Between Dusk and Darkness

I scrambled to get out the door. Tying back my hair with both hands and holding gloves in my teeth I zipped around my house looking for my jacket. I darted out the door with one arm in the coat and the other shoving my house key in my pocket. I looked up at the setting sun and hoped to get my 6-mile run in before dark. I couldn’t find my headlamp and ran out of time.

It took a few minutes for my panicked, still rushing pace to settle into normal. I tried breathing and relaxing and just letting my feet do the work. It had been a day of rushing around. By the time I reached my second mile, I found my rhythym and started to believe I might have just enough light to make it home.

At about the halfway point, I hit the last uphill and my favorite place on this route, the bridge. All the uphills to get there payoff when I can see the sky stretching out on either side, and a busy road of cars passing under my feet traveling right into the sunset. After winding through the woods it is refreshing to stand in a place with a clear view for miles. 

Despite my rush to beat the darkness I stopped on the bridge. I looked to my left and saw an almost full moon glowing in the dusty blue sky. I looked to my right and saw nothing but streaks of pink and orange that seemed to be burning, as if the sun was flashing a rainbow of warmth, begging to be seen and appreciated before sinking into darkness for the day. I snapped a picture of the view from either side. 

This place between light and dark is so breathtakingly beautiful. The blaze orange sun and moon rising seem to promise hope when we cannot define exactly where we are. Maybe we don’t need to. Maybe we only need to stand still for a minute and just appreciate that every moment cannot be confined to a category, word, or place. Sometimes we are in the middle of something beyond definition—between dusk and darkness. We are not quite where we used to be and not quite where we want to be yet.

But there is beauty in that space. There is movement and energy and something just necessary about appreciating the bridge as its own location. I spent the rest of the run trying to take in the subtle shifts in  light and color that happen at dusk. 

A lot of times we are in such a rush to get from one place to another that by the time we arrive we can’t remember how we got there. We miss all of those subtle changes in our environment and in ourselves. In my experience, growth, change, life—they don’t happen in dramatic shifts. They happen as gradually as the sun sets and seasons change. It’s one foot in front of the other until we arrive. Many of those steps are mundane or even painful. But let’s not be in such a rush that we miss those glorious places—the places where we have a clear and beautiful view of where we have come from, and where we are going. No matter what deadline we have placed on ourselves to be somewhere or become something, there is enough time to pause for a second and realize wherever we are rushing to is no more beautiful than the place we are right now.  

It Only Takes a Second

I find a new semester, with the calendar is already filled, and the to-do list already long, intimidating. My first instinct is to put my head down, get to work, crossing the off days one at a time. Then I remind myself I want to do more than just get through it. I’ve been thinking about how I want to focus this semester.

Over my vacation I heard several times from different places “it only takes a second of courage.” I realized that maybe courage works that way. In short bursts that allow us to do what we are most afraid of. Maybe none of us really has courage all of the time, but we can find it, for just a few seconds, when we need it. There are moments and chances to grab on to it for just long enough to do the thing we fear.

It only takes a second. I want to be open to those opportunities to seize courage. When do I only need a second of courage? Or a minute? In what ways do you need to be brave for only a few seconds?

As I think about this semester, about running a marathon and donating my kidney at the end of it, and a full work and school schedule I am totally overwhelmed. If I want to do more than get through it, then I where I might need some courage becomes pretty clear.

I am afraid to face all of this alone.

Courage means admitting that fear. It means being vulnerable. It means allowing people to help me and throwing those needs into the universe and hoping, praying that acknowledging them out loud might be the way to meet them. Sometimes it takes a few seconds of courage to voice the things that matter most and depending on others to help us find our way.

I was talking about all of this, about asking for help and accepting it and memories of my first marathon came flooding back. I remember asking a bunch of people for prayers and short notes for me to read during the race. A request that only took a few seconds of courage—a few seconds where I revealed how scared I was of doing this and that I needed support. I found love there in places I never expected. Beyond notes, of which there were many, were care packages and cookies and phone calls. I felt like dozens of people were in Oklahoma, running with me in their own ways. Thinking about those people throughout the race, about how many people cared that I was doing this, gave me the strength to keep going in so many places. Thinking about sharing the stories with friends and family, helped those miles pass along and helped me take it all in.

