I was sick last week, Peace Corps sick, seemingly never-ending stomach sick, call my mom and have her come over and take the kids to school 'cos I couldn't stand up sick, starting Wednesday night and not really ending until Sunday. It was total survival mode. Kids were dressed, fed, bathed, vaguely entertained, a freelance job was completed on schedule, and that was that. Five days of my life, vanished! Poof! Annoying.
But I'm well now and Maddie and Riley seem to have dodged the bullet. I think I ate something bad, actually. But who cares. It was boring and gross to actually be sick, and it's boring and gross to talk about it. So I'm stopping now.
Supposedly, I'm running a half marathon in October. I was training for a half marathon when John got diagnosed. Correction: I was OVERtraining for a half marathon when John got diagnosed. I'd managed to injure myself in the process and was totally focused on logging miles, doing speed training, and meeting a specific (quick!) goal for the finish. I'm about 12 weeks out from the half in October, so last week I started the Hal Higdon training program. Kinda. Sorta. I couldn't decide if I was novice or intermediate, and I'm still not sure how I'm going to do my longer weekend training runs since M&R can't really come with me. But I was ready to do the weekday stuff, which is all quite attainable during lunch hour workouts. Except when my schedule doesn't allow it. Like for the past two weeks. Between lunch meetings, being sick, all-day trainings, arriving late or leaving early and thus not taking a lunch, or other random interferences, I've barely worked out in over a week.
But! Despite that, tonight I ran an 8K after work, a race I signed up for a while ago to run with a college friend. Hot damn, that was one hilly course. I'm not a particularly good downhill runner; the pounding! The possibility of falling over (which I'm somehow prone to doing on downhills)! The infernal pounding, holy moly! And then the uphills, which are easier for me in terms of how my body handles them, but are nonetheless an assload of work. I earned my two free beers, served to me by an adorable boy who reminded me of John. It was a muggy-for-Oregon night, summery and glorious. Races make all the training (that training that I haven't been doing) worth it, the camaraderie and the food and the music and the drinks. Races are fun.
I'm still working on my liminal state, on many levels. I'm working on it through running, not timing myself, not caring when I finish, not checking the clock. I'm working on it by breathing, by stepping back, by reminding myself that this is the life I have, and that it's good. I'm pretty successful some of the time, less successful at other times.
******************************
I miss people lately, certain people, people from my past, some distant past, some more recent. Not John so much. I find that lately, for some reason, it's hard for me to recall the intensity of my feelings for John, but that intense feelings I had for people I haven't seen since high school are very present. I've dreamed about people from grad school, recalled people from my teens that were not a part of my active memory for the past twenty years, longed for old boyfriends, felt the thrill of old crushes.
Maybe it's that my twenty year high school reunion looms on the horizon in August. I have not been to any of my reunions. I'm in touch with a few people from high school, and that's been enough for me, especially since I've found a few more through Facebook. I certainly would never have traveled many miles to be at my reunion, but my thinking had changed since moving back to Portland; it's just a dinner in town: why not go? I RSVP'd yes when I got the initial invite, but have yet to actually pay for my ticket.
I have a healthy, successful life. I look good for someone who graduated twenty years ago, if I do say so myself. I can talk to anyone, and I'm sure I'd enjoy reconnecting with people and seeing how we've all changed, for better or for worse. Here's the thing, though: I don't want to talk about being a widow. I don't want to have to explain, over and over, that my spouse died. I don't want the pitying looks, I don't want the I'm sorrys. I don't even want the sincere sympathy. I don't want the life that I have right now to be seen as less because of losing John, or have it seem like something is missing. I want my life to be seen as legitimate, as whole and complete, for what it is. Nothing is bringing John back, and I miss him. But that does not mean that my life has a void or that it is anything less than whole. I don't want to have to explain what happened and talk about cancer and how hard it was and what a gift the kids are and blah blah blah. But that's what you do at reunions: you talk about the past, you talk about the journey you took to get where you are now, and that is a compelling and fairly recent part of my journey, so there's no getting around it. I just don't think I have it in me.
28 July 2010
21 July 2010
[ ]
It's probably some Lonely. CV is wise to advise me not to discount the Lonely.
