Pastels are the ceiling. Beautiful, but a mixed palate of complimentary pastels: nature's passive-aggressive way of visually expressing something shocking and thought-provoking but not wanting to do anything so bold that it offends. Pastels are the JustAnyones of the color spectrum; not a valiant effort, really just a futile action without true heart. Pastels are fear of existing boldly and fully and are too afraid to make mistakes loudly.
My chin drifted north though, as if my jaw were wired to a puppet master, gazing and feeling these pastels.
But I hate pastels and I am no ones puppet, not even my own. Warriors do not exist in pastel. However, these pastels chose to be the aggressive flavor and screamed their importance and relevance, exercising their yin.
I simply chose to comply and exist with the order of snowflakes and water crystals, layer upon layer of lofty wholesome yang, sitting at attention, yet simultaneously lounging as a hybrid canvas-audience, apt supportive backdrop bolster.
...
How appropriate to be in the land of fire and ice, of smooth and jagged, wild but supportive to begin the annual funeral. I feel like I have been repeating myself for the past 3 years..."Such a tough year, toughest one yet. Let's hope next year is better, it has to be."
This year was fire and ice.
There was a lot of good, but the bad - the bad, bad, bad, bad...so bad: part of my identity was questioned so deeply it affected every aspect of my life, like the molten lava running beneath, along the ground, forever altering the landscape. I was burned, singed, caught flame even; nearly incinerated.
The flames were simultaneously extinguished by running. This year was a sparse running year, but more emotionally meaningful than I have seen in over a decade. I met and fell in love with mentors, ran with legends who are now friends, breathed in altitude and shed my tears in dirt and tree sap and thin air. I was comforted by comrades and those who barely knew me yet saw something shine through to the point where they believe in me more than I even believe in myself sometimes. Such deep and meaningful connections resulted that I have always wanted. I danced and howled with other wild animals and tasted the giddily smiling dew drops from the barely-above treeline foliage when grazed by the wind, thousands of feet above. I breathed the air of different soils and lands and allowed my heart to fall in love and feel in different spaces and times. How appropriate to gaze, graze, in the twisted lava fields covered in smooth snow; fire and ice, life at present, to pause to reflect on this volcanic year,
Of course I have hope for the new snows to come, that yearly blank slate after the ashes of annual cremation, but I know that the year to come will be riddled with crags and nooks and scraggly formation of lava. Snow hope is better than no hope.
I know this. This year has taught me much, I am the Scholar Warrior and I am skilled now. I acknowledge the pastels now, but I live in the fire and ice, the black and white, snow and lava, yin and yang.
I remain forever hopeful and welcoming, ready for the creamy, comforting layer of pristine loft to counter the yin. I await the yang.
Thursday, December 3, 2015
Monday, October 12, 2015
Thirty Two.
Groaning and sputtering like a lawnmower, the engine fired and stuttered and the thick, black cable began to suspend us backwards, contained in the cold, metal coffin, lowering us downward into the darkness of passageway. As we churned along, my eyes were focused on the half-moon swatch of daylight overhead; robin's egg blue and cheerful, amplified by the dark frame of the mouth of the cavern into which we were blindly descending. Going, going, going, and then so slightly small and barely there that it became a pinhole before disappearing completely, the only trace being small amounts of illuminated orange shards spanning parts of the wall until we moved into utter, damp blackness.
It was the day prior to Number Thirty-Two, the Steamtown Marathon in Lackawana County in northeastern Pennsylvania and we were touring one of the abandoned mines no longer in commission. What a metaphor; it was etched in my mind for the remainder of the weekend and I kept coming back to think of being lowered into its shadowy bowels.
To say that this marathon was long overdue is an incredible understatement. The race itself was a complete false start as the first time I had been registered was still within my recovery period after foot surgery which brought me back physically but set me so incredibly far back mentally for the past almost-three years. I recall at the time finding myself in that same little area of Scranton but sitting on the sidelines, sad and subdued and stolid and splenetic. I was not existing in my own skin even, and absolutely not whole or in my usual colors. However, it was not this particular race that was overdue; it was the number Thirty Two that I had been desperately trying to make happen for the time to follow that was simply not taking. There were four false starts, races deferred, races skipped and plans canceled or derailed either due to physical limitation, but more oftentimes mental and emotional exhaustion and taxation. I think my weakness had somehow allow Number Thirty Two to exist on its own and spiral entirely out of control into it's manifestation as a Giant. Mental. Roadblock.