Love and support is out there. But sometimes you have to ask for it. Ironically, courage sometimes is admitting we need help and letting go of independence. Not because we are weak, but because the big journeys demand collective strength. We could put our heads down and get through it, never letting others in, but then we’d miss the joy that comes from sharing it. We’d miss the strength we can draw on when our own has run out.

It only takes a second of courage to put yourself out there, whether it’s asking for help, or letting someone know how you really feel, or speaking some challenging truth. It only takes a second. Will you be ready when it comes?

You Have No Idea...

“You have no idea what you are in for.” I was in a dormitory rec room the first time I heard those words. It was the end of two weeks of intense Resident Assistant training. I was feeling prepared and excited to begin this new role. In a meeting with all of the new RAs, the Associate Director of Res Life looked around at all of us and said this. Not only did those words prove true then, I think of them at the beginning of every new journey: new jobs, grad school, a year of service, or marathon training plans. I realize when I say, “yes,” no matter how much training or preparation I have gone through to get to that yes, I have no idea what I am in for.

These words occurred to me again as I finished filling out the on-line registration form for the Flying Pig Marathon coming up on May 6^th. It will be my 3^rd marathon and last major race before another major event. I am donating a kidney to my father shortly after that marathon concludes.

Two big physical yeses and I have no idea what I am in for.

But when do we ever really know? When we make any kind of decision can we ever know what will come of it? We always have to say “yes” or “no” without all of the information.

All we have to know is “why.” Nietzsche once said “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” Why do I want to run another marathon and why do I want to give my dad my kidney? And why, friends, do you want to do the things you want to do this year? What are your reasons for saying yes or no to the things that you do?

My answer? I believe in saying yes to things that scare me. When I stare at a distant goal, and tremble at the sacrifice needed to achieve it, and simultaneously cannot imagine anything I want more? Those are the opportunities I don’t want to pass up. Those are the journeys that make me feel most alive. Those are the yeses that come out of deep hope and love. And that’s where I want to live. Out of that place. Not out of the fear of not knowing what to expect. If my why is love then the how will take care of itself.

Running a marathon and donating a kidney are yeses that come from the same place. When I look back on my life, as I am wont to do at the end of one year and beginning of another, I want to know I said yes to the things that matter most to me. I want to know that I was open to transformation, to risk, to opportunities to put love into action in ways that only I can. I want to know I pushed myself — that I believed enough in my reasons to say yes without knowing entirely what to expect along the way.

That’s the why. Because I believe love, hope, and faith will beat fear, doubt, and apathy every time. The “how” remains to be seen. Five months of training runs, followed by running 26.2 miles in a row and a major surgery for my dad and me aren’t the most predictable of scenarios. It’s a new year. I know I have no idea what I am in for.  But I can’t wait to find out. 

All These Dreams

The fear inside, the hills we’ve climbed the tears this side of heaven, all these dreams inside of me I swear we’re gonna get there... sooner or later—Mat Kearney

What do you really want and need? A question I have been trying to answer for months, in what seems like all arenas of my life. Work, school, relationships, free time, even for dinner. Try thinking about that question every time you make a decision. It is surprisingly difficult to answer.

Not only is it difficult to answer, it’s scary. There are layers to it and when those layers get pulled back we are faced with raw desires that might not be easily satisfied. Then what? What if what we want and need we simply can’t have right now?

As I have been running alone on these dark winter nights, this question has surfaced over and over again. I’ve celebrated finally finding some pieces after months of uncertainty—a new job and a school program that seem to be the perfect fit for what I most want and need out of my career right now—and wondered about the pieces that remain. There are many. As I get closer to the truth of those remaining needs, the quest for meeting them seems daunting, even impossible at times.

Living in your own truth, deciding what you most want and need, it is an essential part of the human journey. No one can decide this for you and yet so often we let others tell us what is best for us. Whether it is pressure from advertising or culture—bigger houses, promotions, marriage and children, new cars—or just advice on how to live from family and friends. In my life, the dreams I am most passionate about are the ones that are the most impossible to explain to anyone else, the ones that don’t make sense on paper.

It takes courage to stand firm in your truth. It is so much easier to accept a life decided for us. To never question whether or not we are settling. It is no easy task to put your real dreams out in front of you. To risk going for them. What if we fail? What if people think we are crazy? That’s us out there on the line. It costs us so much less to fail to reach a dream that was never our own to begin with.

