The Journey

With the Portland Marathon a mere 56 days away combined with my last blog written on May 8th,  I feel I am more than due for a marathon training check in as well as a general status report on my end.  I’m sure this will appease my many avid readers. : )

I have been busy putting in my prerequisite running miles for the Portland Marathon ever since I finished the Eugene Half Marathon this past May.  Diligently tying up my laces, I have been hitting the pavement religiously throughout the summer, never missing a day-with a type A-sih fervor only I and other A type-ish people can appreciate.  Well, okay…to be honest, a quick review of my online running log that I maintain, again with a type A-ish fervor, reveals that I have missed August 8th and August 4th…BUT OTHER THAN THAT!  I have routinely been hitting the pavement, and am “on track” for my date with the streets of Portland on October 9th.

At this point, I feel some needed running reflection coming on…bear with me dear reader.

Who is it that said, “it’s not about the race, but the journey”?  Or something or other like that.  This is especially true with training runs.  While for most people it may start out initially as being about the race,(who hasn’t wanted to run that 10K? Or climb a certain mountain?) that feeling quickly evolves as you begin putting in the hours to achieve that goal.  After running the Eugene Marathon in 2009, while I do remember the feeling of achievement while crossing the finish line and the weight of the medal hanging around my neck, in retrospect,  it’s the dozens and dozens of long, quiet training runs leading up to that big run that stand out more for me.  The ones where no one else is present, there are no creative inspirational banners held by onlookers, no crowds of people cheering you on, and no…no silly cow bells.   It’s just you and the road.

So for me, it’s not about the race, but the journey.  And what a journey it’s been!  The familiar yet mild Oregon winter rain pelting me while I happily trot out a 7 miler on the Amazon Bark Trail in Eugene in the middle of January; the researching of energy bars, gels, and something oddly referred to as goos during my first training program when I finally decided to get serious about this running thing and find that perfect mix of fuel that worked for me.  My journey has taken me all the way from my first measly running attempt when I enthusiastically walked down to the local track at Central High School in Pueblo, Colorado (2 laps! and a not-so-enthusiastic walk home) to training for and running my first marathon, to fully integrating running as a part of my lifestyle-with an occasional half, or full marathon here or there and a sprinkling of 5ks and 10ks to mix it up.  I honestly don’t know where I’d be if I couldn’t have my daily dose of run.

Running is what helps me get through that even bigger journey: Life.  My daily runs are what energize and inspire me.  Often, it is what helps me cope and deal.  Sometimes I can organize my thoughts and get better clarity during a run,  and sometimes I just need to zone out and go on auto-pilot during a run with little to no brain activity.  Each run along my journey is special, whether I go out with a good friend or a group or with my faithful four-legged training partner Bella, or go it solo.  Whether I plug in and turn up the tunes, or leave the I-Pod at home.  No matter if I pack it all up and drive to a new trail or location for a run, or opt for my familiar sleepy neighborhood with its winding country roads and familiar faces.  Like the older fellow who reliably sits in his armchair by the window and watches tv-who always waves to me as I sail past-kinda grandpa-like.  I look for him each time now, and it has become our thing even though we have never officially met, except in this way-waving to each other from across the window and a generation.  Yup, each run is special to me in its own way.

Transitioning away from the random running reflection…thank you for hanging in there reader.

And so, the training runs continue.  To date, I have run a total of 575.2 miles in 2011.  If I were to have actually run this distance from my house, I calculate with the help of MapQuest, that I would be approximately in Twin Falls, Idaho about  now!

So there you have it, my training check in.

As for a general status report on my summer,  I spent the first week of my break in Colorado.  Pictures can be found here.  Having not visited in two years, it was time to see some friends and family.  Though, having not visited in two years, it had been awhile since I’d been in a city the size of Denver.  Living in a town with a population of 5,035 (I like how that 35 seems to be proudly tacked on), Denver’s Metropolitan Statistical Area of a little over two and a half million people in 2009 can be a bit overwhelming.  The word claustrophobia comes to mind.  Driving away from DIA in my brother’s Jeep in the middle of a Colorado summer (think 109 degrees), in the middle of the day, in the middle of I-70 west, in the middle of rush hour (which I understand is any hour between 7:30 am – 7:30 pm), I found myself in the middle of a mild panic seeing all of those 2 and half million people’s cars.  My brother though I noticed, was chatting away seamlessly with me all while easily navigating the traffic, swerving in and out of the other vehicles and the ever-present road construction.  Being a Colorado native, this never used to phase me.  What happened?  I guess that’s what’ll happen to you if you move into a one-stoplight town.