But I do think that it's mostly arriving, for the first time in my life, at the point that I've been trying to get to without even really meaning to or knowing it. Is my life what I envisioned? Not really. Am I happy all the time? Certainly not. Will unexpected things happen that will shake it all up? Almost certainly.
But for the first time ever, I'm not deliberately living in the future. I'm not planning the Next Big Thing. I don't plan to move, at least not any further than across town and currently not even that. I don't plan to change jobs. I'm here, living this life, trying to enjoy what I have, nothing more, nothing less.
I know people who thrive on drama, who seek to create drama in their lives because without it, they don't know what to do. I'm not like that. Drama? No thanks. But I do handle change better than the average person, to the point that in the past, I have sought it out rather than become a victim of the fate of living in a rut. I think at least some of my recent unease comes from realizing that even in the rut, there are bumps in the road. I am not less of a person, no less strong or capable, if there are times in my life when the road is relatively smooth, when I let it guide me rather than clearing a new path just because I can. Just being is a challenge sometimes, a challenge for now, and a joy in many moments.
I've written the same post four times in the past week. Different words that arrive at the same conclusion, all pushing me towards peace with the fact that this is what I have, this life, right now. It's good. It's enough.
But I do think that it's mostly arriving, for the first time in my life, at the point that I've been trying to get to without even really meaning to or knowing it. Is my life what I envisioned? Not really. Am I happy all the time? Certainly not. Will unexpected things happen that will shake it all up? Almost certainly.
But for the first time ever, I'm not deliberately living in the future. I'm not planning the Next Big Thing. I don't plan to move, at least not any further than across town and currently not even that. I don't plan to change jobs. I'm here, living this life, trying to enjoy what I have, nothing more, nothing less.
I know people who thrive on drama, who seek to create drama in their lives because without it, they don't know what to do. I'm not like that. Drama? No thanks. But I do handle change better than the average person, to the point that in the past, I have sought it out rather than become a victim of the fate of living in a rut. I think at least some of my recent unease comes from realizing that even in the rut, there are bumps in the road. I am not less of a person, no less strong or capable, if there are times in my life when the road is relatively smooth, when I let it guide me rather than clearing a new path just because I can. Just being is a challenge sometimes, a challenge for now, and a joy in many moments.
I've written the same post four times in the past week. Different words that arrive at the same conclusion, all pushing me towards peace with the fact that this is what I have, this life, right now. It's good. It's enough.
18 July 2010
Yeah, pretty much.
Joy's right, I think.
Call it liminal, call it lonely, but what I'm really in is the calm after the storm. The cancer killed the husband, the grief is at an ebb, the kids are growing up, I'm back where I always wanted to be and I'm loving it with the job and the city and the family.
So is this it? Is this my life?
I don't want a new job. I'm thrilled to feel more like a human who is a mom rather than just a mom who is occasionally human. My family is here. I have a wonderful network of friends. I don't really want anything to change, and I haven't felt like this in years.
So perhaps this is what's unsettling to me, that this could be it. I mean, not that this is it; life is bound to change. That's the only constant in life, as the saying goes. But this is the first time in years when I'm not agitating for change, when I'm not actively seeking to make a drastic shift in my status. This is, in fact, the most settled I've been in my entire adult life, and it makes sense to me that this is all freaking me out a little.
Not only is being settled a concept that is, well, unsettling to me, but in being settled I have the relative luxury of noticing when I feel limnal, lonely, or liminally lonely. A year of settling in has made what's missing come to the surface, is forcing me to worry the rough bits that I could just ignore in the hubbub of change. It's all to the good, I'm sure, but it's also exhausting. Utterly, completely exhausting.
To bed with me. Good night.
Call it liminal, call it lonely, but what I'm really in is the calm after the storm. The cancer killed the husband, the grief is at an ebb, the kids are growing up, I'm back where I always wanted to be and I'm loving it with the job and the city and the family.
So is this it? Is this my life?
I don't want a new job. I'm thrilled to feel more like a human who is a mom rather than just a mom who is occasionally human. My family is here. I have a wonderful network of friends. I don't really want anything to change, and I haven't felt like this in years.
