It Only Hurts.....

It only hurts when I touch it. I come back again and again to this place. This pain. This line. It comes from nowhere. And everywhere. The giant whoosh of frigid wind off the lake as a door is opened. The searing pain from blinding light plus pounding head. The wrenching sobs of grief without containment.

So here we are again. White pall. Same priest. Same organist. Similar casket and mourners at attention. This time for a beloved teacher, the grandmother of one of my kids. But the grief does not just settle here for her.

The casket rolls into the back of the church, as close to the baptismal font as it will go. And time bends and the tears fog my eyes because now it is his casket I see. And it is I who am unfurling the white pall to cover it. And it is my friends looking on at the back of the church and me the one at the front of the gloomy parade.

The grief is raw and I can never understand how it swoops so quickly, like a hawk to a carcass, and carries me away.

Ten years, almost, since my father’s death. So many, many nights and mornings that he’s missed. And granddaughter kisses and light saber fights with the boys. It hurts too much to bear at times. And so this grief I tuck away. It’s like a dusty package in the corner of my room. I think I remember what is inside, but when I open it I am surprised beyond my dreams. Like shrapnel come the memories and the tears. And I struggle to put them back to bed.

Then a morning like this, I come to grieve for someone I have loved, who set a strong example of teaching for this path I’ve chosen. And I pack the Kleenex that I think are for her, and I show up at the appointed time.

But as the service begins, the grief takes flight and comes for me. The dark wrath rips me to shreds. The wounds are deep this time. Oh, how I want him back with me.

It takes a while to bandage, these holes in my heart. And the freshness of the wound continues to sting. But I dry my eyes and carry on, because it only hurts when I touch it.

Showing Up

Something new at age 39: a workout buddy. Reminds me of grade school field trips when I had to walk hand-in-hand with someone so as not to get lost. I guess it’s a lot like that actually. Our world is so busy, and it is really easy to get lost in the everyday, to go through the motions of living and get the laundry done and the dinner cooked and the kids bathed and the homework done and then collapse in a heap at the end of it all.

Exercise helps me to live with intention, and I like the idea of a workout pal to keep me on track and to keep me honest. This particular one is pretty relentless. Since we started this journey about ten months ago, Pat has texted me pretty much daily to report his workouts. This guy is faithful, and there are days that I growl as I hear the texting tone on my cell phone. He has shamed me into squeezing in a quick workout or taking a late night run because he is on track.

And that is good.

Lately we have been talking a lot about “showing up.” As our program has outlasted the honeymoon stage and we are now in the nitty-gritty of daily life with exercise, there are some days that the magic is just not there. But that is okay. Showing up is its own victory. Not every workout is Olympic caliber, nor should it be. This is a marathon, not a sprint. There will certainly be bad days and bad moments. But showing up and putting in the time are so important. To both of us.

I like that I am not the only one who will be disappointed if I do not make the effort. Pat keeps me moving and keeps my eyes on the prize. And I admit, there is something really wonderful about bragging to him about the big runs or achieving some goal that seemed impossible.

And the pride works both ways. I am amazed at his half-mile swims and long runs and the way he is pushing himself for a tri-athalon this summer.

It is fun to see that what we thought was only for “other, fit people” is now within OUR grasp. I was there for his first race, two crisp (mostly) uphill miles. And I will be there for his second race in a few weeks too. Double or nothing as we race four miles around a very flat course. These big moments are nice to share.

But mostly, I just appreciate the ding of the cell phone each day, the call to attention, the reminder to get up and move and make myself the woman I am meant to be. Like those field trip buddies from long ago, he keeps me from getting lost. And, most importantly, he keeps me showing up.

-in just spring

I love the spring. The students think I’m nuts. (Well they have more than their fair share of reasons, but my love of spring is probably at the top!) I am always spouting about buds popping and nature’s first green and getting outside for the sun and the Vitamin D and the crisp air.

And here it is. And it is nearly eight o’clock at night and I can hear the birds singing still and I am raking leaves in the half-light and smelling spring. It comes off the lake, I think, this scent. I can’t describe it in words really. Except to say that the smell in the air buoys me. I know what is coming and I drink it in with abandon.

Bring it, spring. The paper whites are one step ahead of you and the forsythia is ready to burst. That’s how I feel. Potential energy pushing so hard against my elbows and biceps and thighs. I am all pent up and have been snow-covered and cold for far too long.

