Running at Night

Three shapes loom in the darkness, directly in my path.

My eyes strain into the shadows, my breathing ragged.

Turning off my music, my heartbeat floods my ears, quickening beyond recognition.

They’re only trees.

The undeniable glow of a cigarette gleams in the darkness.

One of the figures lurches forward, then back, forward again.

My feet are committed to my route.

I find energy for one last sprint, pounding past the lurching body as it reaches out.

My gasp is audible.

Mocking laughter follows me as I finally slow, escaping the clutches of a smiling fall scarecrow.

why run when you can ride a horse?

the prompt:

This week I want you to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like.

You have 100 words, use them wisely.

The Constant in the Chaos

My fingers race over the keyboard, thoughts tumbling onto the screen.

Pausing, I read what I’ve written.

Sigh.  Select the text.  Delete.

More slowly, I begin again, attempting to form the sentences in my head before typing.

I read what I’ve written.

Sigh.  Select the text.  Delete.

Pushing back my laptop, I read the jotted prompt in my little notebook:

“The top area of your life where you would like to apply the Just.Be.Enough. mission of standing taller.”

My cursor blinks at me, the screen blank, glimpses of ideas scurrying around my mind, ducking behind columns as I try to grab them, pile them together, decide which part of my life most needs this important mantra: Just.Be.Enough.

I idly flip the pages in my planner, take a drink of water, reach for the book on the corner of my desk, ready to distract myself with another one of the endless tasks on my to-do list.

My nails are unpainted.  I need to empty the dishwasher.  There are new songs I want to add to my running playlist.

Each thought is a bouncing ball, a tiny sphere of pink rubber ricocheting back and forth in my mind, bumping against other thoughts, rebounding off each other, crowding the space and making it impossible to follow any one thought to its final destination.

Again, my eyes go to the prompt:

“The top area of your life where you would like to apply the Just.Be.Enough. mission…”

I jot notes.  Running.  Writing.  Self-Image.  Parenting.

Running has been a struggle lately; after the half marathon I need to rediscover what it means to run without a clock, without mileage expectations, without a goal other than the joy I find in running.

I’m writing and editing and collaborating on amazing projects, but I am unsure what all of those things mean in relation to my own professional path, unsure if it can even be considered a professional path.

Preschool has reawakened my worries about moving, where I want the kids to go to school, when we’ll be able to consider a move at all.

Dylan resisted going to bed tonight, and as he buried himself into my chest, I breathed him in and vowed to spend more time enjoying each little phase of their development instead of worrying about timelines and schedules.

“The top area of your life…”

I study the words I’ve doodled.  Which area is top?  How do I determine where I need to most accept my limitations and embrace my strengths, when I’m so unsure about so many of my end goals?

Deliberately, I reach for the computer.

I have not had a moment of clarity.

I can’t declare that I am enough as a runner, a writer, a mother, a wife.

I am uncertain about where any of these paths will lead.

Without a goal, a destination, I cannot state with certainty that I am enough.

There is only one certainty.

Today, in a parking lot, I held Abbey’s hand, her other hand holding Dylan’s small fingers.  Ryan completed our small chain, holding Dylan’s other hand firmly in his.  Our eyes met briefly, over the heads of our children, a smile holding the four of us together.

I am unsure where my path will lead, but I know who is walking at my side.

And that is enough.

Every MONDAY join us… 
Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice. 
Be part of carrying the weight of confidence, empowerment and share our mission
to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

Mind Games

In five weeks, I will be limping around a little, my legs burning with that familiar discomfort signaling that I pushed them a little further than they wanted to take me.

In five weeks, I will eat my favorite, calorie-laden Mexican dinner, trying my hardest to save room for ice cream, without guilt.

In five weeks, I will have crossed the finish line of my fourth half-marathon.

My legs have carried my body thirteen point one miles three other times, and each race has been uniquely challenging.

My mantra for each race has been “trust your training,” knowing that I had put in the training mileage, readied my body, no matter how painful it may have seemed during some of my runs.

Twinges in my left knee annoyed me while training for my first, later becoming painful enough to rely on a knee brace.

“Trust your training.”

I had to slow to a walk a few times, stretching my painful knee on the side of road and using the encouraging words of other runners to keep running, but my training carried me over the finish line.