Thankfully, I spent the majority of my visit away from the interstates of Colorado.  I went to my ten year high school reunion, saw my family and visited some of my old stomping grounds.    It was while visiting ol’ memory lane- visiting some old places and old faces-that it finally came to me.  The answer to that silly question people always ask, and I am always stumped to answer: “Where are you from?”  That question has always, always, plagued me, and has never been an easy one to answer with just one word…sometimes, with one paragraph. And I have secretly for years, always craved to have that place where I can say I’m from, and to have an answer to that innocent question.  Finally, I had it!  It occurred to me one evening, about halfway through my trip, while squeezing in a training run along the Garden of the Gods and of course it immediately had to become my facebook status for the day:

“Carley Evans: Just realized that underneath all of her Oregonian layers, she’ll always be a Colorado girl at heart.”

One week is not a very long time while at the same time it is long enough.  I had visited a lot of people, and unfortunately, I ended up traveling a few more miles than I cared for navigating those treacherous Colorado interstates going from one town to the other.  The altitude and the 100 degree temperatures were starting to get to this Oregoniangal.  It was time to head home.

Goodbyes are always hard, but for some reason it was harder this time around.  I found myself desperately fighting off tears while hugging my not-so-little,  little bro goodbye in the sweltering heat of the airport parking lot.  With this trip back home, I had finally come to see that somewhere in the years since I had packed up my moving van, and headed back to Oregon to make my home, my little brother- the one who so gleefully tortured me in that way that little brothers can only do when we were kids, my worst adversary and best friend- had really grown up.  Looking at him, it isn’t hard to see Dad.   Stepping away from our hug, I failed at pulling off a not-crying look, and we made promises of seeing each other again soon…the plans of which, I am proud to announce are already under way!  Oregon Coast-2012.  Be there.

The rest of my summer has been filled with lots of books (19th Wife & A Good Dog to name a couple), of course a lot of running, playing a few concerts in the park, a couple of good hikes ( Mount Bohemia and Kentucky Falls), a couple of trips to the coast: (Cape Kiwanda Pictures here), and last but not least, I’ve spent  a lot of my time this summer with visits to Fern Ridge Lake with Bella to cool off.  My summer: kinda low key, relaxed…just the way I like it.  Recharging and re-energizing for the new school year looming just around the corner.

I wonder what kind of journey 2011-2012 will bring?

Memories of Mom

Sometime in the early 90s…

Tomorrow is mothers bring your daughters to work day, and I am excited to finally see the school where mom goes to. She does not work or have a job right now, but she is studying to become a RN, which I am told is a registered nurse. So instead of going to her work, I’m going to go with her to school and tomorrow, I will finally get to see what her school is like. She says tomorrow I will be able to follow her around all day just like I am her shadow. I am a little nervous about going though because she tells me it is like a grown up school where there is no recess or playground equipment to play on. This got me to thinking about what else might be different at a grown up school. Suddenly, I had a lot of questions. When I asked mom earlier today if we had to walk in perfect straight lines with no talking like Ms. Lee makes us do at school, she just laughed at me and said, “You’ll see soon enough,” and then swatted me on the butt and told me to go wash up for dinner.

Mom has been going to school for as long as I can remember, and she always has homework just like I do. Only, hers is much, much harder. Sometimes we’ll even do our homework together on the kitchen table before dinner. I like it when she picks me up from school and she’ll swing the door to the old Chrysler open for me and ask in a cheery voice, “Want to work on homework together? I’ve got a ton of reading to do.”

I like it when she has a ton of reading to do; because I know it means that we’ll go straight home and set our backpacks on the kitchen table and it’ll be just us. Just us for hours and we’ll each pull out our books, hers are always much, much bigger than mine, and she’ll pour studiously over her papers and books with a highlighter clenched in one hand and a coffee mug not too far from the other while I’ll quietly complete each of my worksheets that I didn’t finish at school that day.

I love it this way, us sitting together in the fading afternoon light as it filters through the mini blinds next to the kitchen table casting long skinny shadows across my worksheets. Sometimes when I reach the end of a problem and before going on to the next, I’ll glance up from my paper and watch her when she doesn’t notice. I marvel at the methodical process of her highlighting various words and sentences in her large textbooks she deems fit for highlighting. I study the way she efficiently scans the words and watch as her mouth silently moves along with them. I like it when she seems to finally stumble across whatever it is that she’s been searching for in those giant books and quickly exchange the highlighter for a nearby dull pencil which she uses to quickly scratch out some notes in one of her many spiral notebooks splayed out before her. I let my eyes play over some of the graphic pictures that are laid out in a nearby open textbook of hers that has been haphazardly pushed toward the edge of the table. I allow my eyes to fall on a particular image that catches my curiosity. I take in the image. It is clearly a picture of somebody’s foot with a big toe that has gone bad. The toenail is badly discolored while the rest of the large toe is covered in some sort of black gunk. Disgustedly fascinated, I lean in toward the book for a better view and then immediately recoil from the book, slightly pulling myself away from that corner of the table as if protecting myself from the picture and any possibility of catching the disease illustrated there.

I know that mom has worked very hard like this for a long time now and is getting very close to getting what she calls her degree and then will no longer have to go to school anymore but will be able to work as a nurse. However, I also know that mom is getting very close to quitting school. I know this because she told me so.

