A Little Snow

It's snowing on Christmas eve! I'm in Colorado visiting my family and was so excited when the flakes started falling. What a wonderful way to celebrate the holidays with the people I love the most.

Being Scared

The news is incomprehensible and I'm not really sure what to write in response to the shootings in Newtown. The specifics are still coming in, the number of dead still rising and the grief in any public place palpable. It seems like only yesterday that I was writing about the shooting in Aurora, Colo. And, as we've come to know, I'm sure there will be other horrific days like the one we are experiencing today.

We're all scared. We're all wondering how those children, those poor, suffering, weak, shocked and innocent children, will go back to school. How will this affect their lives not only in the now, but in the future? The saving grace, or at least what I keep telling myself, is that children are resilient.

I'm scared that I could, at one point in my life, bring kids into this world, a world where hearing the words, "children are among the dead" always takes your breath away, but they don't come across as a complete shock in a world that never ceases to be mad and angry and mean. While I cannot wait to be a parent and share the joy of life, there also seems to be a crazy amount of pressure on any parent to keep their children safe. And how can we when things like this happen?

NaNoWriMo Success!

Whew. Just in the nick of time, as the clock counted down til the beginning of December, I finished my novel. Well, I got to 50,000 words and made it end there. 

I can't believe that I actually wrote that many words in 30 days. I am ridiculously proud of myself. It's been a few days since the end of NaNoWriMo, but I still haven't gone back to read my whole story from the beginning. I think I need a little breathing room to let it all sink in - I'll go back when my eyes are fresh and I'll wear my editing hat at that point.

In the meantime, here's a little excerpt from the story - I would love to hear what you think.

As he comes upon the factory, it feels out of place among the kitchy tourist shops, the dim sum restaurants and the high-end jewelers that seem to sell everything from jade to diamonds to rubies.  The nondescript front is made even more nondescript by one-way glass windows, like the ones in Jeremy's office.  When Mr. Sung first bought the building in 1979, he had all of the window panes replaced with the one-way glass.  It's not as if he had any secrets; the business of fortune cookie making had only changed a few times, like when a machine had replaced the workers who had once folded the cookies by hand as they came out of the oven.  And even that machine had been standardized and purchased by all of the companies that manufactured the cookies.  He had no secrets.

The only thing that gives a hint as to what goes on inside the factory is the small, handwritten sign next to the door buzzer that, if translated from Chinese to English says, "For Mr. Sung, fortune cookie master, ring bell."  Fortune cookie master.  He should write that on his business cards, Jeremy once joked with Min Li, a short, stocky, emasculate baker.  His joke fell flat, and her accusing eyes made him feel like a child again, caught drawing a mustache on the yearbook picture of a teacher.

Mid-NaNoWriMo

I'm 17 days in to National Novel Writing Month, more than halfway to the finish line of 50,000 words.

I can't believe how quickly this month has flown by. I wanted to post a short bit to let everyone know how the writing has been going.

The story is moving along really well, actually. I was a bit nervous that I wouldn't be able to sustain the (very) vague storyline that I started with, but with each passing evening, I find more ways to describe the situation, develop and get to know the characters and slowly build on the basic plot. Let's get things clear - by no means is this a Pulitzer-winner. But honestly, just sitting down at the dining room table every night and willing myself to 1,600 words is making me a better writer.

Thanks to all of those who have been understanding of my lack of phone calls and other general keep-in-touch methods. My story thanks you, too.

NaNoWriMo

It officially starts tonight at midnight - National Novel Writing Month. I've signed up to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. Fiction is not really my forte and although I have a glimmer of a concept of the novel's storyline, I have no idea how I am going to flesh it out for that many words.

To get to 50k words in 30 days, I have to write about 1,600 words every night (I'll most likely write at night during the week and tackle the weekends however they may come). I've never had to do a sustained, daily writing project like this. I am a bit nervous that I'm going to have writer's block or not have enough to sustain the novel til the very end.