Sure, writer's block, worker's block, runner's block happens. However, the particularly gruesome part of this monstrosity was experiencing my loved ones' wins for so long against the loud contrast of so many utter losses and failures on my end. I love to celebrate those close to me succeeding and celebrating in their sheer victories without any ill intent or jealousy. This remained, but over two years of continuing to be pushed down, down, down, into the mine shaft by this mental block really did a number on my self-esteem and confidence in abilities. More than that - soon to follow all of this were more mental blocks that seemed to start with this marathon mental block and then seep into the remainder of my being. I was surrounded by thick walls quickly closing in and removing the air. It became a twisted briar, growing crooked and dark and barren and rotting and gray. Failure happened and pierced and bled upon the thorns. Negativity became the driver. Back-up plans suddenly became actual plans; I was existing in survival mode and barely breathing.
So, one can imagine how when I arrived in Scranton I had no intent of running this race because it seemed like the safe thing to do. I had myself convinced that I would continue more of the same: celebrating loved ones victoriously winning and overcoming their own odds and hurdles and smiling in the triumph but finding myself yet again feinting happiness and enjoyment in the fall air when inside I was screaming, shriveling and surrounded by damp, dark, dank earth.
But then, there, something flickered and that something was so small and so faint that it was barely recognizable at first glance, but I noticed and focused and that something was running. It was almost instinctual and stemmed from some deep wild animal habit that had been laying dormant for these almost-three years.
...
The bus pulled up to the starting area in that ungodly hour of a Sunday morning, grass frosted with dew and exhales hanging in the air like ghastly gossamer. Nervous energy bundled beneath thrift store clothing mismatched ready for discard. It wasn't until about mile eight that I realized what I was doing and what this meant, but I stopped thinking and just went with it. Down the hills and through the golden autumn, past the locomotives and through the industrial landscapes overgrown with nature, pushing it back into the wild.
Wild. Remember what that felt like?
The race itself did not matter, but it was that ignition within my soul that did matter. Something churned and sputtered and turned over and was suddenly in existence again. When I charged down the hill at mile 26 and into the finish chute to move forward from this number once and for all at Mile 26.2 I was freshly laundered in relief. I had finally been released from this dark mental block and the other side was filled with possibility again.
The cable was greased and the car this time groaned forward, back up, out of the mine shaft and I all I could see ahead was blinding, beautiful blue; a bluesky day and nothing but calm relief. Twice in one weekend, and in two different ways.
It was the day prior to Number Thirty-Two, the Steamtown Marathon in Lackawana County in northeastern Pennsylvania and we were touring one of the abandoned mines no longer in commission. What a metaphor; it was etched in my mind for the remainder of the weekend and I kept coming back to think of being lowered into its shadowy bowels.
To say that this marathon was long overdue is an incredible understatement. The race itself was a complete false start as the first time I had been registered was still within my recovery period after foot surgery which brought me back physically but set me so incredibly far back mentally for the past almost-three years. I recall at the time finding myself in that same little area of Scranton but sitting on the sidelines, sad and subdued and stolid and splenetic. I was not existing in my own skin even, and absolutely not whole or in my usual colors. However, it was not this particular race that was overdue; it was the number Thirty Two that I had been desperately trying to make happen for the time to follow that was simply not taking. There were four false starts, races deferred, races skipped and plans canceled or derailed either due to physical limitation, but more oftentimes mental and emotional exhaustion and taxation. I think my weakness had somehow allow Number Thirty Two to exist on its own and spiral entirely out of control into it's manifestation as a Giant. Mental. Roadblock.
Sure, writer's block, worker's block, runner's block happens. However, the particularly gruesome part of this monstrosity was experiencing my loved ones' wins for so long against the loud contrast of so many utter losses and failures on my end. I love to celebrate those close to me succeeding and celebrating in their sheer victories without any ill intent or jealousy. This remained, but over two years of continuing to be pushed down, down, down, into the mine shaft by this mental block really did a number on my self-esteem and confidence in abilities. More than that - soon to follow all of this were more mental blocks that seemed to start with this marathon mental block and then seep into the remainder of my being. I was surrounded by thick walls quickly closing in and removing the air. It became a twisted briar, growing crooked and dark and barren and rotting and gray. Failure happened and pierced and bled upon the thorns. Negativity became the driver. Back-up plans suddenly became actual plans; I was existing in survival mode and barely breathing.
So, one can imagine how when I arrived in Scranton I had no intent of running this race because it seemed like the safe thing to do. I had myself convinced that I would continue more of the same: celebrating loved ones victoriously winning and overcoming their own odds and hurdles and smiling in the triumph but finding myself yet again feinting happiness and enjoyment in the fall air when inside I was screaming, shriveling and surrounded by damp, dark, dank earth.