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The door to the bathroom had been closed for awhile. I knew this because I had scurried past it a couple of times to retrieve some of Paul’s matchbox cars that had sailed past it. It was one of those seamlessly long and never ending Saturday afternoons and Paul and I had been all over the house that day looking for things to do to occupy our time. We finally settled upon pulling out his old matchbox car collection of which there really were very few, and shooting them off of the nearby stair landing. The hardwood floors in the hallway next to the bathroom made an ideal location for any sort of car activity or in this case, a very satisfying round of staircase car launching.

After a very impressive and somewhat experimental car launch down the laundry shoot, I left Paul pondering the fate of his favorite shiny black car with his head poked into the shoot and his tiny voice echoing down to the basement and scurried up to the bathroom door once again. Squeezing my legs together and bouncing from one foot to the other, I lightly knocked on the door and cracked it open a bit to stick my mouth up to the opening and hurriedly asked, “Mom?”

The sound of bathwater and her familiar voice greeted me, “Come in hon.”

“I need to pee.” I explained as I emerged from behind the door and headed quickly over to the toilet.

Watching my mother’s form from this corner of the bathroom without her awareness I suddenly became aware of her fragility, her humanness. Something about the way she was sitting in the tub, a little defeated. For that split moment she appeared to me as though stripped from the mother’s role that up until that point I had always placed her in my life, and instead was replaced with this other person. It was as though her invincibility had been replaced with vulnerability and it frightened me a little.

Flushing the toilet, I heard her say, “I don’t think I can do it.”

Silently crouching down into a cross-legged position on the bathmat in front of the tub with my hands in my lap, I looked up at her as she repeated with growing certainty, “I don’t think I can do it, “ and then adding as she let her face roll toward me, “I think I’m going to quit school.”

As she said this to me I furiously leapt from my position on the floor and retreated to the wall opposite the tub grabbing a fistful of cheery yellow hand towel in my hand as I did so. I don’t know why, but at that time I felt with such a level of certainty that I’d never experienced before, that she absolutely and without a doubt should not quit. Leaning up against the wall while clutching that towel in my hands I listened as she rationally explained to me from the water below that she’s been going to school for almost five years now, and while those five years were extremely difficult, she wasn’t sure she could get through this last year. Twisting the towel around in my hands I patiently listened while she described a certain professor that had a reputation for being extremely difficult and unforgiving in passing students.

I listened as she pointed out reason after reason as to why she should give up and with each reason I felt more and more desperate from my spot against the wall. The air was humid and sticky from the bathwater. The mirror and windows were fogged over and she looked so humanly deflated and not like the invincible person I’d always made her out to be.

As she went on to enumerate the many logical reasons that she had no doubt been tallying up all this time she’d been in the bathroom, I murmured the only thing that had been pulsating inside my mind since she first started talking, “Don’t quit.”

“And then there’s you kids, I don’t spend enough time with you guys, I’m either studying or…” She paused her rehearsed speech and looked up at me and asked, “What was that hon?”

I boldly stepped forward from the wall until I was standing square on top of the bathmat and looked at her with a confidence I didn’t know I possessed and stated in a voice tinged with defiance, “Don’t quit.”

She looked a little taken aback, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she leaned forward in the tub a little as if interested to hear what else I had to say. I didn’t really know what else I had to say. I just knew with every fiber of my small being that she had to finish school and I was prepared to look for as many reasons as possible why she should do just that.

“You can’t quit.” I repeated again to her. Leaving the towel that I had been holding in my hands crumpled at my feet, I walked to one side of the bathroom and then walked the short distance back to the other. Momentarily pausing there, something flashed before my eyes. Of course!

I quickly dashed out of the bathroom and ran back down the hallway past Paul who was still hovering around the laundry shoot.

“Hey! How ‘bout we try launching these down the shoot?” He excitedly called after me and as I looked back over my shoulder I saw him holding up two large monster trucks one in each hand. Skidding to a stop outside of dad’s study, I called back to Paul,

“Yeah, but hold on a sec! We’ll continue our laundry shoot experiments in a bit. Just hold on!” I glanced somewhat nervously at the trucks he was holding in his hands momentarily before bursting into the study. They appeared to be barely small enough to fit through the opening in the wall leading to the shoot. I briefly wondered what would happen if the truck got stuck halfway down the shoot. I visualized how that would clog up all of the laundry and I wondered with growing curiosity how long it would take before mom would realize it.

Snapping back to the present, I stepped further into the empty study, dad preferred to work from the church office on Saturdays. I padded softy in my socks over to the wall beside his Mac computer. And sure enough there high up on the wall where I had pictured it in my mind’s eye just moments before while I was frantically pacing the bathroom floor was the framed poem. Dad had pulled it down off of its hook on the wall once before and read it to me, and I had never forgotten about it, mostly because he had reminded me about it every now and then when he felt I needed it.

The title of the poem? Don’t Quit.