My second was nine months after having Dylan.  Training runs meant rushing from the house after nursing, rushing back home, training myself to mother two children while coaxing my body back from pregnancy.

“Trust your training.”

I remembered that the underground tunnel connecting Windsor and Detroit would require a particularly motivating tune, so Kid Rock welcomed me back to Detroit with “Bawitaba”.  My training powered me through the last hill, somehow keeping the foot cramps from stopping the familiar left, right, left of my legs.

This winter drove me onto the treadmill, out of the cold and snow that freeze my motivation.

“Trust your training.”

I ran my best time of the three races.

Leaving that race, optimistic new goals bubbled into my consciousness.  My secret mental chalkboard blazed a new number.  I added a little speed work to my training plan.

Then I faltered.

Writing projects and active children compete with running on my priority list.

I missed some speed work, which doesn’t worry me.  I missed some long runs, which does.  My ambitious goal time is fading, slipping from my grasp.

There is still time to train, a few more long runs to spark my legs into remembering what I expect them to do when I lace up my shoes that morning to watch the sun rise over the Ambassador Bridge, concentrating on my pounding feet so that I don’t look down the impossible distance to the water.

I have vocally declared running a mental sport, explaining how my stubbornness helps me overcome my lack of natural ease in running.  Yet, trusting in my training means depending on my physical preparation.

“Trust your training” loses its power when I've fumbled in my training.

This time, I have a new mantra.

“Trust yourself.”

This is our very last week to make an impact for Be Enough Me 4 Cancer. Last week we had 45 people link up an enough-themed post in our Be Enough Me for Cancer campaign and I’d love it if you’d help us boost that number again. For every 20 linked up posts, Bellflower Books will provide a memory book to a woman fighting breast cancer through Crickett’s Answer for Cancer, and help bring a smile to courageous women giving it their all, every single day. The link-up remains open for three days. No blog? No worries. You can also comment on the post or on the Just.Be.Enough. Facebook page with your own story and be counted.


Even with the Be Enough Me 4 Cancer campaign drawing to a close, please continue to share your Be Enough Me stories on Mondays at Just Be Enough!  We will still be linking up every Monday and would still love to hear how YOU lived the Be Enough Me feeling each week.  Be part of carrying the weight of confidence, empowerment and share our mission to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

I'll Admit It, Tears Fell

I'd like to introduce you to some new bling that will be gracing my sidebar...

Did it just get blurry?  I guess that was just me and those pesky tears of happiness again.

I've written about having a hard time accepting compliments about my writing, about shrugging off words of encouragment and comparing myself to other writers.

I've written about my goals of breaking into the freelance market, of calling myself published, of taking the quotation marks away from "writer".

So when I read an e-mail saying BlogHer wanted to syndicate Slow Down, I cried a little.  I have read that e-mail more times than I should admit.

I am so very honored to be part of the amazing group of women whose words have graced the pages of BlogHer.

If you could, I would be forever grateful if you could skip on over and drop me a sparkle or a comment.

If you're new here, visiting from BlogHer, please grab a cup of coffee and stay for a bit.  You might enjoy reading what my three year old has taught me, what I think about my flip-flops, and why it's ok (sometimes) that my kids are sporadic sleepers.

Slow and Steamy

We kiss the kids good-bye and open the door to leave for our 10K, the weather greeting us as forecasted.

Steamy.

I don’t need to worry about being at the front of the pack when the race starts; when I call it a race, I mean it’s me against my own goals, my own previous times, my own expectations.

Earbuds tucked into my ears, stopwatch on my wrist, I begin my methodical trot. 

Slightly overcast, the sunless sky is oppressive, a veil holding the heat over my head, sweat seeping into my hot pink headband. 

I smile at a dad jogging alongside his young daughters, the younger one grasping his hand and keeping pace with her older sister.  Later, I will spot him again, their pace slowing as he carries her piggyback along the course.

My heart swells with the sweetness of the act, enforcing the childhood belief in a daddy as superman, but my head says a quick thanks that I am only carrying my own weight today.

I don’t see a mile marker until the second mile, where I check my pace with a shrug and a sigh; I’m moving a little slower than planned.

And the sun is coming out.

