me feel held by the MotherHood.

And as that sweet band of mamas and their babies pulled out of our driveway, me and mine made our way inside and exhaled. A deep calm washed over Luke as he lay on the floor and rolled a truck back and forth while I laid on the floor scrubbing smooshed cheese out of the tile. A deep calm washed over me too. In that moment I felt so tired I could cry. Not because I was sad, but because all of the swirling emotions, the highs and the lows, the energy summoned to get through one day, needed a gentle release. “I have totally been there,” one friend wrote to me this morning. “That release would feel so good. I just can’t get there!!! And lately I’ve been subconsciously hurting myself just to slow down. And has it worked? Um, no. Maybe we could call each other in that space, and make each other cry. Although I imagine we’d probably do the opposite.”

Community is good. Community is essential.

I’ve said before, my desire as a mother is to love Luke well. To create time and space to receive his love as he expresses it uniquely. I want to introduce Luke to Love. To be Love to him.

And it is only by letting ourselves be loved that we can then go on to love others.

highlights of life with a 2 years, 8 months, and 2 days old kid

2011-05-16T06:55:00.000-07:00
Top 10:

#1 Luke’s use of the terms “rather”, “totally”, and “probably” to describe how or what he’s doing. (“I’m rather tired.” “I’m totally naked”. “I’m probably too busy to do that right now.”)

#2 Questions. All the live-long day. Not annoying, “Are we there yet?” and “What’s that?” kind of questions. No, my child desperately wants to know if I’m happy. “Are you haaaaaaappy?” he’ll ask. Over and over until I say yes. This incessant (I mean, delightfully persistent) inquiry has pushed me to become more honest and self-aware. Not one to knowingly lie to my kid, I sometimes answer “No.” He wants to know why, so I’m forced to articulate why, exactly, I’m not happy. And often, there’s really no good reason. Sometimes there is, and I’ll explain that I’m frustrated, or that I don’t like to be hit on the head with a soccer ball. When I tell him these things, the strangest thing happens. He says, “I’m sorry for hitting you on the head with a soccer ball. Are you happy now?” Last night, he asked his dad a new question. “Are you at peace?” Straight to the heart.

#3 His fixation on where events fit in relation to time. He identifies all happenings in relation to “yesterday”, “a long time ago”, “tomorrow”, “when I get bigger”, "when I'm a man", and sometimes “right now” or “today”. For example: “Today I am going to eat string cheese.” Or, “When I get bigger I am going to do the bobsled.”

#4 His fixation on the Jamaican Bobsled Team. One night last week, in an effort to tell Luke a bedtime story, Jimmy pulled the plot of Cool Runnings from deep in the recesses of his brain. “Once upon a time, in the land of Jamaica, there were three sprinters,” he began. He told the whole story, of how their dream to run in the Olympic Games was cut short by their tripping and falling at the qualifying race. He told of the man who taught them how to bobsled, and how they practiced and practiced in the dirt (because there is no snow or ice in Jamaica). Because they were such fast runners they were able to push the sled superfast before jumping in. They eventually qualified and competed at the Olympic Games. Not in running. But in bobsledding. Because they never gave up hope.

Luke was half asleep (or so my husband thought) when he heard the story. But the next morning Luke wanted to hear it again. And we’ve been telling it ever since. Last Friday I got an e-mail from Luke’s teacher. “Thanks for telling me about Luke’s bobsled story. I used it today when Luke didn’t want to stop playing and eat lunch. I told him, ‘Even Jamaicans eat lunch.’ He said, ‘so they can be super fast!’ and happily joined us at the table.”

#5 In relation to #4, Luke now plays and sings “I Can See Clearly Now” and “Jamaica’s Got a Bobsled Team” on his guitar.

#6 The love affair with fruit continues. Luke ate an entire basket of strawberries at the Farmer’s Market last weekend. Last night he ate an entire mango. And he eats 1-2 whole apples a day at home. I told his teachers this and they said, “here too!” An apple (or four) a day, keeps the doctor away?

#7 Luke’s fish died. (This isn’t the highlight, but Luke’s response certainly is.) After considerable thought about how to tell Luke, we ultimately decided to go with a hands-on approach. A fish is tangible, yet the loss is not heartbreaking. As good as any opportunity to learn about death. So we showed Luke that the fish’s body was all done living. And when things die, we bury them in the ground. The circle of life, baby.

It’s hard to describe the concept of “soul” and “heaven” when your kid is holding the dead body for all to see. But Jim told him the fish's soul is in fishy heaven and Luke said matter-of-factly, “He’s swimming in lots of colorful sea anemones.” True, our kid is obsessed with his Finding Nemo book, but I still thought this was rather profound – and quite possibly accurate.

As we walked in quiet procession to the garden graveyard, Luke looked again at the fish and said, “His batteries ran out.” Yes, sweetheart, they did.