I stared longingly up at the poem from my spot below it and wondered aloud to no one how to get it off the wall. Pulling up dad’s desk chair and sliding it over against the wall directly below it, I clambered unsteadily atop the chair and stretched my arms out toward it and feeling a sensation of relief flood over me, I grasped it firmly in my hands. Gingerly releasing it from its hook, I leapt off of the chair and clutching the small frame tightly against my chest ran back to the bathroom.

The tub was draining and the gurgling sound of the water being sucked away seemed to fill the room more than it should have. She was standing in the tub a hopeless bright yellow towel already wrapped around her. The water was playing at her feet, splashing up and around the sides of the tub and licking her ankles.

I closed the door behind me and turned the frame around so that I could read it, and there standing facing each other like that, I resolutely read the poem aloud to her word for word:

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, if you must, but don’t you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow–
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than,
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up,
When he might have captured the victor’s cup,
And he learned too late when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out–
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far,
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit–
It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit.

It had taken me awhile to read through the whole thing, and the sound of the draining bathtub had long subsided by the time I reached the end. When I looked up after I had finished, I could see she had tears in her eyes and I knew this was a good thing. I walked over to her and placed the framed poem firmly in her hand.

She stepped out of the tub and kept looking down at the frame and then back at me. It was then that I knew my plan had worked and that she had somehow found whatever it was she needed to push through and so I walked back to the bathroom door and placed my hand on the handle.

Pausing though before I left, I turned around and faced my mother once again with a small grin on my face and asked tentatively, “Besides, can I quit school too?” Truth be told, there was absolutely nothing in this world I would have liked less than to quit my school. I feverishly adored school and every aspect of it from playing four-square during recess to reading chapter books as a class after lunch, right down to eating lunch and reading the notes that mom always put at the bottom of my lunch pail.

“Of course you can’t quit school, silly. What are you thinking?” Mom was now looking at me with a somewhat perplexed look on her face as I walked back to the bathmat and stooped to pick up the dejected towel I had left there earlier.

I gingerly placed the towel back on its rung on the wall and slowly turning back to face my mother with another small grin playing out on my face I said determinedly, “If I can’t quit school, then you can’t quit school either.”

She looked at me unspeaking for what felt like a long time. And with that, I stepped out of the hot sticky bathroom and into the cool hallway allowing the un-heavy air to refreshingly hit my face. Somehow I knew I’d have her at that, and of course I did. We had that kind of relationship. We understood each other. And that was my day to understand my mother. To see past the strong façade of her various roles, mother, minister’s wife, student and to see her struggles, her fears, her realness.

She would finish out that last year of school and get her nursing degree from the prestigious Oregon Health Sciences University later that year. Sitting in between dad and Paul in the stands at her graduation and watching her walk across the stage and receive her diploma that spring was perhaps the first graduation I had ever been to and would prove to leave a lasting impression on me. I would value and continue to pursue my own education from high school, to college, and on to graduate school with an eager spirit and unfailing determination that I can only have learned together with my mother.

Who I Am

 

I was informed earlier this year by a good friend that it might be important for me to take this time in my life to really discover who I am.

I don’t have much, but as a starting point, here is what I’ve got so far:

Naive, I wear my heart on my sleeve.

I have a lot of faith in the world and humankind.

Hard working, I truly believe in what I’m doing.

Always dreaming of a place in the clouds, a foundation of stone.

I find beauty in traditions, reveling in them.

Loves the sound of rain and…

…squeezes the toothpaste in the middle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All Shall Be Well

It was nearing the end of another one of my exhausting Fourteen Hour Fridays that I’ve been keeping lately at work when I found myself somewhere between the end of yet another 3rd quarter at a home basketball game in which I found (still surprisingly enough to me) attempting to coach the cheerleaders, and the promise of a spontaneous weekend visit to the coast.  As the gymnasium buzzer buzzed yet again to signify the start of 4th quarter, my thoughts drifted…

…between basket tosses and beach houses…

…Saturday morning coffee on the coast and… who should base the next full extension.  Should she do a twist down?  Should I drive up hwy 101 tonight, or early tomorrow morning?

Before long, I found myself somewhere between mile marker 179 and 178 that very night.  Driving along the empty moonlit twisting curves of the 101 near midnight,I found myself expertly navigating the Rav along the highway while simultaneously dodging Bella’s ever-present snout and tongue making contact with my face from behind me in the cargo area.

Rounding a familiar bend in the road, a familiar light was faithfully orbiting across the night sky, and I had to smile to myself.  Perched atop it’s coastal cliff, the Heceta Head Lighthouse silently stood just where it always does, while a full moon was perched in the clear winter night sky just over there, illuminating a spectacular display of the sea at night.   All the while, Bella’s head outside a partially opened backseat window welcoming in the ocean air.

We were flying down the coast, and for the moment, it felt like it was just Bella and I.  And that was enough.