It is because of running I am able to discover and go after my own dreams. Running in the dark makes it hard to look anywhere else but inside. Sometimes running itself is the thing I most want and need, and sometimes it’s the vehicle to a clearer picture of what that is. Sometimes running just reminds me that I don’t have it all figured out yet but I am, nonetheless, still moving on my own path. I have been out in the dark, a long way from home and hurting, wondering if I will ever finish. I would rather be in that darkness than someone else’s light. It’s there that I know my own strength. In the darkness I have faith that this won’t last forever. I discover in those times, if I keep believing, I will find what I need inside to face any obstacle.

With every run I shake off the noise of our environment and the burden of others’ expectations to find myself—raw, vulnerable, full of dreams, and fighting to believe that sooner or later I will find my way to them and all the fear, hills and tears will all be worth it.  

New Shoes and Forgiveness

The word “forgiveness” seems to be echoing out of every song, book, and conversation I encounter these days. It resonates just a bit louder than the words around it. I’ve let the idea of forgiveness swirl around me in the air. I am aware it is there but not sure what to do with it. Occasionally I ponder it for a bit and then put it in the shelves of my mind, letting it sit until it is the right time to pull it out again. The other night, forgiveness whispered, gently encouraging me to take it off the shelf and give it a good, long look. This invitation, warm and welcoming, came in the form of neon-colored running shoes.

Normally I wait until I have shin splints or at least 300 miles on a pair of shoes to get new ones. At 275 I decided I was ready, no matter what the numbers said, to replace my shoes. It seemed a frivolous, impulsive purchase at the time.

That was until I saw the color of these shoes. As anyone who has been fitted for running shoes knows, you decide on the style that works best for your foot, and take whatever color that model happens to be. I’ve been buying the same shoes for five years at the mercy of shoe manufacturer to decide the color. This time, I had a choice. Electric blue and green and in my size? I couldn’t wait to put them on.

 Mizuno Wave Inspire 8s finally in fabulous colors!

New shoes are like magic. I took them for their inaugural run and had energy and spring in my step again. The knee problems I’d suffered from for weeks melted away. I felt like I was running on pillows. It was the rare run that from the start I knew I would be great. Hills would be easy and I could go for as long as I liked, enjoying the feeling of light feet and freedom.

About a mile into this run the excitement of new shoes faded into thoughts about the issue at hand. Forgiveness. Again that word came up as I ran by Christmas lights on trees and nativity sets in yards. Who or what did I need to forgive? I turned a corner and ran by a park I had only previously run by in the daylight. A row of trees glowed, their silhouettes illuminated by dots of white light. Against the inky darkness, the light was stunning. It was as if the stars wrapped themselves around the trees and made their homes a little closer to the earth for the Christmas season.

Light in darkness, Christmas, the end of the year, and a new pair of shoes. I realized all of this was an invitation to hope. The only way I could make room for hope, however was to let go and forgive. It’s been a tough year full of mistakes, frustration, heartache and hard work getting through it. It was time to let it go. Time to let the wounds of the past heal into scars of strength for the future. These lessons and stories are all a part of us, but the hurt, doubt and anger are heavy to carry. Those could be left in the closet with the old shoes.

Forgiveness, for ourselves and others points the way to peace within. I pray that carried by new running shoes, we make room for the light of hope to wrap itself around us, illuminating the beauty and joy that comes with peaceful acceptance of who we are, and what we will be.

Wishing you all a Merry Christmas!

Comfortable Being Uncomfortable

I recently ran the Jingle Bell Run 5K, finishing off my racing season for 2011. It’s been a year of learning but my past three races have taught me one big lesson: Racing, if you are doing it right, is uncomfortable.

A lot is written about the value of negative splitting, or finishing the second half of a race faster than the first. Beginning marathon guides go on ad nauseaum about holding back and saving some energy for the end. While I understand the theory, and maybe there was a time I needed to hear it, that advice is not working for me anymore.

The last three races I have gone out in a pace I wasn’t sure I could sustain. I felt like I was pushing myself, breathing hard, not able to talk, and focused on nothing but running. This is not nearly as fun as a casual run while chatting with a friend. This kind of running involves a lot of positive self-talk, and refusing, over and over again, to let up. In short, these runs have been uncomfortable.