But I think having a set goal, with a place to log my words in at the end of each night, will be a motivating factor. It's now or never, right?

I'm letting you all know this as my blog postings will probably be sporadic, if not non-existent, during the month of November. I really want to focus my energy and attention to this book (crazy).

So here goes nothin'...

Ninety Amazing Years!

This past weekend was a big celebration for my grandfather's 90th birthday. Ninety! It's amazing that a body and mind can exist for such a long time and still be in almost tip-top shape.

This birthday bash was a big family reunion, with my dad's side of the family (he's one of 8 kids) getting together for what will most likely be the last time. It's hard getting that many schedules to coordinate, especially now that grand kids are all in different stages and places in life. This party has been in the works for a while and my grandmother put in many hours to make sure it came together perfectly.

This was also the first time that my boyfriend met that whole side of the family. It was a little overwhelming at first, as very few of my aunts and uncles are considered "quiet." But after the initial shock, it was really awesome to see him get acquainted with everyone, especially my grandfather - they bonded over both having been to war. 

Here are some pictures from this weekend. As I scrolled through all of them, it was shocking how well I felt like I knew these people (we share blood, after all), but how very little I know about their actual lives. It makes me a bit sad to think that I won't ever be as close to any one of my cousins as I wish I could be.

Let's move on to happy pictures instead of dredging up what could be...

These are my parents! Aren't they cute?!

These are all of my cousins. Quite a crew, huh?

This photo makes me smile whenever I look at it. My sister's boyfriend on the left, my boyfriend, me and my sister. 

These people make my heart sing and my life brighter.

This is my grandfather. We call him Gung Gung, which is 'grandfather' in Chinese. What an honor to be able to share in part of his life.

  

Let Them Be Little

This weekend was filled with a lot of football.  Saturday was all about USC football with the boy.  We ventured out to the desert (aka Riverside) to hang out with some friends to watch the Steelers vs. Raiders game.  But what I took out of this weekend wasn't that I'm a really good girlfriend to go watch all of these football games (which I do enjoy, by the way).  No, what I realized more and more was what kind of kids I want.

I realize I might have lost you there.  There's not a clear connection between football and children, especially when you throw in a tailgate or two along the way.  But, my dear friends, let me show you how this is done.

While watching USC win, there were two brothers sitting in front of us.  I'd peg them at about ages five and three (or younger) and they were THE cutest.  Both were geared up in USC red and gold from head to toe; my favorite were the ears sticking out from under the too-big baseball caps.  I was skeptical of the parents at first.  The mom had her nose pierced like a bull and had a half-shaved head with crazy-big earrings.  I totally judged.  But the boys put my judgement to shame.  They were extremely well-behaved and I could tell that they genuinely loved each other by their actions.  The older brother would push the little brother back into his seat if he got too close to the edge.  They shared a water bottle.  The older boy pointed out the airplane because he knew his brother would get a kick out of it.  They didn't cry.  They didn't scream.  They weren't running around.  But they were still happy, funny, friendly kids.  So I have to give mad props to the parents for the way those boys were acting; I'm sure it's not easy raising two young boys.

Take-away lesson number one: Raise kids who know how to behave in public but still have fun.

On Sunday I had the pleasure of hanging out with two little girls who are six and three.  They reminded me so much of me and my sister; they played really, really well together.  They spoke the same language and fed off of each other's enthusiasm.  They were so creative!  At one point, I found myself in a "doctor's waiting room" with an un-diagnosed illness.  After that, we were at a crazy dance party.  And then, of course, they had to take me to the yoga show.  

My favorite part of the day, though, was when they were running around in the backyard (which was mostly dirt and rocks) barefoot.  They weren't worried about their feet getting dirty or stepping on painful stones.  They were having too much fun showing me their chickens and swing set.  This struck a chord in me.  Most of our backyard growing up was gravel and although the first couple of steps out there always stung a bit, once your feet got used to it, the darkening sky at the end of the night was the only thing holding you back from a whole day of playing.  