So perhaps this is what's unsettling to me, that this could be it. I mean, not that this is it; life is bound to change. That's the only constant in life, as the saying goes. But this is the first time in years when I'm not agitating for change, when I'm not actively seeking to make a drastic shift in my status. This is, in fact, the most settled I've been in my entire adult life, and it makes sense to me that this is all freaking me out a little.
Not only is being settled a concept that is, well, unsettling to me, but in being settled I have the relative luxury of noticing when I feel limnal, lonely, or liminally lonely. A year of settling in has made what's missing come to the surface, is forcing me to worry the rough bits that I could just ignore in the hubbub of change. It's all to the good, I'm sure, but it's also exhausting. Utterly, completely exhausting.
To bed with me. Good night.
17 July 2010
Taking a Beating
I'm emotionally downtrodden today.
There's an opening that is bound to hook in the readers, huh?
Even better, that's really kind of it. Downtrodden. Emotionally. That is my current state. Maddie and Riley tried my patience all afternoon yesterday and all day today, and I'm feeling not so great about how I handled it, but I think my reactions were more an indicator of my mood than their behavior was the cause of my current condition.
When I get short-tempered with the kids, I tend to get all Al-Anon on it and check for the HALTs: Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired. It's usually one of those four things. I always hope it's
Hungry or Tired because those feelings are actually quite easy to identify (although also easy to overlook) and relatively easy to fix. Yeah, sure, fixing Tired is an ongoing battle, but hey, there's always coffee. Hooray for the coffee!
Angry and Lonely are much harder to address. I'm not angry much anymore, really. Angry for me is lately most often caused by Hungry or Tired. Or is it Lonely? Is any of it Lonely? Is all of it Lonely?
Stupid Lonely. I seem to only recognize Lonely after the fact, sometimes years after the fact. Why was I an emotional wreck in the Peace Corps? I was totally fucking lonely all the time! Gold medal to the Peace Corps for being my ultimate example two nights in a row. A feeling of loneliness was one of the main things that drove me explore Al-Anon in the first place when living in Boston. I just felt off, incomplete, unfulfilled. Lonely. I guess.
And that's how I feel now, again. But it seems much less lonely in this moment. In this moment, it just feels transitional, liminal. Will I look back two years from now and picture myself on this summer evening, enjoying the late light, typing away in my pajamas, and think, "Damn fool woman, you sure were lonely back then."
If I am lonely, what to do? It's not like the kind of lonely that I experienced in Peace Corps or in Boston or perhaps now can be solved by inviting a friend over. I have lots of friends and I love them and they help me out in so many ways. If this is Lonely, this is a deeper Lonely, more of a kind of dissatisfaction and general malaise. There's no fixing this with a granola bar or a nap. There might not be any fixing it at all. In fact, I think I'm writing the same post now that I wrote last night, I'm just calling what I'm feeling something else, in which case it's just something to ride out and to be aware of and to control by seeking out what makes me feel at peace.
I think I'll cover all my bases by eating some ice cream and going to bed early, though. Can't hurt to try the quick fix.
There's an opening that is bound to hook in the readers, huh?
Even better, that's really kind of it. Downtrodden. Emotionally. That is my current state. Maddie and Riley tried my patience all afternoon yesterday and all day today, and I'm feeling not so great about how I handled it, but I think my reactions were more an indicator of my mood than their behavior was the cause of my current condition.
When I get short-tempered with the kids, I tend to get all Al-Anon on it and check for the HALTs: Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired. It's usually one of those four things. I always hope it's
Hungry or Tired because those feelings are actually quite easy to identify (although also easy to overlook) and relatively easy to fix. Yeah, sure, fixing Tired is an ongoing battle, but hey, there's always coffee. Hooray for the coffee!
Angry and Lonely are much harder to address. I'm not angry much anymore, really. Angry for me is lately most often caused by Hungry or Tired. Or is it Lonely? Is any of it Lonely? Is all of it Lonely?
