April 9, 2008
A great thing happened this evening. I got to go for my first run in several weeks. Somehow life had managed to just totally get in the way of the one thing that helps me work out the kinks—physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. It was a short run, but long on reflection. The first mile was nothing more than a reflection on my neglect of my body and an effort to find my legs and my rhythm. And then somewhere along the way I began to notice how beautiful and new and green the world around me has become while I have been bubbled in my own little of microcosm of work, Stan’s illness, and life in general. And then in the surround sound of my ear buds, one of my favorite songs came on and I was able to sing along, okay, huff and puff along. And I was able to remember that my God of wonders beyond this galaxy is holy. He IS holy. And He loves me. And lately He has let me feel that love in great ways. And I love Him for that. Because I haven’t been feeling real lovable. I have been feeling rather inadequate. And imperfect. And full of worry and doubt. And I then I got a little teary. And it is hard to run and cry a little, and sing, and smile all at the same time. So I huffed and puffed, plodded, sang every other word or so, and just said "Thank you." And I have a lot to be thankful for. I thought about standing in the greenroom before we took the stage at contest. Standing in a circle of students after two nights of very little sleep, with a heart heavy with guilt and worry over not being with my husband when he was ill, and not being as prepared as an OCD person like me prefers to be, and praying that my students would be okay. I was given peacefulness in a moment of knowing that they would be fine. And they didn’t need me, but God let me need them. And that was beautiful. We didn’t win District, but we won in that room. We experienced Grace. And that is golden. And as I picked up my pace a bit in the last mile—my own little triumphant version of running negative splits--I thought about my body and how thankful I am for it. And I forgave it for being a little soft around the edges today simply because it is healthy. And my dear, sweet, friend of a husband is getting better. And I took a great big diaphragm expanding breath and breathed deeply for both of us. And my exhale was a prayer. Simply and gratefully: Thank you.
July 9, 2008
"Once upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person…Give her credit: most people her age would say it was too late to make any changes. What's done is done, they would say. No use trying to alter things at this late date." So begins the latest book I'm reading: Back When We Were Grownups.
Staying true to the spirit of most of my blogs, what I feel compelled to put on paper—or send out into the great cyberspace—is spurred by the words of someone else. In this case, Anne Tyler, who as a writer, knows her stuff, and as a chronicler of the human experience, shines a bright light on the truth of our greatest fears and hopes for ourselves.
This, after all, is one of my greatest fears. Turning into the wrong person. Or being a dimmer, blurrier, or water-downed version of the person I was intended to be. This is my truth. And it is this truth that compels me to try new things, and often difficult or scary things. Like Salsa dancing. This, though in itself, may not have been scary, did in fact prove to be a bit difficult. But for the most part, just embarrassing. Well, and a little nauseating when we graduated to the intermediate class and started lots of spinning sequences. And now that I think about it, more than a little nauseating when the complex spinning sequences were coupled with the leering, sweaty guy no other female wanted to partner with even though we all had to at some point. There was no self-esteem wounding popularity pecking order at Dance Passion. And to think I was the girl who was afraid she'd be left standing in the corner, reminiscent of the hideous junior high dances at the country club. My truth.
I thought about this truth when I got off the phone with my friend Leslie today. I could literally hear in her voice the anxiety she felt when we started talking about one of those new and scary things: The San Antonio Rock-n-Roll half-marathon. And before you scoff at the fact that we are ONLY doing half of a marathon, consider the fact that this means half of 26.2 miles and then laugh. I found myself encouraging her. Using phrases like "respect the distance" and "trust your training." And then I could feel myself begin to fall victim to my own anxiety. I began to lose trust in my own training. And I remembered Houston two years ago. Crying at mile ten. Had I brought toys, I would have wanted to take them and go home. But I couldn't quit, even though my body was yelling "Sucker, who do you think you are?" Secretly, I think I brought my friend Jaysin along simply to insure I wouldn't quit. And then more memories began to flood in and melt my confidence…my pathetic crumpled self vomiting repeatedly in the port-a-potty and then again, this time into a discarded, crumpled What-a-Burger bag in the car. Ah, the games we play with ourselves. And while I cleverly masked my fading confidence during our conversation, it hit full force when I hung up the phone. My truth.
And then much like Cher's Oscar winning slap upside the head of her suitor in Moonstruck, I had to figuratively slap myself to "Snap outta it." And I reminded myself that a little fear and anxiety is a good thing if it makes us work harder. And maybe it is a fear of failing, or looking stupid in front of other people. Those are very real fears for me. But I like to think that I crave these moments, moments that make me sweat, inside and out, simply because I'm afraid of turning into the wrong person. And the person I intend to be doesn't choose to do things simply because they are the easiest. She does them BECAUSE they are difficult. And she may fail. And there is a very good chance she will look stupid in front of other people. There may be a leering, sweaty guy involved. Or a port-a-potty. And that is a truth she can live with. That is my truth.
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