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.

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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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.

Just Dance

Yesterday, I really felt like dancing. So I did. In my home office, in my kitchen, with my younger daughter, with my embarrassed older daughter staring at me, while I was making dinner, even when the kids told me to turn it down. Dang, it felt good.

Today, I’m back in the office cube farm. I have a standing station and it’s very conducive to dancing because, well, I’m standing. I occasionally look over my shoulder to see if anyone is approaching – after all, I can’t hear them because I have my ear buds on. But I’m still dancing. It’s been so long.

In college I used to dance almost every weekend with a few friends. We would forego the drunk, smelly, frat house beer parties and head to the clubs instead to literally dance the night away. I also worked at a dance studio so I could take classes for free. Such a great outlet for many things.

Then years later I married my soul mate. And he’s just not the dancing kind. *sigh* But it’s okay. I took belly dancing and salsa classes, and occasionally I get to dance with him at weddings.

As I got older, I also started to become more self conscious. Do I look like a foolish old lady dancing? Man, do I look like that? Can I still dance? Then I started moving less and less. My music choices also ventured away from the dance/club/hip hop genre, and more to what my husband and friends listen to. Toe tapping, body swaying yes, booty shaking, no.

Then I stopped dancing. Silly me.

Last week, I desperately needed to refresh my running playlist – I needed new material to pump me up for an upcoming 10 mile race, plus I want a cruisin’ companion when I train for a half marathon coming up next month. Then my friend John lent me his iPod, and that’s when it started again. This dancing thing. The kind that makes you close your eyes and just be free. I gave iTunes some of my paycheck to load up my new playlist, and I haven’t stopped wanting to move.

So when I run this weekend in one of the most scenic races ever, I may do more than run. Because all I want to do now, is dance.