Luke was utterly fascinated with the process of digging a grave, plopping his fish in the hole, and covering him back up.We all laid flowers on the mound and said a kind word, and then sang a song. The next morning Luke wanted to visit the grave again, and he very thoughtfully said, “I think we should tell the fishy the Jamaican Bobsled Team story.” So we did.

#8 The kid’s getting big. And heavy. (This is not a highlight, though I know it’s developmentally a good thing. The highlight is my superstar muscles that result from toting him around). Yesterday morning I attempted a hill workout while pushing the jogging stroller. As we warmed up and approached The Hill, I told Luke we would do 4-6 repeats superfast. After the first one I told him, “We are doing 4 repeats. Superishfast.” Ouch. This had better pay off in mile 5 of the Wharf to Wharf.

#9 This child has the memory of an elephant. He remembers peoples’ (and animals’) names he’s literally seen one time, several months ago. He remembers peoples’ cars. Pages in books that remind him of pages in other books. The words of songs he’s heard once. The ingredients in our cookie recipe. The way various artists hold their guitars. He will watch a music video one time, then sing the song and strum his guitar with the same stance and style as the musician on the screen. I know I’m bragging here, but who does that?

#10 On that note (pun intended), dancing and making music is an inextricable part of our lives. Approximately half of everything Luke says comes out in song. He’s like a real-live musical. Current favorite dance party tunes are “Groovy Groovy Jazzy Funky” (an old favorite too), “A Little Less Conversation” by Sir Elvis Presley, and Perry Como’s “Papa Loves Mambo”. Don’t ask me how we discover these.

Mamas and May

2011-05-09T06:11:00.000-07:00
I. Love. This. Kid.

This was a weekend of celebrations. We celebrated the month of May. We celebrated friends. We celebrated food. We celebrated my mother, and my husband’s mother, all mothers. And we celebrated ME!

We attended a May Fair Saturday afternoon at the Waldorf School up the road. I had never attended a May Fair before. I had never visited this school before. Both were absolutely lovely. Luke and I met up with some dear friends and we camped on the grass as the bagpiper (bagpipist?) marched down the hill followed by skipping children in white, flowing clothes. The children danced around the Maypole, their teacher calling out different dances with the shake of her tambourine. Each dance produced a different, beautiful weave of the ribbons. We were entranced. Well, Elise and I were entranced. Luke and Kingston were ready to hit the swings after the second or third dance.

The afternoon was so full of fun. We watched a puppet show, munched on watermelon, danced to folksy music, and the boys got their faces painted. Kingston got a digger truck on one cheek and a dump truck on the other. Luke saw this and decided he must do the same. As the artist painted on his chubby, sweet face he held oh, so still and whispered “that tickles a little bit when you do that.” When he saw the finished product in the mirror, his face took on a look of pure and utter joy. The simple things…

The highlight of the May Fair was a tour through the school’s garden. This garden is immense. Vegetables and flowers seem to overflow from every direction. Baby chicks and bunnies and ducks and geese run amok. And the children (particularly my child) ran amok after them. Luke quite firmly decided it was his one role and duty in life to make sure all of the baby geese made it to the water to swim. He chased these precious darlings and somehow convinced them to let him pick them up (which he did so very gently) and plop them in the water. Once there he gave them little pushes on the backside and told them to “Go ahead, swim!” Invariably the fuzzy little things would jump out, run away, and the whole process would begin again.

This boy and his animals.

By the end of the day we were deliciously tired – the kind of tired you get from hours of running around in the sunshine with beautiful people.

~

For Mother’s Day I asked for one thing: that I get to run around in the sunshine with beautiful people. I got this, and so much more.

My morning began bright and early with a little boy who was not yet awake (but who thought he was) deciding it was time to get up and feed the kitties. My husband told me I should feel free to stay in bed, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Mother’s Day is a reminder to me that such awakenings are a gift. An honor. A chance for extra sweet morning hours with my kid. And sometimes, a chance to get a head start on my run!

After some Lukie Snuggles I kissed my boys goodbye and took off for twelve glorious, quiet, unhurried miles along the ocean. And when I arrived back at home I found Luke standing on a chair next to his daddy, stirring some batter, eating a grape, and dancing. “Happy Mother’s Day! We’re making waffles for you!” I gave him a sweaty kiss and told him I was going to stretch in the garden while he finished up. He said, “Stretching makes your muscles feel better.” “Yes, it does,” I told him. “Waffles make your muscles feel better too!” he said. "And I make your muscles feel better TOO!" Yes, sweetheart. You do.

My day was full of gifts -

a delicious breakfast, coffee from a new hand-painted mug - the work of none other than Lucas James Meyer (and his dad), a new book and some treats, a family drive, some playing at the park, some chopping veggies for the sheep (and us) to munch on, and some snuggling and reading with my favorite little kid.

As Luke and I chopped cauliflower and apples and giggled at his not-so-sneaky stolen bites, I turned to Jimmy and said, “This is bliss.” Days like these are my absolute favorite. Days with no particular schedule. No specific agenda. Just the clear intention of being together. Of running around under the sun with the beautiful people we call family.