Take-away lesson number two: Teach girls that it is perfectly acceptable to be dirty and running barefoot is freeing. 

These are obviously only two things that I hope to instill in my children.  But it's so good to see that children can grow up without iPads or distractions from their parents (which I didn't see at all this weekend).  Kids can be kids.  That's what I want. 

An Educational Shift

I am a nerd, therefore I like NPR.  My favorite part of public radio, though, is the once-weekly show, This American Life.  It is a long-form radio show that touches upon a wide array of topics.  The most recent show, entitled "Back to School" was mind-blowing.

This is the synopsis of the show that is posted on This American Life's website: As kids and teachers head back to school, we wanted to turn away from questions about politics and unions and money and all of the regular stuff people argue about, and turn to something more optimistic - an emerging theory about what to teach kids, from Paul Tough's new book, "How Children Succeed". 

I would hope that everyone reading this would listen to the show because it is hard to write a really good synopsis that includes ALL of the topics they touch upon.  But I will point out a few highlights that I found extremely interesting.

* When telling middle school girls "scientists have found that you can improve your intelligence" on a regular basis, studies show that those girls, who have often "fallen apart" when it comes to math, catch up to their boy counterparts in that subject.  They close the gap and perform at the same level as boys; the girl's average math test scores were the same as the boy's average math test scores.  Telling students they can improve their intelligence changes the mindset of these kids.  They are learning resilience and optimism.  That alone can change test scores. Holy cow!

* Kids who have "attached parents" - those parents who empathize with their children and comfort them during stressful situations - are more socially confident and successful later in their lives.  They're better at dealing with other people and picking themselves up after setbacks.  It seems like common sense.  But for those kids who don't have attached parents, they don't have those non-cognitive skills and therefore don't do well in school (focusing on non-cognitive skills is the premise of most of the show).  Teaching parents how to be empathetic and connect with their children can help those children later on in school.  Studies show that having an empathetic parent who can be supportive during stressful times (poverty-stricken childhoods, domestic abuse situations, etc.) can reverse the effects that those stressful situations create.  Potentially changing a child's life is as simple as teaching his or her parent how to be empathetic and supportive, something that can help even the poorest of the poor. Again, holy cow!

I truly believe that education is one of THE MOST important things in a person's life.  But here's where I often stray from other's beliefs.  I believe that money doesn't have to buy education.  My sister and I went to public schools from kindergarten to the day we got our high school diplomas.  She went on to get a bachelor's degree from Stanford University and I received a bachelor's degree from Colorado State University and a master's from Stanford University. We didn't go to some fancy pants boarding school and my parents didn't splurge on overpriced tutors.  Instead of those things, we had them, our parents.

I know that our parents were the driving force behind our successes academically.  From practically the beginning, they read to us every single night.  They asked us questions. They encouraged us to ask questions (my mom would always send us off to school saying, "Ask good questions").  They took us places.  They let us experience things.  They expanded our minds.  They talked to us like adults.  They pushed us (but not too hard). They built our confidence.

We went to rural public schools that didn't have the highest achievement records in the state and we could have drifted through. While I can't give all of the credit to my parents (my sister and I took upper-level high school classes and were involved in a lot of activities), without them, who knows where we would have been.  

I'm not saying teachers aren't important.  And I'm not saying that parents can do it all on their own.  But what I am saying, and what the This American Life show describes, is it is clear that outside forces beyond what we learn in the classrooms affect how we learn and how we succeed. 

My Worst Habit

I've said it so many times before.  I need to write more.  I need to study Spanish more.  And just like most New Year's resolutions, these actions become inaction.

I'm still trying to figure out what is going to motivate me to do both of these things regularly (hopefully, daily). Today I was overcome by the need to have a calendar that I could write my to-do list in (to-do: write, Spanish).  I stopped at CVS because I couldn't wait and picked up a cute little calendar planner that goes all the way through 2013.  And now, on every single day (except weekends, maybe), I'm writing down how long I study Spanish and what I write about.  Keeping tabs of what I'm doing on a daily basis and the progress that I'm making will hopefully keep me accountable.