We were heading north to my now all-too-familiar spot where I can always rely on to escape and find myself again: Yachats.  With each passing mile marker, I felt myself slip further and further into beach weekend getaway mode and thankfully, the glaring gymnasium buzzers began to dissolve away  in my mind as the crashing ocean surf took over as the primary background ambient noise for the weekend.

Climbing out of the car that night, I walked through the front door and straight through the beautiful beach house and promptly out the back door to the private deck leading to the beach in a semi-trance.  Walking along the wooden planks of the deck, I tried to shake the week away.  Maybe it was from the 14 hour Friday still coming off me, or the night drive or maybe it was the sounds of the ocean calling to me, but I was in the zone.  Bella needed no coaxing however, and barreled down the embankment in her own doggy way toward the sand and was romping along the surf in seconds.  Me?  Well, I took my time.  Flailing down that sandy cliff in the middle of the night on what felt like the edge of the world, the sounds of the night sea surrounding me, I reached for his hand to help me down and didn’t let go.

The rest of the weekend was a blur of comfy socks, a lot of sand, laughter and good food.  Bella came and went as she pleased, making herself at home curled up next to the fire or careening down the deck toward the beach.  Meanwhile, I found myself at home in the beach house hot tub.    Saturday night found me yet again in the hot tub, peering out over the edge of the frothy thing toward the beckoning Pacific ocean waves.  There was talk amongst the hot tubbers of running down to the waves for a dip, which at the moment sounded pretty refreshing to me as I was reaching my heat limit.  Dares were proclaimed, hesitation was expressed and then, we all emerged steaming from the bubbling tub and grabbed our towels as we made our trek down to the water.  My senses quickly began to take over as I padded barefoot along the deck.  I lagged behind the more exuberant ocean goers who were already waist deep bracing themselves against the rolling waves, while I timidly made my own way down the sandy embankment allowing my toes to comfortingly sink into the loose sand.  The winter ocean air felt good against my too warm skin, and the sand stuck to my toes felt grainy as I nestled myself into my towel and walked toward the smaller waves reaching out to me.

I frolicked ankle deep while Bella pranced by my side, and I remember thinking I hadn’t felt more alive than in that moment.

As the heat eventually dissipated from my body, I turned and ran back toward the warm lights of the beach house against the night sky smiling the whole way.

Sunday morning brought breakfast at a restaurant in town with a fantastic panoramic view of the crashing surf against the Yachats rocks and then shopping in the town art galleries.  (Note: Coastal town galleries are the best.) I hardly ever leave without finding something I absolutely adore, and this trip was no exception.  It was in the last art gallery of the day that we ducked in to escape the oncoming rain that I found my latest treasure.  Our group walked in, expertly shaking the rain off of our coats and then proceeded to break off into our separate ways about the store, exploring the shelves, the trinkets, the store cat, all lost in our own worlds.  The floor creaked comfortingly beneath our steps, and the sound of cars wooshing past in the rain just outside of the little shop filled the quiet in the air around us.  I was lost in thought when I found it.  And upon seeing it, I’m not really sure how I missed it on the way in to begin with.  A gigantic hand-crafted tree made entirely of leaf-less branches filled the entirety of the entryway to the store.  And on each branch?  Hundreds of pieces of colorful construction paper, each hole-punched and carefully tied to the branches with ribbon.  Upon closer inspection, I found that each piece of paper had a message written on it from previous customers.  A sort of on-going living art project in the middle of the store…I circled the tree reading messages high and low on the branches.  Messages of life, love and happiness.  Words to live by.  Inspired, I plucked one of the markers from the red dixie cup sitting on the table next to the base of the beautiful tree and set about adding my own message to a blank piece of paper.  But… what to write?

Chewing my lip in consideration, I glanced around the store searching for inspiration.  It had to be good.  The lady behind the counter said that she never throws away a message, only moves the messages higher on the tree branches to make room for more.  It couldn’t be just any old message.  My eyes filtered through the other messages again.  Looking across the room, his eyes met mine for just a split second and I remembered Friday night standing on the coast just the two of us.

And then it came to me.   Just like it always does when I need it most- words to live by, and I could almost hear him, my dad, saying it as I committed the words to the paper…

“All shall be well…”

What I Believe

Stop.

Rewind.

Play…

New Years Eve 2009:

I love New Years Eve. Everything about it from the corny sunglasses, to the “Best Of” countdowns on the various television show networks broadcast during the week leading up to New Years. I love the ball dropping, the anticipation, counting down the last ten seconds of the year while being surrounded by friends and family, looking at one another excitedly and with bated breath as we enter into a new year together, or in this case a new decade. I just love the energy. There is always a heightened level of reflection that is brought on around this time of year, and that is where I found myself after all of our guests had gone home for the evening…

…It was a little after 1 in the morning and I found myself on confetti clean up duty in the living room, while Geoff was on kitchen detail. (The three pack of confetti cannons sounded like a great idea at the time in the party store earlier that day, but I was quickly beginning to second guess that decision as I worked steadfastly to remove the colorful mess coating our living room floor, utilizing whatever tool I could to make the process go a little smoother from the household broom and dustpan to the vacuum cleaner. It was when Geoff caught me seriously considering using Bella as a sort of animal hoover vac to help assist in cleaning up the remaining thin layer of bits and pieces that clung stubbornly to our floor and furniture that he rescued us all with his ingenious idea of employing the gigantic Shop Vac that he keeps in the garage.)