A little voice flickers into my consciousness, reminding me that losing a few pounds would make a difference in my running.  Feet pounding, I leave that voice behind.

Gulping water at the hydration station, I move on, sunscreen and sweat mingling into my eyes with a sting.  I’m making my way back to the riverfront, letting the ever so slight breeze graze over the shimmer of heat covering my body.

A hill looms.

I concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other.  Gwen Stefani and her enviable abdomen coax me forward.  My heart thuds.  My lungs burn. 

Glancing down, I register that my pace is still lagging behind the number on the chalkboard in my mind.

I barely notice the hill falling behind me, conquered.  I take as deep a breath as my battered lungs will allow and purposefully slow down.

I can still finish in under an hour.  I shift my thinking, mid-race, and my body suddenly feels lighter.  My legs swing to the beat, relaxed instead of fighting the heat.

A smile pushes aside the grimace of effort.

Oversized stone tigers welcome us to the ballpark, and rhythmically run around the block, letting the descent of the tunnel onto the baseball field move my legs for me.  A vast field of green welcomes me, though we are carefully shuttled onto the dirt path of the first base line.

Later, I will let myself wonder if I should have pushed myself.

Later, I will let myself set goals for my next run.

But for now, I am tiredly content.  Peeling off sweaty layers of clothes, gulping water, cheering on the other finishers, I am comfortable in my sweaty skin.

while we ran, they played at the Nature Center with Grandma & Grandpa

speaking of Grandma...

Happy Birthday Mom!

xoxo

What have you done lately that brought you joy?  Made you smile?  Allowed you to feel that you ARE absolutely and positively enough?

Please join us at Just Be Enough, as Bellflower Books and Cricket's Answer for Cancer work together to bring a little bit of beauty into the life of cancer patients.  For every 20 stories shared on Just Be Enough, Bellflower Books will donate a gift certificate for one of their memory books to a cancer patient, through Cricket's Answer for Cancer.

This Morning's Playlist

It's darker out at 5:45 a.m. than I remember.  When did I officially become a night runner? (That should NOT be confused with Knight Rider, though I would love a car that could drive me places while I took a nap.)  Thankfully I didn't have a night like Carrie Underwood in Last Name.

Yes car, I see you and hear you honking, even with Pump It (Black Eyed Peas) in the background.  If three cars can fit on this street, I'm pretty sure there's room for you and me, especially since I am now running on the grass next to the actual road.

Not Afraid (Eminem) might have to become an opening song if it's going to stay on my iPod.  I love Eminem, and he pumps me up mentally, but my legs just aren't feeling it.  Running in the morning without eating is a whole different animal than running after a full day's worth of fueling and pent-up frustrations.

Why hello there legs!  Footloose (Kenny Loggins) does it every time.

Having Like a G6 (Far East Movement) play immediately after Footloose either shows that I'm not quite as old as I feel some days or that I am exactly that old and need to stop watching Gossip Girl.

Unlike the last two songs, Gold Digger (Kanye West, featuring Jaime Foxx) slows me down, which isn't a good thing when facing that annoying hill three-quarters into my run.

Thank goodness I'm Shipping Up to Boston (Dropkick Murphys) -  is short.  I'm getting tired.

When I mentally tell myself I have one more song to get home, is it cheating when that song is a behemouth like The Rockafeller Skank (Fatboy Slim)?  Thankfully, it only took about a quarter of the song to make it back to my house or it would have been the slowest three blocks ever recorded.

I had a planned post in my head, and this wasn't it.  But last night, Ryan and I celebrated my birthday by lazing on the couch and watching Valentine's Day instead of studying (him) or writing (me).  There's nothing like a movie with Jennifer Garner, Jessica Biel, Anne Hathaway, and Jessica Alba to motivate me to get out of bed to run.  (No offense intended to Shirley MacLaine).

he was sleeping when I got home 

she was not

(though she did go back to sleep for about fifteen minutes)

Operation Organization - Playroom Edition

There's an old saying: When the cat's away, the mice will play. 

Obviously, the mice never tried to cram a toy store's worth of goodies into a three bedroom house, because while our little kittens were with Grandma and Grandpa, there wasn't a lot of playing going on at home. 