Stupid Lonely. I seem to only recognize Lonely after the fact, sometimes years after the fact. Why was I an emotional wreck in the Peace Corps? I was totally fucking lonely all the time! Gold medal to the Peace Corps for being my ultimate example two nights in a row. A feeling of loneliness was one of the main things that drove me explore Al-Anon in the first place when living in Boston. I just felt off, incomplete, unfulfilled. Lonely. I guess.
And that's how I feel now, again. But it seems much less lonely in this moment. In this moment, it just feels transitional, liminal. Will I look back two years from now and picture myself on this summer evening, enjoying the late light, typing away in my pajamas, and think, "Damn fool woman, you sure were lonely back then."
If I am lonely, what to do? It's not like the kind of lonely that I experienced in Peace Corps or in Boston or perhaps now can be solved by inviting a friend over. I have lots of friends and I love them and they help me out in so many ways. If this is Lonely, this is a deeper Lonely, more of a kind of dissatisfaction and general malaise. There's no fixing this with a granola bar or a nap. There might not be any fixing it at all. In fact, I think I'm writing the same post now that I wrote last night, I'm just calling what I'm feeling something else, in which case it's just something to ride out and to be aware of and to control by seeking out what makes me feel at peace.
I think I'll cover all my bases by eating some ice cream and going to bed early, though. Can't hurt to try the quick fix.
16 July 2010
Liminal Friday
It's Friday. I'm drinking a gin and tonic with lots of lime. I just oiled my picnic table and did some weeding and the second load of laundry is in the washer and now it's 8:20 p.m. and I don't want to do any more chores and I don't want to go to bed and my book choices are a novel that I'm not loving and Moby Dick for book club.
I was an anthropology major in college, anthropology and French. I was not a particularly good anthropology student, but I enjoyed my studies and there are a few great moments and concepts in my education that have stuck with me over the years. You know, the TWENTY YEARS since I started college, holy cow. Ahem. Anyway. The top three are 1) falling out of desk when I dozed off during the one and only night class of my career; 2) spitting into my hand upon being directed by a professor to do so, holding the saliva there for some crazy long time, like 20 minutes or more, then LICKING IT BACK UP; the lecture was on cultural concepts of disgust; and 3) the idea of liminality. I'm sure there's a fine Wikipedia page that I could link to about liminality, but as I understand it and all that matters for what's on my mind tonight is that liminality is the quality of existing between two states. You are neither A nor B, you are in the process of moving from one to the other and in doing so you are not wholly one or the other.
The bulk of my life has felt liminal to me. I've never been very comfortable with the idea of arriving at a state and just being there. I'm almost always on the way to another state of being, although I've been more grounded at some times than at others. When I committed to the Peace Corps, for example, the transition to being a volunteer was liminal for sure, but the time I served was pretty focused. I was present because I had made the commitment to be present for the time that I was volunteering. As the end of my service drew near, the liminal state began again during my search for what to do next, but the bulk of my active service was one of the most non-liminal times of my life.
I prefer to be in control in all areas of my life, although I've learned a lot over the years about what I can control (very little, as it would happen) and what I can't (a whole hell of a lot). I'm not change adverse, at least when I'm the one deciding to make a change. Liminality can be unsettling, uprooting, destabilizing, but when I'm making a conscious decision to enter a period of transition, I tend to find that time exciting, invigorating, and full of promise. When, however, the liminal state comes upon me not of my own choosing, I'm much less sanguine about the whole thing.
Like now.
I'm in love with so much of my life right now. I love Portland. I love four year olds. I love my job, at least to the extent that I'm going to love any job. I love living near my family. I love my bike! I love being in a grief place where I'm not angry all the fucking time. I love being financially stable. I love my friends. I love summer. I have a whole lotta love.
At the same time, I feel like I'm just getting to know myself. The lenses through which I define myself are there for me to choose. Or do they choose me? I've never defined myself through my job, although I do enjoy the work that I do. Parenthood is certainly a key piece of my identity, but is still but one facet of a larger whole. As Maddie and Riley become more independent and as the circumstances of my life allow me to regain more autonomy, I find myself stymied and existential: who am I, really? How do I want to present myself to the outside world? How does the outside world see me, and how does that compare to how I see myself? What kind of role model do I want to be for my kids? What do I need to be happy/complete/fulfilled?