As difficult as these races have been, there is no describing the feeling of looking at my watch and realizing I am running fast. That my time at the finish may be better than I thought possible. One quick time-check at a mile marker is incentive to endure the discomfort. Water, rest, a break…none of those things are worth trading for the feeling of being fast. In dieting, it’s been said, “no food tastes as good as skinny feels.” Likewise no comfortable pace feels as good as a PR feels.

I’ve spent a lot of time holding back in races. Saving energy or pacing myself or whatever. I’ve learned holding back is limiting myself. The last three races, I’ve gone out hard and held on. I’ve realized that getting to those mile markers with fast splits is teaching me the value of sustained discomfort. It’s in that space, if we can stay with it long enough, we get better. 

Maybe negative splitting isn’t always a positive strategy. I got to the end of the Jingle Bell Run and didn’t have a finishing kick. My last mile was a solid 30 seconds slower than my first. But my overall time was the fastest I’ve had in two years. I had nothing left at the end. I knew I ran as hard as I could for as long as I could. It was uncomfortable. Hard. And nothing could have been more satisfying.

We play conservative a lot in life. We hold back our best for fear we might lose it if we put it to the test. We wait too long or late in the race to make up time. At that point it’s too late: we’ve settled into comfortable and it becomes hard to imagine we have a better “best.” As long as we are holding something back we aren’t becoming what we can really be.

As T.S. Eliot said “only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.” The thing about going out hard is there isn’t any wondering “what if.” The secret to racing, and maybe more than racing, is finding a way to be comfortable being uncomfortable. To put in enough effort from the start that we risk the certainty that we can hold on or finish. In that uncertainty and discomfort we find out what we can endure for what is most important to us. 

Chasing the Light

Rain poured from the sky. I kept putting my arm out the front door and pulling it back in, evaluating just how wet I might get, and if the rain would stop soon. It was 5 p.m. and dark. I was in my running clothes, keys in my pocket, and headlamp switched on. I played the arm game for 15 minutes before I reminded myself I’d run the better part of marathons in rain and it was time to get out the door, or put on my pajamas. I trudged into the darkness.

About three miles in I realized just how dark, windy and wet it was outside. I entered a neighborhood with narrow roads and no streetlights. Mansions are set into hillsides so even porch lights and living room lamps shining through windows didn’t offer their usual ambient glow. It was only because of the tiny beam of my headlamp that I could see at all.

As I struggled up one of the hills I started to question why I was doing this. I thought about why I chose an eight-mile route on a night like this and even questioned the safety of running in this darkness. As I shuffled these cards of questions in my mind, familiar questions about life came up like pesky jokers in the deck. Where am I going, really? Not just on this run but in my family? Work? Relationships? School? Am I making the right choices? How can I know if I am gong the right direction when it’s so dark?

Just as uncertainty was rising in me like the panic that sets in when you are lost and you know you might have made a wrong turn miles ago, I happened to look sideways at one of the lawns. So close I could have reached out and touched her was a giant doe eating the grass. I caught my breath in my throat and slowed my pace. She looked up at me and right into my eyes. We stood there staring at each other for just a second. I exhaled and continued on and she went back to eating.

The lost, panicked feeling of a moment ago was replaced as fast as it came with calm relief. The darkness now seemed safe, even peaceful. The beam of my headlamp was all the light I needed. When I got home I read this quote:

Life's answers lie within. Life's questions can be answered from within. Running is the medium through which these answers will be revealed. All you have to do is look, listen, feel and trust.

As you advance to greater challenges, you will continue to gain knowledge of yourself. Periodically you will be required to reach ever deeper in to your inner being, seeking out the strength needed to continue the endeavor of the moment. The strength you seek is layered within. The number of layers in infinite. All you have to do is believe, have faith in yourself, and expect to find that which you seek."--Keith Pippin

There may be periods of darkness and rain, and they may last for awhile, but darkness doesn’t necessarily mean stop. Darkness beckons us to look for grace in unfamiliar places—like right next to us, close enough to touch. Grace we could miss in the familiarity of daylight and nice weather. Darkness reminds us to go deeper. To turn inward, breathe deeply, and stay with the big questions until we can look at them long enough to believe the light we carry is all we need guide the way.