The plan was to move a lot of their toys down to the basement, including two thirds of the heavy hitting trifecta (dollhouse, train table, kitchen), along with our dining room rug.  

And, oh, we had a little run in the morning, a 10K as part of our half marathon training. 

Easy peasy, right? 

So, run, move some toys, a leisurely dinner, maybe the midnight movie.  I had it all mapped out in my trusty planner.  What could go wrong? 

For starters, the 87% humidity during the run wiped us out, and I ended up laying down “for a few minutes” and not waking up for an hour. 

The dining room rug looked even more stained under the bright lights of the basement, so we hatched another plan, one involving moving the living room rug, a trip to IKEA, Elmer’s glue and copious amounts of glitter.  (Kidding about the glue and the glitter, but Abbey would have been thrilled to come home to a glittered house!) 

Sorting and tossing and categorizing and moving toys between the kids’ rooms and the basement meant countless trips up and down stairs, taking a few hours instead of “about an hour”. 

Late afternoon slid into evening, and we hurried through showers, driving past the movie theater in a rush, our chances of relaxing in the theater vanishing with each tick of the clock. 

We slid out of IKEA with ten minutes to spare, our leisurely dinner consisting of some casual fish tacos, sharing raised eyebrows and dissolving into laughter as our waiter bounced around the restaurant. 

After the drive home, we had neither the time nor energy to take advantage of our child-free night outside of the house. 

But by the time I brought the kids home the next day, their new little playroom was organized. 

Abbey did her silly little dance of joy. 

Dylan grinned and hugged us and wandered around happily. 

Maybe we’ll find time to play a little next time, but for now, I’m content to reclaim our living room from the multiplying-toy monster. 

What would you do with a child-free Saturday?

road map playmat from IKEA 

playing pom poms next to her dress-up stuff

hooks for dress up clothes from IKEA

toy box from IKEA

big rug from IKEA, via our living room

fabric bins from Target (courtesy of my mom!) 

he loves his trains

Hear Greta Run - Revisited

Back in April, I wrote out this playlist, with explanations, for Greta.  It was originally done as a character study, but I had always wished I would have written it as a narrative piece.  Her story has its own tab at the top, but hopefully this stands alone if you haven't read any of her pieces yet.

With this week's Red Writing Hood prompt asking us to rewrite an old piece, I decided to pull this up and see what I could manage with the 400 word limit.  I cut out a couple of songs, but I think the spirit of the list remains intact.  The referenced songs are underlined and listed at the end of the post, since I don't identify all of them by their artists and/or actual song names.

She started with a jog barely faster than a walk.  Counting weeks on her fingers, Greta grimaced.  What did REM know about losing faith? 

Clicking the small square clipped to her shorts, she landed on Bleeding Love.  Her feet automatically fell into the lyrical rhythm, and she felt her mind probe at the idea of her divorce.  Letting the music seep through her defenses hurt, but she forced herself to Breathe as her muscles warmed, beads of sweat glistening at her temples.

Finished with her warm up jog, Greta sped up her legs to keep tempo with Destiny’s Child.  Listening to Survivor, she enjoyed the wind against her face, drying any tears that may have threatened to fall.  Concentrating on the newfound strength in her legs, she didn’t notice the well-muscled runner pass, slowing his pace to glance back at her, appreciating the determination in her stride.

White Wedding might have been skipped a month ago, but now she smiled, picturing Billy Idol’s eyeliner instead of James’ impeccably pressed tuxedo or the expensive dress languishing somewhere in the depths of her mother’s attic, never welcome in the sunlight again. 

Still learning her limits, Greta let her legs get swept away into the 80s electric keyboards.  Her feet pounded the sidewalk: left, left, left right left.

Sweat slid down her forehead now, trailing burning sunscreen into her eyes.  Irritated, her rhythm faltered as she pulled at the bottom of her tank top to swipe at the offending mix of sweat, sunscreen, and yesterday’s mascara.  Slicking back her bangs with both hands, she shrugged a little. 

This look?  Not so sexy, but living alone meant no one would see it.  Maybe tonight, before meeting the girls, she’d have a half glass of wine and talk herself into wearing the new jeans.  Maybe tonight she’d even wear them without a trendy tunic top swallowing her increasingly fit frame.