But then, there, something flickered and that something was so small and so faint that it was barely recognizable at first glance, but I noticed and focused and that something was running. It was almost instinctual and stemmed from some deep wild animal habit that had been laying dormant for these almost-three years.
...
The bus pulled up to the starting area in that ungodly hour of a Sunday morning, grass frosted with dew and exhales hanging in the air like ghastly gossamer. Nervous energy bundled beneath thrift store clothing mismatched ready for discard. It wasn't until about mile eight that I realized what I was doing and what this meant, but I stopped thinking and just went with it. Down the hills and through the golden autumn, past the locomotives and through the industrial landscapes overgrown with nature, pushing it back into the wild.
Wild. Remember what that felt like?
The race itself did not matter, but it was that ignition within my soul that did matter. Something churned and sputtered and turned over and was suddenly in existence again. When I charged down the hill at mile 26 and into the finish chute to move forward from this number once and for all at Mile 26.2 I was freshly laundered in relief. I had finally been released from this dark mental block and the other side was filled with possibility again.
The cable was greased and the car this time groaned forward, back up, out of the mine shaft and I all I could see ahead was blinding, beautiful blue; a bluesky day and nothing but calm relief. Twice in one weekend, and in two different ways.
Friday, August 7, 2015
Overhaul.
In the next few days I'm blowing the dust off this blog for good and it's getting an overhaul.
I've realized...enough already with the heady, overly emotional writing with twists of sadness and pangs of longing. Yes, there are shards of life that are rather ragged and raw and others still that are very far from livable that challenge me daily. Hourly! However, perhaps this melancholy flailing over the past dozen months has been due to boredom or loneliness or needing something new. That last one especially has so many meanings.
But, all of this madness truly started in the first place with a winning lottery ticket in 2007. That was the point of no return, where I crossed the line from competitive Division college XC runner to marathoner into my joyful, passionate madness.
Well, apparently the universe has new plans for me because I recently won a new lottery. I gained entry into the Stonecat 50 Mile ultra marathon in November. I used to swear up and down that I would never do an Ultra. However, 2015 truly had been the year of doing a lot of things that I used to say I'd never do, so I suppose running is not immune.
...
I have no idea what the hell I'm doing, no coach, no clue. I'm following my own schedule and am adopting my own twist on a new (to me anyway) training diet. I feel a need to heavily write about all of this between now and this early November race, either to document a possible new found love, the worst idea ever, something I should have probably been doing all these years, or my imminent demise at the mercy of my own numbskull tendencies - who knows. There will be much, much more to come, so settle in, put those feet up and hold on tight for this one. I have a feeling it's going to get pretty juicy.
I've realized...enough already with the heady, overly emotional writing with twists of sadness and pangs of longing. Yes, there are shards of life that are rather ragged and raw and others still that are very far from livable that challenge me daily. Hourly! However, perhaps this melancholy flailing over the past dozen months has been due to boredom or loneliness or needing something new. That last one especially has so many meanings.
But, all of this madness truly started in the first place with a winning lottery ticket in 2007. That was the point of no return, where I crossed the line from competitive Division college XC runner to marathoner into my joyful, passionate madness.
Well, apparently the universe has new plans for me because I recently won a new lottery. I gained entry into the Stonecat 50 Mile ultra marathon in November. I used to swear up and down that I would never do an Ultra. However, 2015 truly had been the year of doing a lot of things that I used to say I'd never do, so I suppose running is not immune.
...
I have no idea what the hell I'm doing, no coach, no clue. I'm following my own schedule and am adopting my own twist on a new (to me anyway) training diet. I feel a need to heavily write about all of this between now and this early November race, either to document a possible new found love, the worst idea ever, something I should have probably been doing all these years, or my imminent demise at the mercy of my own numbskull tendencies - who knows. There will be much, much more to come, so settle in, put those feet up and hold on tight for this one. I have a feeling it's going to get pretty juicy.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
end.
I want to write the "I'm so overdue and there is so much to catch up on!" post. OR, "I have to start writing again" post. OR, "Wow, so much has happened!" post. In reality, it has.
But I have not been able to put it into words. For almost two years now.
...
Leaves rustle. Dirt becomes undone and rocks removed or re-moved. There is sun and sweat and knees and hair and grit and determination. And thin air. It took returning to a place with thin air and crazy people and flesh wounds and dehydration and suffocation and sickness to catalyze me to write this right now. The very fact that I can even put any of this into words again is a huge step, I suppose.