It's not like I sit around on my couch eating bon-bons and thinking about how I define myself. I'm not looking to go on an Eat, Pray, Love-style journey of self-discovery. (OMeffingG don't even get me started on how much I hated that book). I do, though, feel unsettled and unsure of how to figure it all out. I'm trying to just be with the lack of being, but it's not an easy place for me to live. And it's not something I feel like I can talk through. I feel like it's one of those things that's going to take experimenting and false steps and learning through mistakes. Sounds a bit dreadful, to be honest. I'd hoped at this stage in my life to have gone through enough to obviate that for a while. But I guess that's not my lot in life. So for now I'm running and biking and dating (not much, I'm afraid) and talking and loving the things I love and avoiding the things that I don't. I'm trying to be patient. The hardest part is that there is no end date to this particular unchosen liminal state. I don't know what it is that will make it feel like it's over, make me feel like I'm settled, even if only for a while.
I was an anthropology major in college, anthropology and French. I was not a particularly good anthropology student, but I enjoyed my studies and there are a few great moments and concepts in my education that have stuck with me over the years. You know, the TWENTY YEARS since I started college, holy cow. Ahem. Anyway. The top three are 1) falling out of desk when I dozed off during the one and only night class of my career; 2) spitting into my hand upon being directed by a professor to do so, holding the saliva there for some crazy long time, like 20 minutes or more, then LICKING IT BACK UP; the lecture was on cultural concepts of disgust; and 3) the idea of liminality. I'm sure there's a fine Wikipedia page that I could link to about liminality, but as I understand it and all that matters for what's on my mind tonight is that liminality is the quality of existing between two states. You are neither A nor B, you are in the process of moving from one to the other and in doing so you are not wholly one or the other.
The bulk of my life has felt liminal to me. I've never been very comfortable with the idea of arriving at a state and just being there. I'm almost always on the way to another state of being, although I've been more grounded at some times than at others. When I committed to the Peace Corps, for example, the transition to being a volunteer was liminal for sure, but the time I served was pretty focused. I was present because I had made the commitment to be present for the time that I was volunteering. As the end of my service drew near, the liminal state began again during my search for what to do next, but the bulk of my active service was one of the most non-liminal times of my life.
I prefer to be in control in all areas of my life, although I've learned a lot over the years about what I can control (very little, as it would happen) and what I can't (a whole hell of a lot). I'm not change adverse, at least when I'm the one deciding to make a change. Liminality can be unsettling, uprooting, destabilizing, but when I'm making a conscious decision to enter a period of transition, I tend to find that time exciting, invigorating, and full of promise. When, however, the liminal state comes upon me not of my own choosing, I'm much less sanguine about the whole thing.
Like now.
I'm in love with so much of my life right now. I love Portland. I love four year olds. I love my job, at least to the extent that I'm going to love any job. I love living near my family. I love my bike! I love being in a grief place where I'm not angry all the fucking time. I love being financially stable. I love my friends. I love summer. I have a whole lotta love.
At the same time, I feel like I'm just getting to know myself. The lenses through which I define myself are there for me to choose. Or do they choose me? I've never defined myself through my job, although I do enjoy the work that I do. Parenthood is certainly a key piece of my identity, but is still but one facet of a larger whole. As Maddie and Riley become more independent and as the circumstances of my life allow me to regain more autonomy, I find myself stymied and existential: who am I, really? How do I want to present myself to the outside world? How does the outside world see me, and how does that compare to how I see myself? What kind of role model do I want to be for my kids? What do I need to be happy/complete/fulfilled?
It's not like I sit around on my couch eating bon-bons and thinking about how I define myself. I'm not looking to go on an Eat, Pray, Love-style journey of self-discovery. (OMeffingG don't even get me started on how much I hated that book). I do, though, feel unsettled and unsure of how to figure it all out. I'm trying to just be with the lack of being, but it's not an easy place for me to live. And it's not something I feel like I can talk through. I feel like it's one of those things that's going to take experimenting and false steps and learning through mistakes. Sounds a bit dreadful, to be honest. I'd hoped at this stage in my life to have gone through enough to obviate that for a while. But I guess that's not my lot in life. So for now I'm running and biking and dating (not much, I'm afraid) and talking and loving the things I love and avoiding the things that I don't. I'm trying to be patient. The hardest part is that there is no end date to this particular unchosen liminal state. I don't know what it is that will make it feel like it's over, make me feel like I'm settled, even if only for a while.