Another tool that I'm going to try to use, which I've referenced before, is "The Writer's Block - 786 Ideas to Jump-Start Your Imagination."  I never thought of my imagination needing a jump start, but it totally makes sense.  I often feel like I need to be motivated by a song or an event or something in order to write.  But if I end up letting that happen, I will just be waiting around.  I need to be proactive, which is why, although prompts and fiction aren't usually my thing, I'm going to use the book.

So...let's not waste time.

The first randomly-picked prompt: Write about your worst habit.

I lie.  Sure, everyone does it.  And the reasons that we do it vary just like us.  Maybe we're trying to spare someone's feelings.  Maybe we don't want to get in trouble.  Maybe we're scared of what the other person is going to think of us if we don't answer the way they expect us to.  I fall into that last category.  I lie because I don't want to lose face.

The small lies began in college.  During my freshman year, I found myself at a crossroads that questioned everything I had ever believed to be my calling since I was five - did I want to be a veterinarian or not?  The answer was no and I had to move on to life calling number two.  I might as well have stuck my hand in a hat and drawn out a random profession.  My odds of becoming an engineer were practically the same as becoming a journalist or a clown in the circus.  The journalist slip got pulled from the hat and I had to figure out where I fit in in  a world of beats - the sports beat, the crime beat, the city beat? So I did what any good college student would do; I tried to fit the mold.  I became a sports reporter because it was what I had the most interest in.  I watched baseball with my grandpa.  My dad had taught me the (general) rules of football. I was hired.

And there was where lying came in.  I couldn't hack it like the other sports reporters.  These were guys, for the most part, who thought the first regular season NFL game was equivalent to Christmas on the excitement scale.  They talked in stats.  The words that came out of their mouths only had to do with sports.  I wasn't like them.  I liked the human feature side of sports.  What made athletes tick?  Why did they do what they did?  How did they start doing what they were doing? Weren't they scared?

But people expected me to know what Chris Johnson's 40 time was.  And all of the intricate rules of football.  And which team had won the 1972 World Series.  I didn't know those things.  And honestly, I didn't have any desire to ever know those things.  What good is it to know who won the 1972 World Series - that answer only comes in handy on Jeopardy.  At this point, I started to lie and fudge the information I did know.  When surrounded by a bunch of sports reporters, I would keep quiet and listen A LOT.  I would interject when I did have a tidbit of information, but not until then.  I would hope that they wouldn't see the fear that they might expect me to answer some obscure question.

Now, as a college graduate in the working world, I've found I have carried this habit over to my regular life, and in particular, my job.  I can't lose face - I can't let my co-workers see me as anything less than an extremely knowledgeable person.  I say I know what a specific term means even when I've never even heard the word.  Or I lie and say I totally know what site they're talking about when I clearly don't have a single clue.    

It's a bad habit.  And I'm trying really hard to make myself realize that it's totally acceptable to not know everything.

Finding the Balance

Life is all about getting to the sweet spot between careening out of control and sitting still.

Lately, I've felt both the insane feeling of having your hands off the wheel and the quiet solitude that can sometimes drive you crazy.

On one hand, my boyfriend and I have been taking a lot of fun trips here and there and have a lot of weekend plans for USC football -- these things keep us busy and going, going, going.  We get to people-watch, dine at hole-in-the-wall places and stroll hand in hand down the windy streets of San Francisco.  It's perfect. And perfectly draining.

On the other hand, when I am home, I've been doing a lot of reading.  I'm deep in Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, which requires concentration and a tenacity for keeping names straight.  When I'm not reading that on my iPad, I'm trying to keep up on all of the latest long reads that get mentioned by people on the Internet.  And then there are the regular blogs to keep up with.  (On an aside - it can get overwhelming to think that that there are millions upon billions of words on the Internet, and while many of them are superb and yearn for readers, I will most likely not get to a large fraction of them.)