Her eyes closed for a moment, already hearing the bass calling them to the dance floor, the five of them dancing with abandon, the way they had before rings and promotions and diapers had crowded their calendars into a jumbled mess of happy obligations that meant a girls’ night was an occasion and not another Saturday night.

The music propelled her forward, gasping for breath; her legs heavy but sure as she ran too quickly back to her apartment.  Greta was not afraid of pushing herself.  Not anymore.

Greta's Playlist 

Losing My Religion (REM)

Bleeding Love (Leona Lewis)

Breathe (2 AM) (Anna Nalick)

Survivor (Destiny's Child)

White Wedding (Billy Idol)

SexyBack (Justin Timberlake)

Just Dance (Lady Gaga)

Not Afraid (Eminem)

Slow Down

Mascara dampens my eyelids the minute I open the front door to leave the comfort of our air-conditioned house.  Humidity immediately presses my lungs a few inches smaller, Ryan’s words “take it easy” ring in my ears before I insert my earbuds and quiet the world around me with music.

Starting slowly isn’t a problem.  A little sore from the previous day’s long run, my muscles need a few minutes to find ground.  Balmy air blankets my body; I felt my legs picking up pace, the heat working out aches and worries at the same time.  The fast stride is freeing, but I force myself to slow down.

Left.  Pause.  Right.

Right.  Pause.  Left.

Thick, hazy air lulls my legs into submission, slowly moving along to the cadence I had planned.

Left.  Pause.  Right.

Right.  Pause.  Left.

Propelled by muscle memory, my body pushes through the familiar route without thought, allowing my mind to wander.  My growing to-do list plays on an endless loop in the background.

Dinner for the week – turkey burgers, tacos, homemade pizza.

I should make bread tomorrow.

Bangs or no bangs?

Need bananas.

Milk.

Right.  Left.  Right.  Left.

You and me could write a bad romance.

Left.  Right.  Left.  Right.

Lady Gaga invades my subconscious.  My controlled pace quickens with the beat.  Sweat burns my eyes.  Slow down.

Working against the music, I concentrate on matching the slapping of my feet against the pavement to my mental count. 

One and two.  Three and four.

Slowing down should be simple, especially with sweat coursing down my back and the muggy air tangling my ponytail into a damp nest against my neck.

It’s not.

I can’t imagine that Lady Gaga slows down when the lights on stage get too hot.

Focus.

Slow down.

Five and six.  Seven and eight.

Go Brooklyn, go Brooklyn…

LL Cool J pulls my legs into a slower, smoother run, offering relief from the pounding beats that normally pulse out of the metallic pink square that logs all of my miles with me, clipped to my shirt or shorts.

Relaxed, my arms swing back and forth.  Dusk threatens to slide into darkness.  I fleetingly wonder how fireflies know to glow as the night fades.  Maybe they blink on and off in the daylight, but they’re eclipsed by the sun?  An easy fact to find, but I intentionally let the question dissipate into the air behind me.  Some magic shouldn’t be explained by science.

Back and forth.  Back and forth.

One and two.  Three and four.  Five and six.  Seven and –

The hill.

The one that always hurts.

Up and down.  My legs are pistons, tired yet strong.  Up and down.  My breath catches.  Up and down.

The ground levels out, and I gasp a little before regaining my breath and my stride.

Left.  Pause.  Right. 

Right.  Pause.  Left. 

I want somebody to speed it up for me, then take it down slow.  There’s enough room for both.

Right and left.

Left and right.

Madonna might be onto something.  An almost imperceptible breeze grazes my cheek.

Right.  Left.  Right.  Left.

Home.

the prompt

Write about a time that rhythm, or a lack thereof, played a role in your life. And don’t use the word “rhythm.”

thanks to Lady Gaga (Bad Romance) LL Cool J (Doin' It) & Madonna/Justin Timberlake (4 Minutes) for getting me through a steamy run

Random Thoughts from a Run

A friend of mine is an ultra-runner.  He just finished his second 100-mile race, in which he ran for 21 hours straight, through snow and two states.  I am in awe, serious awe.

He doesn't run with music, and one time he told me that when he runs, his mind just kind of goes blank.  I imagine it's kind of a Zen state, maybe a lot like yoga.

