I'm back.

I started running again last week. For some reason, I started to feel that old recognizable tug to get out there and run. So I did. It wasn't anything dramatic. Just a couple of miles three different times. I'll probably stick with that for awhile. Get some mileage under my belt, work on getting my running legs back. I don't want to do anything crazy, just spend a little more time outside doing something that is mine. Which running was for a long time. It just won't be my only thing.

I'm considering this a continuation of the whole finding balance thing I've been working on for awhile now. Yoga has been a big part of that, so I will keep lots of room for that.  And I'm still working on streamlining some aspects of my life to free up time and space--mentally, emotionally, and physically, not so I can DO more, but so I can be more--more of the me I want to be.

I just wanted to warn you in case you do see me out and about. Throw up a wave. And don't worry, you won't be seeing endless facebook posts and tweets documenting every run with time and miles logged. Hopefully, you'll just see me being me.

To whom it may concern

The following is a letter I wrote to myself on my fortieth birthday.

Dear, Stephanie.

Congratulations, my friend! And let me just go ahead and say I know those aren't words you expected to hear from yourself. I know you weren't expecting to be happy about this day, but it is here and you are alive. So congratulations! And I know you haven't always considered us friends, but we are. It's you and me, kid. From here on out. I'm your best friend. Get used to it.

You've learned a lot these past forty years. And while it is information that will serve you well in the rest of your years, it is the past. You've made a lot of mistakes and some poor choices, but we aren't going to talk about that. Water under the bridge, my friend. Let it go.

 A teacher asked you repeatedly yesterday, "What do you want?" That's a very good question. And I think this is a great place to start when you stand at the threshold of a new decade. It is time to get specific. And for all of your talk about living with intention, it is time to start walking that out. Let's make this a year of specifics.

I love you. I think you need to hear that more. Say it more. And say it without conditions. You are beautiful. Say that, too. Your worth is in more than what other people think of you. Be yourself. Quiet. Listen. Hear that?  Remember? That's the beat only you can hear. Walk to that one. You'll have more fun.

You are courageous. That is one of the best things about you. You stand up for people. But sometimes you forget to stand up for yourself. Let's start doing that. You speak Truth, Life, and Love into other people all the time. But you withhold those words from yourself. Speak up. That is the root of your own integrity.

Dance and sing more. Read poetry aloud because you know words dance, too. Don't be ashamed of your mind. Or your heart. Laugh more often because it is true what people say, you have the best laugh. You are a healer. People tell you this. Believe it and start speaking healing over yourself daily. Hourly. Minute-by-minute when necessary.

Remember that poem you love? You know, the one by Mary Oliver. Here's your favorite part, the very end: Tell me, what it is you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

My friend, ask yourself this today and everyday from now on. The words from the end of a poem hold the key to your new beginning.

Love,
Me
 

This little light of mine...

Maybe it is the student of literature or the writer in me, but I like themes. When I'm at loss with a piece of writing, my own or someone else's, the first place I go is theme. If I can nail that down, I have a place to begin figuring out everything else. I just ask: What's the point? And so it is with life.

After much prayer and consideration, I have arrived at my theme word for 2013: Shine. I have been hearing and seeing this word everywhere the last few weeks. It has been there in scripture, in music, in conversation, and once, in yoga class.

So there it is. My word for 2013: Shine. It is what I long for most. To shine light in to the dark places. To radiate truth. And love. To walk in this world in a way that illuminates the path for someone else. To radiate joy. To be nothing more than a reflection of the One who made the light.

 

 

Let us begin.

Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin. --Mother Theresa

I love the potential in the first day of a new year. I love the symbolism of a new beginning. It makes it a little easier for me to start anew. I'm thinking today about where I want to be one year from now, but I know a certain truth, I only have today. And while I am a planner and a person who loves to check things off my list, the things I most want to see manifested in my life this year are in many ways intangibles. Too bad losing ten pounds is not at the top of my list. That would just be so much easier. But I know I'm being called to doing the things that are deeper than easy. And as scary or as difficult as that may be, I accept. I'm all in.

And so it begins. Today I will live a life of..

Simplicity
Peace
Courage
Faith
Hope
Love
Joy
Connection
Gratitude
Wholeness
Honesty

This virtuous list will go with me. In my car. On my nightstand. Tucked in my Bible. And I pray that if my path crosses yours in 2013, you will see these things manifested in me. I would consider myself blessed to bring them to you. Happy New Year. Let us begin.
 