08 July 2010
Reminders
I've thought about cancer a lot lately. I've been watching DVDs of the TV show Breaking Bad, in which the main character is diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. The writers really nailed the realities of treatment. Unpleasant, and unpleasant memories. Riley got a bloody nose the other day; I wasn't even home for it, but hearing our nanny talk about it and then worrying about whether or not it would start again made me really edgy.
In general, I've been off my game for a week or so. I'm distracted by and disinterested in work. The kids have eaten pasta with red sauce for three dinners in a row. I can't seem to focus on getting chores done once the kids are in bed, nor can I concentrate on reading a book or much on watching TV. Running doesn't feel good; my legs hurt and I feel like my body is made of lead. I haven't been eating particularly well. I'm very much adrift.
The drifting feeling has been more acute during this short holiday week. I can't seem to complete tasks at home or at work, have dropped the ball on a few things at the office, feel disproportionately annoyed by how bad traffic has been, and just have a feeling of not being able to cope, like at any minute the tenuous grasp I have on things could be lost and it could all spin out of control.
There's no telling why I feel this way during an otherwise even-keel time in life, but I think a contributing factor is how perfectly lovely the July 4 weekend was. The glow of the weekend was unexpected given my mindset going in. I didn't feel all that great in the week leading up to it, the same disconnected feeling I have now, but less acute. And I entered the weekend with some trepidation. A Peace Corps friend of mine, someone I hadn't seen in years and am really only in sporadic touch with, spent the holiday with us from Saturday morning through late Monday evening. While our contact has been infrequent, this friend has been important to me in small, meaningful ways. For one thing, she is the one who created stuffed animals for me and the kids out of John's clothes after he died. She writes a culinary newsletter that has inspired my cooking for years, and from time to time, I've recieved lovely little packages in the mail from her containing spices or other edible treats. She's unmarried, no kids, and is extremely independent in all senses of the word. I was a bit concerned that the logistics of sightseeing and visiting with kids would drag her down, or that Maddie and Riley would be crabby about having to divide their mama time with a visitor, or who knows what. I was a bit apprehensive, in any case.
All for naught. From the moment we picked her up downtown on Saturday morning, everything just worked out. The kids adored her. Adored her. She didn't talk down to them or try to curry their favor, she just let them come to her and she treated them with respect and kindness at every turn. They responded in kind. We did a very little bit of touristing, driven by A's particular interests—artisan chocolate shop, food carts, coop grocery store, berry picking—but we also spent a lot of time just being. She integrated seamlessly into our life. We cooked, we played in the yard, we attended dinner at a friend's home, and a BBQ with my parents. We walked and biked, we talked about all kinds of things. It was completely relaxing, or as relaxing as any mostly-structured time can be with kids. It was, quite simply, nice. The kids and I were all sad to see her go on Monday.
I've been thinking about it since she left, and I've realized that the weekend made me miss all of the good, idealized things about being married. It was so calmly pleasant to enjoy shared interests in someone's company, to keep track of the kids with two sets of eyes instead of just one, to let the kids take turns getting one-on-one interaction time with us. What a novelty to only field one question at at time, rapid-fire as the questions might have been! It was the ease of it all that struck me, the comfort, the effortlessness. It's not always like that, I know. But sometimes it is. And I can't remember the last time I experienced that for a sustained period of time.
I liked it. I miss it. I appreciate my life as it is now, but I do miss that companionship. Not enough to actively look for it right now, but enough to feel happy that I had it for a weekend and wistful that for the moment, it's gone.