Which brings me to the third hand (third hand?).  I haven't been doing the thing that I believe hits that sweet spot - writing.  For me, since I am mostly a non-fiction writer, this requires me to step out and away from my normal life and experience ... things.  But it also must be done in a quiet, singular place.  What's unfortunate is that I haven't willed myself into that sweet spot lately (if at all in the past few months).  I'm either careening or sitting still.  I'm either busy or not busy.  I'm never writing.

Maybe I'm not meant to write.  Maybe I'm meant to be a professional reader (no, but seriously, do those exist?).  Maybe instead of creating more words that go into the ether of the Internet, I should try to figure out how to give more attention to the words that are already out there (and get paid for it).

Or maybe...just maybe...I need to write.  To will myself to write.  To do it.  To make myself find the balance and not wait for the balance to find me.

Today's Letters

Dear man sitting in the sun on the grass with your dogs: I like your style.  

Dear half-marathon training plan: Oh wait, you don't exist.  While I am a little worried that I don't have every single long run mapped out, I am motivated by the freedom.  

Dear Summer Olympics: While I love (love) you, you are totally screwing with my sleep schedule.  

Dear Mrs. Obama: Thank you for being so cool.  Hugging the USA basketball team and showing kids how awesome and important it is to be active? You rock. 

Dear Mr. Castillo: I am so stinkin' excited to go to San Diego with you this weekend! A trip, although just down the road, will allow us to sleep in and enjoy one another, without the distraction of the pup.  Here's to exploring the city and finding yummy food!

The Second Installment of Fiction

Note: This is the second part of my first-ever fiction story.  You can read the first installment here.

Andrew would undoubtedly live until he was 100.  He would be "that guy" who, although he wasn't a strict diet-follower, ate well (and often), ran on a daily basis and made everyone around him jealous and somewhat annoyed at his dedication to being healthy.  It'd be cliche to say, but Andrew looked and felt like any late 20-something would aspire to.  And Andrew was pushing 53.

And yet ... he had indeed spent the night with his cheek pressed against the warm tile-floor, a product of the radiant floor heating, which Andrew had wanted to turn off, but Molly insisted on keeping on for a few more weeks.

Throughout the night, Andrew had prayed his body would remain motionless.  He had lay on the floor to ground himself, to say to his brain, "This is what I need.  I need for the movement to stop."  But the dingy still rolled and the constant, irritating and mind-numbing ringing in his ears (worse in the left than the right) couldn't be shaken.  In fact, it hurt to even move his head a few degrees one way or the other.  His life, the one that others wished they could have, had become hell.

Texts from a Horrible Day

I rolled over and grabbed my phone, just like I do every morning.  Today was different.  There were three news notifications staring back at me: 14 dead in Aurora. Gunman opens fire in packed movie theater.

Shocked.  It literally took me a second to decipher what I was reading.  Aurora.  Colorado.

And then my heart stopped.  My best friend was originally from Aurora.  There was no way she had been at that theater, I told myself.  She had moved across town into a new apartment.  She couldn't be there.  For my selfish reasons, I willed her not to be at that theater.

"Are you ok?"  A simple text message, one that I found fairly easy to send but as I sat there looking at it, realized it scared the living daylights out of me.  I couldn't wait for the answer ... I had to get out of the house.

My mind flitted from this thought to that thought as I walked the dog.  I felt angry and then sad.  And then I felt guilty because it was so beautiful here in Southern California.  And then I felt angry at myself for feeling guilty because in all honesty, I wasn't involved in this horrific attack.  I hadn't pulled the trigger.  I hadn't booby-trapped my apartment.

But of course, I was involved. 

"Yes, wasn't there.  Thank god." I received that text and suddenly, my sight became a little clearer, my heart, a little lighter.

