Party!

Start line party

The aches and pains left my body after four days, the “I did my first marathon” high still comes and goes, and I have not taken down the Marine Corps Marathon course map at my office desk. My racing journey this year was not especially pretty, as much as it was insightful. But at the start line on race day, I was at a ruckus party with 30,000 other people. 26.2 miles? Puh-leez. We all knew how many miles it REALLY took to get to the start line.

I didn’t know if I would get here, but I’m on the other side now, I did it. I persevered through hours of physical stress to achieve this huge endurance goal, and I AM mentally strong enough to lace up my shoes and do it over and over again. Alone. That start line party was my graduation.

Do over please

Did I say it wasn’t pretty? There was pain and cramping during the second part of the race and lots of excuses after. I didn’t focus on strength training, broke my foot 6 months before the race, my training time was short, blah blah blah. But wouldn’t you know it I want to run another marathon—in addition to other 2014 racing goals. But I’m hoping this next journey will be different than the one I started out with this year.

Reminders

 In the moment

My 2013 racing journey can be summed up in the two weeks before and after the marathon. My emotional state was that of a caffeine addict deprived of her morning coffee. Every day, for two weeks. At a yoga class during savasana a few days before the race, with tears streaming down my face I apologized to my many hurting body parts. Touching my thighs, hips, and legs, and feet, I asked them to hang tough with me for a few more days. Assuming the same pose on my yoga mat a week after the marathon, I tearfully thanked them for being strong and carrying me—literally—on this journey. Then as the endorphins and chemicals balanced out in my body over the next few weeks, Sarah Lynn aka my favorite yoga instructor, repeated a mantra of hers during class—to be accepting of where we are, what we’re doing, how we’re doing it, in the moment we’re in. I finally heard her.

When my body protested with exhaustion during the months of training, and I’d take a 7:30 nap before falling asleep at 9:00, I often asked myself (and the husband) why I often feel compelled to choose the hard road. No answer ever satisfied me. At the end of a rather tumultuous racing year which included letting my body heal, I had these fleeting moments of realizing that it’s okay not to know why, or what my journey is for. Only that I choose to go on it. I have to grab those fleeting moments. Tricky stuff.

 Ohm

So yes, I will be setting goals, and working hard to achieve them. My 2014 journey is to be in the many moments I will find myself in, and be accepting of all the outcomes.  At least that’s the plan.

• Half Ironman.
• Marathon #2.
• Be kind to myself (see first two goals above)
• Show meaning of true friendship to teen daughter.
• Lift the clouds away from anxious daughter.
• Run away with husband more often.

And may the racing goddesses be gentler to me next year.

Overflow.

I’ve deliberately avoided putting my fingers to the keyboard for months. Any and all threateningly powerful emotions have been very neatly put away in a box. I’m experiencing an overflow. And they are all demanding attention. Kabanga. Newtown. Boston.

Boston. Running has taken me on a journey I never knew I could or would want to take. Running allows me to be free from whatever I choose. I meditate when I run. Running taught me about pain and the meaning of being strong. Racing is when I get to be with thousands who share my joy and my pain. It’s a time to celebrate our collective journey. It is a time to contemplate and enjoy where we are, how we got there, and hopefully where we will be going next. I can’t imagine running this weekend’s race or any other race without thinking about Boston. I can’t imagine what my journey will be like this year when I run in my first marathon in October. I’ve lost something—like dropping a glove in the throng of runners at the start line. I can’t retrieve it.

Newtown. When children are killed, they become my own. And those other children who witnessed the massacre? They were mine too. For a long time I was a grieving parent mourning the loss of my child. I was a parent shielding my child from the scarring images that forever will burn in her head. Saleha said to me the night of Newtown, “Mama, please don’t imagine you were a parent of one of those kids.” I told her I couldn’t help it. She said she couldn’t help it either.

Kabanga. When I arrived, it was so different, yet so… familiar. It took me a few days to realize that I felt like I was home. The landscape, the small kampung-like houses, and the people’s wonderful hospitality and generosity. But every day at the school I was with children with bleak futures. We all did as much as we could, realizing that each evening when we left the children to go back to our safe and clean house, many would sleep in rooms filled with stench from an overflowing sewer. And wake up to armed guards, not hugs from moms and dads… But each day, we did give hugs and love. As much as we could. But. How dare we complained about a missing toilet seat in our bathroom. How dare we complained about that smell that permeated everything we wore. How dare we complained about not having anything to do. How dare we complained about ANYTHING.

Sometimes, there just aren’t answers to the sadness. Okay. Back in the box. For now.

Sister Power

Last night during dinner, Saleha gave Lily some advice on what to do when some girls in school make her feel bad about herself.  Girls who make her think she’s not good enough, not pretty enough, not thin enough.

Start with the little things. Remind yourself of the things that make you feel confident and good about yourself. Then sit up straighter, and walk tall.

Sometimes these words mean the world when they come from a big sister. Times like this I am reminded why I was so happy when I found out I was going to have two girls. And why I always wanted a sister. This is girl power. This is why women need each other when we are adults and why girls should be taught young to prop each other up, not put each other down.