In general, I've been off my game for a week or so. I'm distracted by and disinterested in work. The kids have eaten pasta with red sauce for three dinners in a row. I can't seem to focus on getting chores done once the kids are in bed, nor can I concentrate on reading a book or much on watching TV. Running doesn't feel good; my legs hurt and I feel like my body is made of lead. I haven't been eating particularly well. I'm very much adrift.
The drifting feeling has been more acute during this short holiday week. I can't seem to complete tasks at home or at work, have dropped the ball on a few things at the office, feel disproportionately annoyed by how bad traffic has been, and just have a feeling of not being able to cope, like at any minute the tenuous grasp I have on things could be lost and it could all spin out of control.
There's no telling why I feel this way during an otherwise even-keel time in life, but I think a contributing factor is how perfectly lovely the July 4 weekend was. The glow of the weekend was unexpected given my mindset going in. I didn't feel all that great in the week leading up to it, the same disconnected feeling I have now, but less acute. And I entered the weekend with some trepidation. A Peace Corps friend of mine, someone I hadn't seen in years and am really only in sporadic touch with, spent the holiday with us from Saturday morning through late Monday evening. While our contact has been infrequent, this friend has been important to me in small, meaningful ways. For one thing, she is the one who created stuffed animals for me and the kids out of John's clothes after he died. She writes a culinary newsletter that has inspired my cooking for years, and from time to time, I've recieved lovely little packages in the mail from her containing spices or other edible treats. She's unmarried, no kids, and is extremely independent in all senses of the word. I was a bit concerned that the logistics of sightseeing and visiting with kids would drag her down, or that Maddie and Riley would be crabby about having to divide their mama time with a visitor, or who knows what. I was a bit apprehensive, in any case.
All for naught. From the moment we picked her up downtown on Saturday morning, everything just worked out. The kids adored her. Adored her. She didn't talk down to them or try to curry their favor, she just let them come to her and she treated them with respect and kindness at every turn. They responded in kind. We did a very little bit of touristing, driven by A's particular interests—artisan chocolate shop, food carts, coop grocery store, berry picking—but we also spent a lot of time just being. She integrated seamlessly into our life. We cooked, we played in the yard, we attended dinner at a friend's home, and a BBQ with my parents. We walked and biked, we talked about all kinds of things. It was completely relaxing, or as relaxing as any mostly-structured time can be with kids. It was, quite simply, nice. The kids and I were all sad to see her go on Monday.
I've been thinking about it since she left, and I've realized that the weekend made me miss all of the good, idealized things about being married. It was so calmly pleasant to enjoy shared interests in someone's company, to keep track of the kids with two sets of eyes instead of just one, to let the kids take turns getting one-on-one interaction time with us. What a novelty to only field one question at at time, rapid-fire as the questions might have been! It was the ease of it all that struck me, the comfort, the effortlessness. It's not always like that, I know. But sometimes it is. And I can't remember the last time I experienced that for a sustained period of time.
I liked it. I miss it. I appreciate my life as it is now, but I do miss that companionship. Not enough to actively look for it right now, but enough to feel happy that I had it for a weekend and wistful that for the moment, it's gone.
01 July 2010
Thinking
It used to be that I never listened to music when I ran. Then I started listening to NPR. Then music. Then nothing again. Lately, I usually have my iPod with me and I've set up a few playlists for when I head out for a run.
I've been thinking a lot lately about why I run. The two main reasons are that it's the most efficient form of exercise I know and that I feel both mentally and physically more sound when I run regularly. In the past, I've focused more on the efficiency of running and the resulting physical benefits. I constantly strive to go faster and longer, figuring that the harder I work physically, the greater the associated mental health gains will be.
I'm starting to realize that this is not necessarily true. It occurred to me the other day that in general in my life, I'm all too good at taking the hard road. The easy road does not come, well, easy to me. By nature, I choose the path of most resistance rather than the path of least. And so with running, I've come to believe that if I enjoy the run, I must not have been going fast enough. Or that I should have run an additional mile. Enjoy exercise? That's not allowed!
Over the past few weeks, I've worked on adjusting this attitude. I've stopped timing my runs. I still measure my distance; I'm planning to run a half marathon in the fall, and I need to be sure that I log the miles in order to do that race without injuring myself. But the time it takes me to do the runs? I'm trying not to care, because if I don't time myself, I can't use the results to beat myself up or gloat about a new personal best.