Humble beginnings

I ate lunch today with six men all at various points of sobriety. One of these men was just hours into his own sobriety. I don't know what makes a person choose this day, the morning of Christmas Eve to get sober, but I suppose in the life of someone struggling with addiction, it is just as good a time as any.

It isn't an easy thing to see, a man sitting amidst a group of people, all of whom are laughing and eating, telling stories, enjoying each other, and appreciating the mystery of what brings them all together. He sits there unable to eat, edgy, raw. There is no way around that part, only through it. And you don't have to be an addict to know how he feels. You just have to know what it feels like to sit with yourself when you'd rather run. To want to seek any of the things you usually seek to make whatever it is you are feeling or trying to avoid, just go away. To be in that state is to be vulnerable. It is humbling and today, it was humbling to watch. But it is a beginning and what better day to begin than today, on the eve of the greatest humble beginning?

I wish him well, this man. I pray healing and wholeness over him as I do those I love who haven't yet chosen that beginning for themselves. And I give thanks for a table full of people with whom I can find hope. They gave me my own humble beginning today.  And I couldn't be more thankful.

Our Boy

We buried our handsome, pup of a friend, Toby this morning. He died early this morning while I sat beside him whispering love and doing the only thing I knew to do, stroking his head. He went quickly, an answered prayer. He hadn't been sick and his last day was a good one. He liked cool fronts and while I worked, he spent most of the day sitting in the sun, his nose to the wind. I snuck him extra treats after dinner, and then he chewed on his bone and snuggled on the couch with Stan. It was a perfect day as far as Toby was concerned. He didn't need much.

I heard someone say one time that they wanted to be the kind of person their dog thinks they are. That's how I feel about Toby. I always wanted to know what was going on behind those soulful brown eyes when he sat in my lap and held my gaze. He loved us with his entire being. Just being with us was enough for him. Beside us or in our laps was his favorite place because we were his favorite people. He showed us what contentment looked like. And tail wagging joy. He was the embodiment of faithfulness.

I found myself saying twice today "I know he was just dog." I'm not going to say that anymore. He wasn't just a dog. As Stan said this morning, bent over Toby's grave, "He was our boy." He was Our Boy. And we were his people. He showed us so on many occasions. When I was in bed recuperating from surgery and he pulled his own bed into the room and held vigil by my bedside. When I found myself a crumpled mess on the kitchen floor, crying, my hopes for children dashed with a simple phone call, Our Boy was there. He came up alongside me and leaned into my grief. Literally. He was there after Stan's surgeries, and a long recovery from a staph infection. Our Boy was there. Always faithful.

I do want to be the kind of person my dog thought I was. Our Boy thought I was kind. And patient. Steadfast and ever loving. And maybe I am. But if I am, it is because I had fifteen beautiful years to learn from him. The love of a dog made me a better human. But he wasn't just a dog. He was Our Boy. And we will miss him always.

Farewell, Sweet Toby.

 

Help me.

I have spent a lot of time today on the phone with our insurance company and the endocrinologist's office. We are getting ready to start the dreaded low iodine diet the Monday after Thanksgiving in preparation for a scan in December. I'm trying to be optimistic, but seriously, what a way to kick off the holidays.

Stan will spend two weeks on the diet in preparation for the scan. That week will be one of daily trips to the doctor's office and hospital for injections, bloodwork, and finally, the scan. I am trying to look at this as an isolated event as opposed to a continuation of appointments and hospital visits we have experienced for over a year now. Our goal is for this scan to be clear. For this to be the end of the thyroid disease/cancer trail for us.

I think back to last Thanksgiving and Christmas and can't help but be amazed by how relatively normal our life feels as opposed to last year. I've decided no one should have to go through Christmas waiting for a biopsy. But sometimes it happens. You survive, and then you find yourself headed into the holidays once again waiting for something else. This time, results that give you permission to stop waiting. You discover you have been holding your breath, waiting for this marker that will tell you you can stop worrying. Even when you didn't know you were. Waiting takes a lot of effort. Especially when you are trying to pretend you aren't doing it.

This morning as I spent time in prayer, my prayer was this: Help me let it go. Help me let go of the waiting and worry. Any of the fear that is left. The what-ifs. Just help me let go. Just help me. Help me. Help.