Saleha also shared something else she learned in middle school.

Try this. Think of something about yourself, write it down on a piece of paper. On the other side, write “it’s okay.”

It was hard for Lily. She wrote things like “I’m fat, I’m not pretty…”

But that’s all not true Lily. My friends think you are pretty.

Compliment from big sister! Big eyes, jaw drop, huge smile. Wow.

At bed time, Lily tried again after I turned off the lights.

I’m really scared of roller coasters. And it’s okay. I’m not as pretty as some girls. And it’s okay.

I’m terrified of roller coasters too my love. And it’s okay.

Saleha did have one more piece of advice at dinner.

Tell those girls you can run faster, you are strong, and you can do more pushups than any of them.

That’s right sista. When in doubt, show them how you can kick ass.

A phone call

It was too long to txt.

That’s what my daughter Saleha said after she got a phone call from her friend Evelyn as we walked in the door from a school concert. Evelyn called to tell Saleha that her grandmother died. Some things, I guess, are just too long, or too complicated to txt. Or maybe the 😦 emoticon wasn’t enough. Or maybe Evelyn needed to hear a voice—Saleha’s voice. I will never know. But what I do know is she called. And Evelyn gave me hope.

 I’m sorry Evelyn

It will be okay

I’m so sorry your grandmother died Evelyn

I knew of Sharon’s death earlier that morning from Evelyn’s parents, good friends of ours. So I knew what Evelyn’s call was about. I listened to the conversation, saw the look on Saleha’s face, encouraged her to go on, gave her the thumbs up with each time she offered Evelyn comfort.  

I didn’t know what to say

But she did. For the first time ever, Saleha had to console a grieving friend. Grandma Sharon lived with Eveyln’s family for more than a year while receiving cancer treatments. The whole family entered that world of living with illness and possible death—a place we’re all familiar with, but often not from first-hand experience.

Saleha’s cell phone rarely leaves her side. At 7pm each night she has to put it away–along with any other electronics. No emails, no more Google chats, etc. That’s the rule. I’ve been trying to show Saleha that it’s important to know how to communicate by talking, and not just from that safe txt-ing place.

Well, last night, Evelyn showed Saleha that sometimes friends need to hear a voice. And I hope Saleha learned that sometimes, friends just need to know she’s there to listen. So many lessons with one short phone call.

Sharon, I will listen to Elton John all day today…

Yoga on my mind

Last week, I almost wept in my yoga class. Nothing hurt. No twisting, bindings or inversions (I’m terrified of inversions). No pulled muscles or ligaments. No injuries.

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.

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I’m hesitating as I write this, because I’m still grappling with why I fought back tears during the closing sun salutations.

I am relatively new to yoga. An injury last year was the final push I needed after years of saying, “when will I find the time?” Yoga is now a critical part of my running/triathlon training regime. It is a conduit to achieve more flexibility, balance and strength. Until about 3 months ago, yoga was simply a way to take care of my body, to ensure racing longevity. And in the 9 months I’ve been practicing yoga weekly, my body is thanking me. And now, it seems my mind wants some of the action too.

A few weeks ago, I found myself reverting to Shavasana at night when I can’t sleep. I also started to set my intentions before each run or swim just as I do before a yoga class. Then last week I found myself weeping in my husband’s arms when I got home from my yoga class.

Sarah Lynn, my yoga instructor and owner of Journey Yoga, is a very lively and active instructor – often playing music I would love for my running playlist. She’s passionate and energetic. If you’re looking for a quiet and gentle yoga class, Sarah Lynn is not the instructor for you. Last week, however, it was a quiet class. There was no music. No loud chatter, just thoughtful instruction. We were asked to simply engage or activate various muscles during the practice that would in turn elicit a reaction from other muscles in the body. Shoulders, back, legs, hands, arms, you name it.

During class, Sarah Lynn helped us with visualizations and regular reminders to breathe. And reminders that it’s okay to underachieve. That it’s okay not to work our muscles as hard as we possibly can. About half way through the class, my movements became more fluid, my poses were more balanced and strong, and my stretches were deeper than usual. Sweat was streaming out of every pore in my body. As we went through the last few sets of sun salutations, a tsunami of emotions moved up my feet and through my whole body. I wanted to sob. I almost did.

Why? I don’t really know. It took me by surprise. This practice was easy, yet so hard. The hard parts (consciously using all my muscles) made the balancing and poses seem easy, fluid and strong. On the drive home, so many images and emotions flashed through my mind — like fast-forwarding a movie. What continues to stand out in my mind is the journey to achieve my goal with running, racing, triathlon-ing… and all the training that exhausts me, frustrates me yet thrills me. But I don’t know what my actual goal is, or where my journey is taking me. Is it really okay to underachieve? Or not work as hard as I possibly can?

Oh this is cheesy as heck, I know. But I can’t shake how I felt that night. And I still don’t really know what it meant. Or why I think it’s supposed to mean something. Or anything for that matter.

But whatever it was, I think I may have started another journey.

Thank you Sarah Lynn.