However, when I was in the thick of the clean up I found myself looking past the confetti and reflecting back on the past decade. Where I was, where I’ve been. What I’ve learned. Where I am today. The sounds of the dishes clinking in the sink as Geoff washed them faded away as I began thinking about just how much stuff has happened in my life in what seems like now, such a short time span.

Education. I’ve sat in many lecture halls. I’ve diligently poured over a multitude of textbooks. Dutifully taking notes while clutching a neon yellow highlighter pen. I’ve been to a lot of graduations, and I’ve been in a lot of graduations. I’ve worn a lot of cap and gowns; high school, undergrad, grad school. I sat in the stands and watched my younger brother graduate. I’ve found myself in the stands often, waving the oncoming summer heat away from me with numerous graduation programs. Change. In ten years, I’ve had 7 different addresses. 5 apartments, my first house, 1 dorm, and my mother’s house. (Not in that exact order.) I’ve moved.  A lot. I’ve helped a lot of others move. Cardboard boxes fear me. I’m quite an expert at packing up a life and moving on. But then again, I had a lot of training for that even before this past decade. I think I’m done moving for awhile. I’m home. And really, for the first time in a long time I can say that. Loss. Thinking back on the past ten years, I thought of all of the people who were there in my life in 1999 but who aren’t here to begin a new decade with. Some left bigger gaps than others, but all are missed. Learning how to cope with loss was without a doubt the most difficult life lesson of the decade for me. Love. I’ve been loved, and I’ve been in love. In the past ten busy years, somewhere in the midst of it all between the grief and the years of schooling, odd jobs held and packing tape, I learned about love. When it’s right. When it isn’t.

For me, 1999 to 2009 was quite a journey. Some days were harder than others, and some I never wanted to end. Truthfully though, I know that without the bitter, the sweet just ain’t as sweet…

…Finally, all of the dishes had been put away and the final strands of confetti had been plucked from the couch cushions. Only a few noisemakers and a couple of gawdy New Years party hats were left on the table to indicate that we had a celebration of any kind. We set about our nightly routine of letting Bella out one more time, turning out the lights and locking up the house. Glancing over my shoulder I checked the digital readout on the clock on the kitchen stove before heading to bed. Finding a green 1:57, I hit the lights and walked expertly through the darkness. Nearly two hours already into 2010, I stifled a yawn and could only wonder what this next decade will bring.

Stop.

Fast forward >>>

Play…

New Years Eve 2010:

An entire year has passed, and somehow those damn little confetti pieces still seem to work their way out of their various hiding places from last year.  Just last week, one popped out from between the couch cushions while I was settling in to watch a movie.  Doesn’t happen very often.  But often enough so that each time I find an errant confetti piece, while vacuuming in mid-July, or when I pulled out the sleeper sofa in August for visitors, or when hanging the holiday decorations on top of the entertainment center, I’m taken back to last New Years Eve.

One tiny little confetti piece.  It’s all it takes to have the pause button hit.  Rewind.  And suddenly, before I know it, I’m back at that moment.  Don’t you hate how easily some memories can be triggered like that?

“I think I’m done moving for awhile.  I’m home.  And really, for the first time in a long time I can say that.”

Did I really say that?

This New Years I am excited to try something a little different to ring in the new year.  In two hours when the ball drops at midnight, I’ll be toeing the starting line at the New Year’s Eve 10k in Eugene.  Yes, I will be running-not ringing- in the new year.

New Years always brings with it a time to pause and reflect.  Which is exactly what I’ll be doing tonight as I run into the new year.

For me, I can say 2010 was quite a journey.  Some days were harder than others, and some I never wanted to end.  Truthfully though, I know that without the bitter, the sweet just ain’t as sweet…

And that is what I believe.



Sundays at the Track

There is one thing in my life that I know I can always count on.  And it’s important to have that one thing in your life that you know you can count on, isn’t it?

For me, no matter what life throws at me I know I can always count on one solid thing, and that is my beautiful Sundays at the Track.  And lately, with life throwing a lot of things  at me, I’ve found myself relying more and more on those precious Sundays.  Looking forward to them.  Reveling in them.

What do you do on Sundays?

For me, I selfishly and shamelessly steal away an hour or two from everything and everyone and drive down to the high school track.  (With Bella in tow of course, naturally poking her head out of one of the partially opened side back windows of the Rav and excitedly licking up the cold December air the whole way there.)