Why is it that the most focused, gifted of us die early and untimely, usually by our own hands at the mercy of our own, silent suffering?
It's almost like we focus so much of our efforts into being who we are that the general public and loved ones just think that we are weird and quirky and discount us as such. We are Thunderstorms. We are bursts of energy, demanded to be felt, built over time, ignored by most until we have to produce the loudest and most dramatic sound until suddenly we are important because we are a threat.
I've been told in the past that when one falls it's important to do it as loud as possible. I don't know if that applies here.
...
Think.
But I have not been able to put it into words. For almost two years now.
...
Leaves rustle. Dirt becomes undone and rocks removed or re-moved. There is sun and sweat and knees and hair and grit and determination. And thin air. It took returning to a place with thin air and crazy people and flesh wounds and dehydration and suffocation and sickness to catalyze me to write this right now. The very fact that I can even put any of this into words again is a huge step, I suppose.
Why is it that the most focused, gifted of us die early and untimely, usually by our own hands at the mercy of our own, silent suffering?
It's almost like we focus so much of our efforts into being who we are that the general public and loved ones just think that we are weird and quirky and discount us as such. We are Thunderstorms. We are bursts of energy, demanded to be felt, built over time, ignored by most until we have to produce the loudest and most dramatic sound until suddenly we are important because we are a threat.
I've been told in the past that when one falls it's important to do it as loud as possible. I don't know if that applies here.
...
Think.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Revive.
It's time to revive. 2015 is the year of reviving, renewing, redoing, and rebuilding to reintroduce life to a dear, loved, missed, now returned being.
I will not recap the end of 2014. I will not recap what has been happening. I will only be looking forward.
For whatever reason, I'm being presented with a do-over, an opportunity to repair and change and positively thrive and I'm trying my best to keep breathing through pretty much every aspect of my life drastically changing at once. It's difficult to keep my head above the water just enough to remain alive enough to allow a small amount of oxygen, but it is new and exciting and feels like moving into a new home - bigger and seemingly vast, but knowing that I will grow into it and will come to embrace it as a roomier home. It's exciting and overwhelming simultaneously.
Running has been taking a backseat. That is more of an understatement than I really care to admit, and in a different time and space there is a version of myself shouting in disdain, in shame, in rain, in shame, shame, shame...lame. I have no excuse other than to say that sometimes when everything is shifting at once, something has to give a little, and perhaps that something has been running. I have been on RunStrike, but the picket line will be crossed.
But, today is enough and tomorrow: a new pair of shoes, a new model, a new brand are arriving in the post and it will commence once again.
The sun is shining today. The sun will shine tomorrow. The harbor will be there, the boats are out and the gulls have returned home. The only part that is missing is me and it's time for me to rejoin my family in the dusty sunrise hopeful downtown wonderment.
I will not recap the end of 2014. I will not recap what has been happening. I will only be looking forward.
For whatever reason, I'm being presented with a do-over, an opportunity to repair and change and positively thrive and I'm trying my best to keep breathing through pretty much every aspect of my life drastically changing at once. It's difficult to keep my head above the water just enough to remain alive enough to allow a small amount of oxygen, but it is new and exciting and feels like moving into a new home - bigger and seemingly vast, but knowing that I will grow into it and will come to embrace it as a roomier home. It's exciting and overwhelming simultaneously.
Running has been taking a backseat. That is more of an understatement than I really care to admit, and in a different time and space there is a version of myself shouting in disdain, in shame, in rain, in shame, shame, shame...lame. I have no excuse other than to say that sometimes when everything is shifting at once, something has to give a little, and perhaps that something has been running. I have been on RunStrike, but the picket line will be crossed.
But, today is enough and tomorrow: a new pair of shoes, a new model, a new brand are arriving in the post and it will commence once again.
The sun is shining today. The sun will shine tomorrow. The harbor will be there, the boats are out and the gulls have returned home. The only part that is missing is me and it's time for me to rejoin my family in the dusty sunrise hopeful downtown wonderment.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
I've been ruminating on what I wrote yesterday about Number Thirty and that I probably was running the way I was running that summer because running was all that I had. This is somehow resonating and rippling within my thoughts.
But it's so true, and it's my own pattern I've realized after being "alive" for 34 years. When something isn't working, something else becomes the focus and is put in spotlight.