I've also stopped bringing my iPod with me. Sometimes. Running is some of the only time I get truly to myself, and I've tried to focus on letting my thoughts be where they need and want to be, on enjoying my surroundings. This has met with varying degrees of success. Often, I end up thinking about how I just want to be done with the running already. In those moments, I try to slow down a little, or speed up, or notice something scenic. I try to be in the moment, as corny as it sounds.
Yesterday, I ended up reading an article in a running magazine about meditating while running. Coincidentally, a friend posted something on Facebook about praying while running. Inspired, today I combined the two. I did a three-mile run, untimed, no iPod, and the whole time I recited the serenity prayer to the rhythm of my footfalls. It took me a while to find a natural way to fit the words to the beat of my feet on the pavement, but it came together. For the last mile, I slowed it down to half time, although for the final push at the end, I took it back to my original pace. Sometimes, I was completely lost in the rhythm and the words. Other times, my mind wandered, and I'd lose my place. At one point, I completely forgot the first line of the prayer.
I can't say that this was an aha! moment for me, but it was . . . something. A good practice? I think so. The mental discipline of focusing on just those words, just that rhythm, was as challenging if not more so than the running itself. I think I'll do it again, not every time I run, but sometimes. Anything that can help me be more gentle with myself is a worthwhile practice. Anything is worth doing if it can help me accept that easy and bad are not synonyms, nor are difficult and better. Martyrdom is not attractive, and it doesn't make me happy. It's nice to start letting it go.
I've been thinking a lot lately about why I run. The two main reasons are that it's the most efficient form of exercise I know and that I feel both mentally and physically more sound when I run regularly. In the past, I've focused more on the efficiency of running and the resulting physical benefits. I constantly strive to go faster and longer, figuring that the harder I work physically, the greater the associated mental health gains will be.
I'm starting to realize that this is not necessarily true. It occurred to me the other day that in general in my life, I'm all too good at taking the hard road. The easy road does not come, well, easy to me. By nature, I choose the path of most resistance rather than the path of least. And so with running, I've come to believe that if I enjoy the run, I must not have been going fast enough. Or that I should have run an additional mile. Enjoy exercise? That's not allowed!
Over the past few weeks, I've worked on adjusting this attitude. I've stopped timing my runs. I still measure my distance; I'm planning to run a half marathon in the fall, and I need to be sure that I log the miles in order to do that race without injuring myself. But the time it takes me to do the runs? I'm trying not to care, because if I don't time myself, I can't use the results to beat myself up or gloat about a new personal best.
I've also stopped bringing my iPod with me. Sometimes. Running is some of the only time I get truly to myself, and I've tried to focus on letting my thoughts be where they need and want to be, on enjoying my surroundings. This has met with varying degrees of success. Often, I end up thinking about how I just want to be done with the running already. In those moments, I try to slow down a little, or speed up, or notice something scenic. I try to be in the moment, as corny as it sounds.
Yesterday, I ended up reading an article in a running magazine about meditating while running. Coincidentally, a friend posted something on Facebook about praying while running. Inspired, today I combined the two. I did a three-mile run, untimed, no iPod, and the whole time I recited the serenity prayer to the rhythm of my footfalls. It took me a while to find a natural way to fit the words to the beat of my feet on the pavement, but it came together. For the last mile, I slowed it down to half time, although for the final push at the end, I took it back to my original pace. Sometimes, I was completely lost in the rhythm and the words. Other times, my mind wandered, and I'd lose my place. At one point, I completely forgot the first line of the prayer.
I can't say that this was an aha! moment for me, but it was . . . something. A good practice? I think so. The mental discipline of focusing on just those words, just that rhythm, was as challenging if not more so than the running itself. I think I'll do it again, not every time I run, but sometimes. Anything that can help me be more gentle with myself is a worthwhile practice. Anything is worth doing if it can help me accept that easy and bad are not synonyms, nor are difficult and better. Martyrdom is not attractive, and it doesn't make me happy. It's nice to start letting it go.
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