My special treat to myself is made even more special as I drive up to the padlocked gate leading to the quiet track.  Each week I put the car in park, grab my school issued keys from the dash and climb out of the front seat to go unlock the gate while Bella peers at me through the front rain speckled windshield from her perch on the center console.  All access pass I always think to myself as I slowly navigate the Rav through the now open gate, before putting it in park again to go close the gate behind me.

Working for a high school has its benefits.  (See All Access Pass)

Working for a rural high school has its own special benefits as well-no one is ever at the track on Sundays.

So for me, this has become my special place.  My 8 lane sanctuary.  All to myself.  And usually the rain.  And Bella of course who is content to simply trot a few steps ahead of me as I round out the laps, her ever-present orange floppy frisbee flopping in her mouth.

I now know how easy it is to lose your footing in life.  But I also know I will always find myself again in lane 2 on Sundays at the track.

Trusting in Love

This past weekend, I found myself sitting on the bride’s side of a beautiful wedding.  Think Oregon vineyard style.  Fall.  Indoors, complete with cozy fireplace, dimmed wrought iron chandeliers and candles everywhere.

Now, being a somewhat recent divorcee, I wasn’t entirely sure of this being the best place for me to be.  In fact, at the moment, my comfy couch with a bowl of melting mint chocolate chip ice cream seemed to be the more appropriate place for me to be spending my Saturday evening.  On the other hand, I have only been to one other wedding in my life and didn’t want to miss an opportunity.

That being said, as I was finding my seat for the ceremony and settling myself into my little white wedding foldy chair, I was also scouting out my exit (if needed).

There was a lot of murmuring and anxious noise around me as I and everyone else settled into our seats.  Crossing my legs and folding my arms across my chest, I leaned back and took in the exquisite details of this beautiful place as I waited for the processional to begin.  All the while an now-all-to-familiar epic silent battle on the topic of love and marriage was beginning to brew inside me between my post-divorce cynical self and my more natural naive & trusting self.  And this environment, complete with its strategic lighting, enlarged engagement photos seemingly everywhere I turned and readings from “The Art of Marriage” were doing absolutely nothing to quell the internal argument I was beginning to take on in row five on the bride’s side.

Though I hate to admit it, this past year has wrecked havoc on my whole attitude toward love.  Of everything that I have lost this year, trust is what I most wish I had back.

So there I was, sitting in my white wedding foldy chair, haphazardly looking through the wedding program while quietly trying to mediate the more negative thoughts being thrown my way, when the dim lights got even dimmer and Pachelbel’s Cannon and the wedding party began flowing down the aisle.  So I slowly put the program and my negative thoughts away while I uncrossed my arms and legs and leaned forward in my seat.  Vows were exchanged, readings were read, declarations of love were declared, new unions of family were made and in the end, James Brown’s “I Feel Good” followed the wedding party out.

And in the middle of row five on the bride’s side, I reclaimed a small part of my old self.

 

End of Summer Review

Today I was told I am a strong person.  I don’t know what that means.

But I do know what it is to just completely let go and leap off of a dock into frigid lake waters and into the heat of summer.

I know what it is to stand at the base of an immense waterfall and look up as the water spills down just before me.

I know what it is to close your eyes and just, trust it.

Today I was told I am a strong person.  And when I think back on it, there are a thousand tiny little moments this summer that gave me the strength to be where I am today.  And I am grateful for each and every one of them and for those who shared them with me.

…speeding up the side of a mountain in the middle of summer in a pickup truck as it fishtails right then left, kicking up gravel along the way…racing…just to catch a glimpse of the sunset at the top.  Gripping the edge of the open passenger window, my hair dancing in the wind.  A giant traffic gate and nearly 1/2 mile of logging road: the only things separating us from the spectacular summer view.  Truck doors slamming, and laughter as we first walk, then run the final 1/2 mile to the top….and then, the wind in the trees and my heart pounding- the only sounds I hear as I sit on a rock overlooking the Willamette Valley, looking down on the city I worked so hard to call home…

…a sloppy, wet, black nose…sniffing and snorting.  Working it’s way through my warm covers and sheets and efficiently making contact with my face on too many summer mornings.  Each time, I open my eyes and squint blearily into a dark pair of bright, shiny and expectant border collie eyes…mere millimeters away  from my own.  And how can I resist that?  Sighing, I flip the covers aside once again and climb out of bed to another day and a prancing Bella.  Countless miles I ran this summer,  and all with my faithful companion trotting happily at my side, orange frisbee in tow…

…a summer night.  Spent on the coast.  Sitting around a table, with family.   Playing cards in hand.   A partially eaten pepperoni and cheese pizza sitting on the edge of the hotel bed in an open box just over there.  Watching the sun sink into the ocean out on the horizon as I shamelessly curb-stomp my grandmother and aunt at a friendly game of funny rummy.  Beginner’s luck.  A lot of laughter.  Toss in some aluminum foil.  And a whole bunch of English tea…the way I will forever remember the three of us…

…sitting around a campfire with a couple of friends in camping foldy chairs.  Bella laying at my side.  Sturdy fire poker stick in hand, I occasionally poke at the fire as we talk idly away into the night.  Sometimes we don’t talk at all.  But just stare into the fire and listen to the sounds.  Of the campsites settling around us, the snap of the fire, laughter from a rowdy group two sites over.  Later, laying down in my own tent with Bella comfortingly at my side, her head on my chest, I watch those bright beady eyes, slowly opening and closing.  And she watches me.  I scratch the scruff around her neck and think about how thankful I am for good friends.  So I call out to my camp mates in the next tent over before closing my own eyes, “Goodnight guys!”