It still affected me, though.  As I read through Facebook post after Facebook post, countless tweets and a blow-by-blow account found on Reddit, I felt worse and worse.  I couldn't concentrate at work.  My mind again flitted from this thought to that thought, always settling on the idea that a human being had done this to 71 other human beings.  I had this feeling of complete and utter sadness at how people treat each other.

I have no closing cliches or big-picture thoughts.  I will continue to read coverage of this horrible situation from the people on the ground who watch as bomb-sniffing dogs come out of the shooter's apartment and from people who are much more verbose and eloquent and able to connect all of the dots.  And I will send texts like this.

"I love you."



For continuing coverage, check out The Denver Post - they are doing an awesome job on getting tons of information out to the public.

The Beginning of the Story

Note: Typically, I'm a non-fiction writer - I write about my life and about things I know.  I have never dabbled in fiction, but a few months ago, I had a sudden urge (aren't all urges sudden?) to write a fiction story.  I scribbled it down feverishly in my journal before the urge evaded me.  The story is by no means finished, but I thought I would start to post some of it here, piece by piece. This is the beginning.


This bath rug is dirty, he realized.

In his 4:30 a.m. must-get-out-the-door-before-the-dog-wakes-Molly haze, he never would have noticed how the dirt clings to the rubber corners of the sage green mat.  Nor, how if you really looked at it, the sage color had dissipated into a desert brownish - a dying cactus color, if you will.

But he now finds himself face-to-face with the mat.  He can't remember the last time he lay on the bathroom floor.  He wasn't a boozer in college.  He hung out with the library crowd, and if he drank, it was never to extremes.  The fetal position was one he only reserved for the flu or a really cold night when Molly insisted on sticking her icicle-like feet under his legs.  And yet ... here he was.  We need a new bath rug, he thought.

He cracks his right eye, instinctively cringing, as his ears start to ring and his mind makes his body think that he's on a four-star cruise ship minus all of the stars.  A dingy, perhaps.  Through all of the stimuli, he sees Molly's red fleece pajama pants, the ones with the snowflake design that should have been put away long ago, as it was April and the tulips were starting to say hello to the world.

Out of the bottom of her pants peek Molly's feet.  Why am I staring at her feet, he thought.  Did we have wild sex last night and that's why we ended up in different positions on the bed?  He smiled, hoping, and the act made him wince.  There was the rocking boat again.  Must have been one hell of a night, he mused.  And then it dawned on him that he was on the bathroom floor.  And it all made sense.

To Mia

My mom FINALLY said we could get a dog.  After being screened by big adoption agencies that made us feel like we weren't good enough for the dogs they were trying to place, we decided to go to the local shelter that sat off the highway.  It would be our luck that on the day we went, there was one lonely dog in the kennel - the rest, the guy behind the desk told us, had been taken to an adoption fair in the town over.  They'd be back, he assured us, but of course, only the ones that hadn't gotten adopted would be left.

One dog came back.  She was a puppy, with paws that definitely had room to grow in to.  Her kennel-given name was Megan and she looked like a Siberian husky who had been rolled in Moab-red dirt a few times over.  She was perfect. 

Thirteen years later and on a Wednesday, my mom called to tell me that our Mia had died in the backyard sun, just beyond the door to my parent's bedroom.  It was at this door that she had always waited in the morning darkness for my dad so they could go on their daily run.  Those two were true buddies.  It could be said that you never know someone until you run in winter mornings along frozen trails that line dead corn fields.  These two had. 

Mia was a runner from the beginning.  In the cool evening between summer and fall on the day we brought her home, we took her up to the high school track and let her loose.  Part Siberian husky, part red heeler, she moved in a manner that would make Shalane Flanagan jealous.  Her love of it was contagious - soon we were all running around the track.  Were we chasing her or was she chasing us?  In the fall, she traveled with us to my middle school cross country meets, lolling around in her hot pink collar and matching leash.  She was the cutest.

She grew, we grew.  We moved, made new friends and started new jobs.  The line is familiar and the next one will be too.  She was loyal as any dog is expected to be. 