I say this now as I sit here feeling horribly depressed about several things. And of course, I say this now as I sit here combing the calendar for a marathon to run in the next week or two, never mind the fact that my quadriceps are still trashed and screaming from barely two days ago.
A puzzle piece is missing, so here I sit, trying to mash a different one into it's spot. It's like I recognize that something is hurting, and I try to patch it up by plastering another medal over it. Metal doesn't plaster, but I wish I were made of steel; only then would I never feel this way again.
But it's so true, and it's my own pattern I've realized after being "alive" for 34 years. When something isn't working, something else becomes the focus and is put in spotlight.
I say this now as I sit here feeling horribly depressed about several things. And of course, I say this now as I sit here combing the calendar for a marathon to run in the next week or two, never mind the fact that my quadriceps are still trashed and screaming from barely two days ago.
A puzzle piece is missing, so here I sit, trying to mash a different one into it's spot. It's like I recognize that something is hurting, and I try to patch it up by plastering another medal over it. Metal doesn't plaster, but I wish I were made of steel; only then would I never feel this way again.
Monday, July 7, 2014
Thirty.
Surreal moments drifted inward and outward and around and through like the green, green, green on green that blew past my eyes while staring through glass as we drove across the no-man's land of farm.
I was not excited to run thirty. In fact, I had strongly considered downgrading to the half marathon, prolonging my youthful and bittersweet twenties. But the greater twenties had soured. Those initially were incredible and powerful, but as I wandered onward, the latter were definitely tainted and there has been struggle. The troubles that followed my late twenties were that of injury and surgical recovery and the mental fight to simply get realigned. I'm still not there.
Oh, the irony, the irony. It was almost as if life had stopped, turned and spat in my face to test my mental toughness. Two years ago, this particular marathon was when something in me changed. At the time I was a mere teenager. I spent the next two years trying to figure out what that something was exactly. I'm still uncertain. However, I did know it was something BIG, although I still don't know.
Once I found myself yesterday up in those towering hills, running over the packed gravel and relentless terrain, cows and trees and birds and mountain silence as my backdrop I did notice a big contrast. The last time I ran this marathon, running was all I had. I was shattered and was living a life in fragments. Now running is shattered, but I exist in so many forms and life is full of a lot of rich possibilities and positive things that I never dreamed were possible for me. There's more to life now than just the evil clock and my treads caressing the pavement. There's more than bibs and chips and guns and miles and muscles and the format. I have love and dogs and laughter and companionship and security and confidence. It's not there yet, but it's still growing, percolating and coagulating; forming something solid even if it's still in-process.
I know within my bones I need to trust the process. Running will remain with me, but the thrills and times and surprises and exhilaration will return as my speed hopefully also returns. Here's to a new running decade and here is putting the past to rest, once and for all. I couldn't think of a better place and time to do this, and those memories will always remain on that course within the tree trunks and wire fences, secrets safe with the wildlife and untamed Vermont air.
I was not excited to run thirty. In fact, I had strongly considered downgrading to the half marathon, prolonging my youthful and bittersweet twenties. But the greater twenties had soured. Those initially were incredible and powerful, but as I wandered onward, the latter were definitely tainted and there has been struggle. The troubles that followed my late twenties were that of injury and surgical recovery and the mental fight to simply get realigned. I'm still not there.
Oh, the irony, the irony. It was almost as if life had stopped, turned and spat in my face to test my mental toughness. Two years ago, this particular marathon was when something in me changed. At the time I was a mere teenager. I spent the next two years trying to figure out what that something was exactly. I'm still uncertain. However, I did know it was something BIG, although I still don't know.
Once I found myself yesterday up in those towering hills, running over the packed gravel and relentless terrain, cows and trees and birds and mountain silence as my backdrop I did notice a big contrast. The last time I ran this marathon, running was all I had. I was shattered and was living a life in fragments. Now running is shattered, but I exist in so many forms and life is full of a lot of rich possibilities and positive things that I never dreamed were possible for me. There's more to life now than just the evil clock and my treads caressing the pavement. There's more than bibs and chips and guns and miles and muscles and the format. I have love and dogs and laughter and companionship and security and confidence. It's not there yet, but it's still growing, percolating and coagulating; forming something solid even if it's still in-process.
I know within my bones I need to trust the process. Running will remain with me, but the thrills and times and surprises and exhilaration will return as my speed hopefully also returns. Here's to a new running decade and here is putting the past to rest, once and for all. I couldn't think of a better place and time to do this, and those memories will always remain on that course within the tree trunks and wire fences, secrets safe with the wildlife and untamed Vermont air.
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