…”Night!”

Feels like I’m in the inbetween.  From where I’ve been and where I’m going.

Like I’m looking over my shoulder one last time as I walk away.

Like I’m peeking through a crack in a door I’m closing.

Feels like I’m letting go.

A lot like standing barefoot and uncertain on a warm wooden dock in the heat of summer did.  Just standing there, bouncing apprehensively from one foot to the other as the sweet summer scent of warm blackberries baking in the sun hangs in the air all around me.  Building the courage to let go and jump in.

And that was the moment really.  When I finally mustered up enough strength to completely let go and leap off of that dock into the frigid lake waters below and into the heat of summer and a new life.

What Hurts the Most

Memories of Dad

My first two-wheeled bike was the shade of pink that at some point, little girls grow out of and would rather be caught dead than to be seen with any association with the color in their later teen years. Nevertheless, at the age of about 6 or 7 I was proud to call it mine, and was determined to try it out at all costs, no matter how many falls it would take me to master the skill of bike riding. It was my father who was the first to announce that he felt I was ready to learn. Naturally, my mother, the more protective of the two, thought otherwise. Now that I think back on it, her reason for feeling that I wasn’t ready was probably due to her inability to let me grow up, more than due to her inability to stand there on the hot concrete and watch me whiz by her time after time, only to see my knobby knees and elbows hit that concrete.

Obviously, my father got his way. After he had taken me out to our dusky garage after a lazy summer dinner, and wheeled out that ever so pink, banana seat bicycle, he had me hooked. The minute my mother found the two of us out in the cooling driveway, adjusting the seat and handlebars, her face fell. I guess it was because she knew she had lost the battle in keeping her daughter safe around the house, and still her little girl. I guess she knew all too well that by the next evening she would have meticulously placed nearly 10 band aids up and down my scrapped limbs, only to do it again the next evening. I guess she knew that soon I would hardly be around the house anymore following her around, because it is a well know fact that once a child learns to ride a bike, some sort of intangible chain is broken, and that child gains this inexplicable freedom.

I wish she had warned me about how many band aids I’d need in order to learn that tricky thing called balance. Sure enough, the next day my father had taken me down to an abandoned parking lot to “avoid crashing into things,” my father insisted. How little did I know that even if there weren’t a single object on that rocky concrete for miles, I would still find a way to fall off that bike. However, this was all to be learned in time. As for that moment when we finally reached that parking lot, and I looked out from underneath my new plastic helmet at the pure vastness of it all, and then tilted my head up to take in my father’s reassuring face, I honestly felt like I could conquer the world. This feeling was short lived though, and dissipated quickly the moment I found myself sitting atop my banana seat, my hands gripping the handle bars too tightly, and looking down at my feet, scrambling to find their spot on the pedals. The minute my feet found their place, I peered back up at my father’s face as he struggled to keep the bike steady. I must have had the appearance of a cat in the water, completely out of my element. After much coaxing, encouragement, and instructions, we were off. My father pushing from behind, while I concentrated on my wobbling handle bars and tried to keep up with my legs that were attempting to pump the chain. I could conquer the world! This was easy! I craned my plastic head to smile back at my father, but to my horror he was standing about five feet behind me, jumping and waving, and before I knew it I was on the ground, tangled up in that mess of a bike. How could he just let go of me like that? I remember hearing him quickly cover those five feet of ground with those huge brown shoes of his, and him asking, “You all right?” I nodded my head, and soon he had that bike off me and underneath me once again, this time my knuckles turning white at the handle bars, and a long scrape on one of my legs.

I wish I could say that we made some progress that afternoon, but for the most part the entire day was spent with me trusting my dad to hold me up, and becoming frustrated with him when he wouldn’t, allowing me to fall to the ground yet once again.

Eventually I did master that tricky skill of balance, but only after nearly 30 band aids later, and many disapproving looks exchanged only between my mother and father. I didn’t know it at the time, but while spending those many afternoons out on that hot concrete with my father and my bicycle, I was learning perhaps the most valuable lesson of my life. A lesson that went even deeper than just knowing how to stay up on those two wheels: that I would not be able to have my father behind me all the time during my life. I learned not only how to ride a bike that summer. I learned that I could be independent as well, which is something I have never forgotten ever since that moment when I glanced behind me after I finally mastered the art of bike riding, and saw that proud expression on my father’s face as I pedaled unsteadily away from his assuring grasp into that huge parking lot.