I am honored to be a mom. I am blessed to have a mom. And I bow in gratitude to all of the women who help to mother the children of this world. Ours is a sacred role.

angel

2011-05-06T23:06:00.000-07:00
This morning Luke informed me that I have an angel. “Really? I do?” I asked him. “Where is my angel?” “Over there, by the wall!” he told me. I looked at the wall to see if there was a picture of an angel or anything remotely resembling an angel in that vicinity. I should know better. “What does my angel look like?” I asked him. “Um…kind of like a princess,” Luke said. My heart melted. A few minutes later I asked him, “Where is my angel now?” “By the wall - why?” he replied, as though it were the most common thing in the world to have an angel hanging out by the wall, and why should I bother him for such silly updates.

All day long I’ve had a spring in my step, a lightness in my heart, a dance in my soul…the kind that comes from knowing you have a princess-like angel by your side. Sweet Jesus, I feel special today.

running with deer (and children)

2011-05-06T07:51:00.000-07:00
I ran with a deer yesterday. As I hopped the fence between Empire Grade and the Pogonip trail, I found myself face to face with a spry little fawn. “Hi, sweetheart,” I said. She looked at me curiously, a little hesitant about which way to run. It was as though she knew she should escape, but she really wanted the company. “Come on, show me how it’s done,” I told her. She began to trot and I followed close behind. We went on this way for about a quarter of a mile before she could no longer hold back. She jumped off the trail and began to bound up the hillside, as deer are want to do. “Thanks”, I called, her body appearing smaller and smaller as she eventually blended into the rocks and brush and distance between us. What an honor.

I took a cue from my new little friend and decided to do some bounding of my own. I embarked upon my first interval workout in months. I held off on these deliciously killer runs prior to the half marathon, and I have been ever so slowly adding volume and intensity back to my regimen since the ill-fated race. I have been trying to listen to the cues of my body (and mind, and spirit). I have been patient while fatigue, and a still-erratically-sleeping child, interfere with my “plans”. In fact, when my running alarm sounded at 6:00 Wednesday morning, with Luke asleep in the crook of my arm, and each time I tried to slip out from under him his eyes opened and he told me to “stay”, I surrendered to the munchkin. I snuggled in and we slept until 7:30. If you know me at all, you know that in this circumstance, staying in bed was a sacrifice of monumental proportions. I have been patient, people. Really patient. Saint-like patient. And yesterday, finally, I was ready to go for it. I carefully maneuvered out of bed without disturbing my sleeping kid, and as he snoozed with his dad I cranked out six crazy-fast surges with minimal rest in between. I finally felt like ME. The last few repetitions were tough, so I imagined they represented miles 4, 5, and 6 of the Wharf 2 Wharf. (Sweet Mercy, my obsessing has begun). It was exhilarating. Exhausting. Good God, it was therapeutic.

Luke and I woke up at the same time this morning. I asked him if he wanted to come with me for a run. “No”, he said. “You go. I want to stay here wif’ dad.” I set him up with his eclectic breakfast of bananas, pistachios, teddy bear crackers, juice, apples, half of a cookie he made at school yesterday, and some mangos (his interests are diverse, okay?). I drug his sleepy father out of bed and got him conscious enough to hit “play” on Luke’s video, and off I went.

I expected to feel sluggish after yesterday’s efforts, but to my surprise I felt light as a feather and strong as an ox. I flew up and over the hills of my neighborhood, turned onto the trails for a brief rendezvous with Pogonip, and arrived back at my front door buzzing and sweaty. “This is a day,” I told my husband, “that if I had no responsibilities whatsoever, I would go down to West Cliff and re-run the half marathon course in 1:29:00. I’m feeling it.” Instead, I cleaned up and went to work. But first, I did lunges and stair jumps and step-ups and squat walks and burpees with Luke. That was fun too. We ran cool-down laps in the driveway together, and then we did our yoga. The kid is tireless. And today, for the first time in a long time, I felt tireless too.

We would do well to take our cues from baby deer and baby humans. They do not “try” to exercise. They just feel the urge to run and jump like crazy, and so they do. And when they feel the urge to lie down in the grass, they do that too. When it’s time to refuel and graze, they munch on what they want for as long as they want. And somehow they find the balance in it all. They don’t become overly exhausted and emaciated. They don’t get lazy and obese. They just follow the beautifully designed cues embedded in their souls (the ones that beckon each of us to “run”, “rest”, “eat something yummy”, and so forth), and they experience the utmost satisfaction in life. At what point in our lives did these things get so messed up? So disproportional? Move. Rest. Eat. It seems so simple. Yet these are the issues around which we experience so much confusion. So much dysfunction. So much disease…

My role, I am realizing, is not to teach Luke how to run or rest or eat. Rather it is to protect his already brilliant understanding of these things. And maybe learn a thing or two from him in the process.