But her love for running never, ever, ever decreased.  As my mom cried in the background that Wednesday night, my dad reminisced on the memory of 13-mile-Saturdays, with Mia by his side. She was running half-marathons before I ever finished a 10k.  Tears dripped down my face onto my comforter as we laughed about how dad always brought water for himself, but never thought to bring any for Mia; she never complained.

She never made a peep, either, when the vet found tumors in her.  Not just one tumor.  But the next one.  And the one after that.  And those that continued to grow, those that my parents decided not to go after because they had had enough.  Mia had had enough.

Lucky for me, I never saw her as a dog I wouldn't want to remember.  I didn't have to see her splayed legs when she tried to get up to greet you as you walked out the back door.  I didn't have to see the huge chunk of her hindquarter gone as the one last attempt to give her more time.  I get to remember the hot pink collar.  And the long walks.  The way her hair used to come out in chunks in the summer because she had so much of it to shed; we used to say we should knit all of her hair into a sweater.  I get to remember what an amazing runner she was - a true running partner.

Well, Hello Again

Sometimes, you just have to take a break from it all.  Unplug.  Recharge.  Feel the grass between your toes before you can jump right back into the crazy.

Apparently that's what I've been doing lately.  But I think I'm getting back into the groove again.  I have a new roommate (hey, Lauren!), a handsome man by my side and a dog who loves to give kisses.  I am setting goals for myself and trying to stay away from the T.V. as much as possible (The Bachelorette aside, of course).  Here's the plan:

• Read during dinner instead of watching mindless crap.
• Jump on Rosetta Stone to learn Spanish at least 30 minutes every day.
• Exercise at least five days a week (did I mention that my sister and I are registered for the Tinker Bell Half Marathon in January?!).  Back in the saddle again.
• Write more, whether that's here on the blog, in my journal (encouraged by this couple) or for other outlets.
• Get back into Twitter.  It was inevitable ... no one can quit Twitter.
• Listen more.
• Be understanding and positive.

The summer is going brilliantly and hopefully making these things happen will add even more awesomeness to my life!  Have you guys ever taken a break to wind down and recharge?

Inch Like a Caterpillar

Progress isn't about making big leaps and bounds every day. It is about moving forward, pushing the big stone one little bit closer to your goal. I'm learning this really quickly now that I'm coming back from this soul-sucking rough injury.

Here are some boulders I'm inching forward in my life:

1. Running. I will get there.

2. Learning Spanish. The Rosetta Stone software is hopefully on its way to my mailbox.

3. Eating better dinners. I'm looking for easy, healthy recipes now and I want to cook something new at least once a week. Send suggestions my way.

4. Training Austin more. I have attached a treat dispenser to his leash, so we can work on "leave it" while walking by unruly dogs.

5. Stretching. Now that I have a set of official stretches that are visibly changing my body, I am putting in the time (about an hour every night) because I know it is going to get me closer to running (see: number 1).

6. Being more understandable. I would love to spend as much time with the boyfriend as possible, but sometimes, it's just not possible to do it all.

7. Praying in a more meaningful way. I'm guilty of throwing up the occasional 'Our Father' when I need help. But I've tried to become more cognizant of what I'm praying about and listening to what God says back.

What progress are you making in your life?

Unable to Build

"It is hardly possible to build anything if frustration, bitterness and a mood of helplessness prevail."
- Lech Walesa


The return of the pain. Frustration (noun). A total loss in confidence. I feel like a balloon that has been punched, not just deflated. Then anger comes from deep within, from the place that is cobbwebby and that I just don't like. He can run. That heavy-set woman can run. Everyone on this huge stupid planet can run. Apparently it doesn't matter whether you actually have a desire to run. Then sadness takes over. Remember when I could go out for 10 long ones? When I had my sights on a half marathon...I was gonna be in the bigs. And now. Four minutes of running for every six minutes of walking makes me wince. Helpless.