I wouldn't know.  My mind?  It doesn't get to Zen very often.  Instead, I get randomness of epic proporitions.

If a one way street is wide enough for three cars, it is definitely wide enough to accomodate a runner and a car, even if said runner needs to drop a few pounds.  There's no need to give me a dirty look and swerve at me so I have to jump onto the median.

Riding bikes with my friends was so fun when I was younger; look how cute they are!

Wow, there's ANOTHER empty pint of Mohawk vodka.  Ew.

Why do I do this again?

It seems wrong to listen to Big Pimpin' while running past a church.

Ok, Telephone is a little better.  Wasn't that on Glee this season?  Musical shows make me happy.  Oh! I can use that idea for The Red Dress Club TV prompt. 

5K or 10K in August?

When did I get to the point where I get irritated with people smoking while walking down the street?  I don't own the air, right?

Maybe tacos for dinner tomorrow

Fireflies!  So many fireflies.  It makes running in this humidity worth it.  Almost.

This makes me happy.

running makes me happy

but not quite as happy as watching her run

Looking for My Mojo

It's a fill-in-the-blank-for-your-own-prompt Prompt: 

The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing.

I chose to write about the first time I ran after having Dylan.

I bent to retie my shoes, loosening my laces and pulling them tight, though they felt perfect before the tweaking.  My mood wavered between unsettled and apprehensive, my eight-week old at home, without me.

 

I worried he had woken up.  I worried he would miss me.  I wondered if Ryan would call me if there was a crisis.  I wondered what kind of crisis could possibly arise during the forty-five minutes I planned to be gone.

I bent to tie my shoes again, then abruptly straightened and stepped onto the treadmill, out of excuses.  Sliding earbuds into my ears, I turned on my carefully prepared workout mix, the hip hop jarring after carefully monitoring the child-appropriateness of my music choices during my gym hiatus.

The warm-up walk was familiar, easy in fact without a massive double stroller in front of me.  My stride turned almost to a strut as I contemplated changing speeds.  Inexplicably, I probed at my caesarean incision, testing for soreness, for pain, for a challenge to my plan to get back into shape.

Numbness. The best I could hope for.

I wondered what was happening at home.

I eased the speed up to a twelve-minute mile, thinking back to the hours I had logged on the elliptical during my pregnancy.  My legs fell into a remembered rhythm, awkwardly and tightly, feeling heavy and unfamiliar above my shoes.

 

My tight sports bras reminded me of the tether that would link me to Dylan for the next year.

Minutes later, my lungs were as heavy as my legs, my breathing labored and forced.

Walking, pre-natal yoga, and the elliptical machine had kept my weight gain within a respectable range, but my body was eager to remind me that nothing could make me sweat like a good run.

Turning up my music so I couldn’t hear myself panting, I forced my legs to move back and forth, slowly waking my muscles from hibernation.  Sweat snaked down my temples by the end of the second song, but I lumbered on, attempting to ignore the discomfort.

Refusing to take a pacifier meant Dylan could be difficult to soothe if he woke hungry from his brief naps.

But as my feet struck the rubber belt, left right left right, I felt another familiar sensation.  Briefly, fleetingly, joy flickered, teasing my lips into a grimacing smile.  Anxiety flowed out of me with the sweat.

Ryan could handle any emergency manufactured by a sleeping two-month old and a toddler.

Muscle memory pumped my arms back and forth, my stride quickening to its accustomed beat.  The bass in the background propelled me along.  I eased the speed up a few more notches.

That lasted for a few brief, glorious minutes before I had to slow back down to a walk or risk keeling over and flying off the back of the treadmill.

Still, those marvelous moments reminded me of why I had a training schedule written, in pen, in my planner. 

Running keeps me in shape and keeps my stress at bay and keeps me from throwing the Glee soundtrack out the window after hearing it countless times.  Running brings me joy.

And now, over a year, and hundreds of miles later, I need to recapture that joy.  Running has morphed into a chore, an item on my to-do list, a burden.

I need to reevaluate my goals or my mindset or my running playlist.  I need to lace up my shoes and turn up my music and follow my feet.

I need to remember why I run.

showing that even though he doesn't have a recital costume, he's still a cutie pie