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. 

Practice? Or Play?

Somewhere between being a kid and being an adult we lose our focus on having fun and start looking for results. We have a vision for how we want things to be: work, running, creative pursuits, even our rec league softball swing. We start doing things not because they are fun, but because we can achieve a certain outcome.

What I think we often forget is that it takes years of practice to be really good at something. We aren’t going to sit down at a piano and play Mozart the first time. We aren’t going to run a perfect race...ever! We may make some huge and embarrassing beginner mistakes. I know I have.

I wonder what would happen if we forgot about results and returned to play? Yesterday, on a beautiful day, I was running through windy roads lined with piles of crisp and crunchy fall leaves that practically begged me to run through them. Feeling light on my feet, I flew down the hills, abandoning form and letting the wind push me forward, pumping my arms and smiling, mouthing words to the music on my ipod. It was fun. I felt as free as a small child running down a steep hill just because it was there.

What if we just celebrated the joy in moving towards something? Whenever I start something new, I now consciously remind myself that it will take practice. I think of starting the piano when I was 10 and playing something along the lines of twinkle, twinkle little star (and not well) at my first recital. I was so bad at the saxophone when I began, my dog used to bark at me and bite at my ankles. I had to start somewhere. We all do. And there is virtue in the practice of doing something you love. I never wanted to be a professional musician; I just wanted to play some instruments. It’s not always about an end result, but just getting better over time. What if we celebrated, in the way a proud parent celebrates a child’s little league base hit, or first dance recital, the work we have already done? What if we gave ourselves permission to make mistakes, to learn, to grow, and to cherish each improvement?

We are so focused on accomplishment in this society, on the ends. We forget to celebrate beginnings and small achievements. We forget that we practice and play because it brings us some internal joy. I want to remind every beginning runner that it should be fun.  I need to remind myself of this. If you are going so hard you are miserable why would you continue to do it? As my sister once reminded me, “you aren’t training for the Olympics.”  When I remember there isn’t a gold medal on the line, I remember to stop taking myself, and my running so seriously. Running isn’t always about goals or faster times or better conditioning. Sometimes it is just my excuse to “play outside” for a while. We all know what practice makes, but when practice is actually fun? Nothing can stop us.

Forget about pace splits and gadgets, and gear and proper form. Have fun. And by all means, don’t feel like you need to be home before the streetlights come on. That’s what headlamps are for. Play on, friends. 

Self-Doubt's Day Off

I am convinced we are not meant to find the limits of our potential on our own.

A few weeks ago, a friend (C.) and I decided to sign up for the Halloween Half Marathon. I spent the last couple of months increasing my weekly and daily mileage, motivated by the cool fall air and gorgeous days for running. Looking for a race to direct all of this mileage towards, C. suggested this half. We officially registered and began exchanging encouraging e-mails about our training.

On race day, I stepped into the chilly 36 degree air, and wondered if I had dressed warmly enough. I hopped into the car with C. and her husband to ride to the race. Initially a group of people had expressed enthusiasm for running this race, but when the day arrived it was just C. and me running, and her husband to cheer us on.

That was all I needed.

C. and I never ran together before, and I am always nervous about new running buddies. Are they going to want to listen to music or talk? How much talking should we do? What if we’re having different kinds of races? Will I say “go ahead” or try to keep up? Will I feel okay going ahead if I need to? Are we the right pace for each other?

Running with a new person is risky. There is a balance between being comfortable with yourself and adapting to someone else. In some ways it is like dating. You just can’t be sure about the other person, and if it is going to work until you spend some time together. However, if you are willing to risk potential discomfort, the payoff can be huge.

The voice of self-doubt is an annoying, nagging thing that seems to pester us negativity.  “You couldn’t possibly…” “remember this time when you failed?” “no one cares if you do or don’t…” That voice is hard to shut-up, especially in a test of physical endurance when your body is tired and echoing everything it says, or when it would be easier to choose not to try at all.

Running with the right person is the perfect antidote to self-doubt. With the right person, you become a better runner. There is a feeling of being both challenged and supported. There are times when you forget you are running, and times with mutual complaining. Being able to say, “this sucks!” to someone in the same situation keeps away the “I can’t do it” that always seems to follow.

Doubt and self imposed limitation can’t survive when the race is no longer about “what can I do,” but “what can we do together?” I have learned a lot in the solitude of running by myself, but it has only been in the company of other runners that I have seen what I can become. In my quest to be realistic I set up barriers. I wonder how many times I have said to myself or to others “I go this pace, I can’t go that one.” 

Our imaginations are so limited. Sometimes we need someone else to shed light on the potential we can’t see in ourselves. We need someone to just believe in us. Somewhere along the way I forgot to question whether or not and for how long I could sustain this faster pace. I just ran with C., who didn’t question my ability at all. Together we both found our way to new PRs and new understandings of our potential. Together, we gave self-doubt a needed day off.