Frustration (noun): a deep chronic sense or state of insecurity and dissatisfaction arising from unresolved problems or unfulfilled needs

One Blessed Minute at a Time

As the saying goes, it's the little things that make life worth living.

My life was worth it during a handful of one minute intervals this morning.

Like I wrote yesterday, I was hoping (praying) that the physical therapist would sign off on me running again.  Someone up there must be watching over me because I got the a-ok!

The hitch: I have to start out super slowly.  And when I say slow, I mean turtle pace.  One minute running for every four minutes of walking.  

But boy, how marvelous those minute intervals were!  It took me almost no time at all to get into my natural stride.  Just like riding a bike, I thought.

It was hard to rein myself in after a minute of running, but what that minute forced me to do was focus on my form and what my body was doing in just those 60 seconds.  Everything narrowed to a minute of complete focus and meticulous form.

Being able to focus for a full minute was liberating.  These days, there are so many things flying at your conscious at once.  Your brain is constantly pulled like silly putty.  Some say that since the invention of the Internet (thanks Al Gore), personal computers, smart phones and the like, our attention spans are getting smaller and smaller. 

That minute of running was only about two things.

Running.  And form.

And remembering how absolutely amazing and blessed I am to be able to run.

Ok, three things.

Coming Back Stronger

It would be cliche to call it one of "those" runs. What I didn't know is that it would be painful. And revolutionary. And one of the most awesome and disappointing runs that I'd ever been on.

Here's how this all happened. On December 23, I went out for an eight-mile run. I had less than a month before my first half marathon. The run was perfection. I was on pace. I was moving like I'd never moved before. The last mile was clocked at just a tad over 7 minutes. I was stoked. That race was mine for the taking.

And then the pain. Top of the foot and unrelenting. A horrible ache that took over my consciousness.

Suffice it to say that the next day, walking was a chore. A painful chore.

It'll get better. I just need a little rest.

I thought those things over and over and over...

A week and a half later, it wasn't better and the rest was making me anxious. I had a half marathon to run in two weeks. Fifteen days to be pain-free and confident enough to run those 13 miles. The confidence was what I was really worried about. Training and endorphins can get you pretty far in a race, but your belief in yourself is what gets you across the finish line (call Hallmark, that's a winner).

So then, like anyone who is grieving, I started to negotiate.

If I don't run between now and the race but stay healthy and positive, I can do this.

I thought those things over and over and over...

I had to pull the plug.  I couldn't run my first half marathon injured. And man, was I injured. Physically, mentally and emotionally. Drained and hurting.

Somehow it was easy to tell people that I wasn't running the race. Injury, especially when people had seen me hobbling around, was a perfect out. I felt a weird sense of relief that I wasn't running the race. The pressure was gone. The worry about whether I was going to run in pain was gone. It as a little scary how ok I was with not running.

And then the real need-endorphins-must-take-charge-of-everything part of me kicked in. I couldn't be sitting around, wallowing in the story that "I was injured and just needed some rest". That wasn't the person I wanted to be. I was better than that injured person that I had become so easily and freely.

I made a doctor's appointment at one of the top sports medicine clinics in the South Bay. I got sweet x-rays of my feet. Unfortunately, nothing showed up on them. No definitive diagnosis other than overuse came from that doctor and a script for physical therapy and anti-inflammatories were the only things I had when I walked out the door.

Turns out, the physical therapy was much better than the pills.

After some poking, prodding, stretching, testing and videotaping, the physical therapist deduced that my upper thighs and groin area were SO tight that they were affecting the way I was walking. Yup, I was told I was walking funny because the tightness was inhibiting my body from performing the way it was naturally supposed to.

It's been about three weeks since that realization. I've been doing my stretching exercises religiously and staying positive about my recovery. These are the small things that are going to change me and get me back on the right track.

I go back today for another physical therapy appointment. I'm hoping this one is the one where he says, "You are ready."

Ready for the pavement.

Ready for the early mornings again.

Ready for the feelings that I had that day in late December.

Minus the pain.