I love the re-birth. And today is a big day for that. First day of the fourth quarter (really, how is that even possible?), and a clean state for all of the students. And the teacher! The beginning of spring brings the beginning of yard work, and I have a new yard this year in which to play. It will be a lot of work. And I will relish it.

And I am always reminded (although I need no special day) that I am ever changing. Spinning, growing, stretching towards the sun. Too many months and seasons and years I spent in darkness. And now I welcome the reach, the turning towards all that is bright and new and ME.

The Inner Game of Running

Third time I’ve heard the starter’s pistol in my life. This time for the St. Malachi charity run downtown that it turns out I was totally unprepared for.

The beginning of a race is always tricky. I basically tried to get situated without falling in a pothole or getting mowed down by a more exuberant runner. And this time, we turned the first corner quickly and encountered a giant hill. I almost stopped right there. Avon Lake is among the flattest real estate in America, and I never train for hills. So from about thirty seconds in, till minute three or four, I was basically just trying to get to the outer lane so I could start walking. But something kept me going.

I made it up and over the Superior Bridge, sucking wind all the way. I finally caught my breath at the one-mile marker and kept chugging and churning toward the lake. For a cold March day immediately following a giant snowstorm, the race day surprised me with blue skies and clear streets.

The views were actually pretty spectacular and if I wasn’t so worried about where my next breath was coming from, I would have really enjoyed myself. We ran around the Brown’s Stadium and headed for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I knew that the turnaround was there; what I didn’t know was that it was on the far side and all the way down the 9th Street Pier.

Made it through the turnaround and that’s when the trouble started. Getting back to the finish line required a few hills. I didn’t notice the gradation so much on the way down, but man that hurt on the way back up. Minutes 36 through 46 were a sheer test of my will.

The inner game of running featured quite a cacophony in my head, me willing myself to keep moving. I quit a thousand times in those 10 minutes. I just kept saying “I’ll run to the stop sign” or “I’ll just run to that guy up there.” Quite a dialogue (make that tongue lashing) while my legs were turning to jelly and my breath was nowhere to be found.

I jogged back up over the Superior, but by this point I seemed more determined that I would actually keep running and finish the race. It wasn’t easy and it sure wasn’t pretty, but I finished five miles in just under fifty minutes.

The time and the t-shirt and the pizza at the end were hardly the best prizes of the day though. (Pizza as a post-race food? Really?) There is something really spectacular about doing the impossible, about doubting yourself and wanting to quit and KNOWING you are going to quit….and then NOT giving in.

It’s the Bible verse my dad always liked best: “I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith.” And it fits so well for running and for life. (And what would he say if he saw me racing, my bib number and hair flapping in the cold wind off the lake?)

It’s what I say when I run by myself: “Just keep churning.” And what I do when my kids drive me nuts. And what I think when my students do not listen.

There is something so powerful about making the impossible happen. About keeping up with the plan despite the odds. About finishing what you start.

Something so powerful that until today, I never really knew resided inside me.

Running for my Life

I did it. Signed up for a five-mile race. This is the way to do it, right before the event so there is no time to chicken out. Because I might, if I think about it too long. The course is tagged with a few good hills, and the route is right along the windy lakeshore. Five miles is a great length when I’ve been out with a pinched nerve and a tricky knee for months.

But I feel strong. And stupid. Or is that brave? A little of both really, with a mixture of amazement thrown in. I’ve been working for the last five or six weeks after a brief, unplanned hiatus, willing my muscles and my moxie to kick into gear. And it is finally paying off, in extra minutes tagged to the end of a run, or the completion of the beastly spinning class at the local Y.

And I cannot stop wondering. Who IS this woman who is sweating on a treadmill, forcing her knee and her wind and her heart to comply? Who IS this woman waking up before five to make the magic happen? Where has she been all my life, and is she willing to stick around now and go the distance?

Magic begets magic, and every mile brings me strength and pride. When the music is loud and the beat is strong, my legs comply to the cadence somehow and I will my breath to keep pace.

I smile while I run. You don’t see that often, but really I have not stopped being amazed at this new pastime in my life. And I smile so people wonder as I pass through puddles or work the treadmill. What could be going on behind that incongruous grin?

And even as I hear the weather report for the morning of the run and picture myself running on five inches of snow, I really am not all that deterred. Funny how life works. Doing things I’ve never dreamed with strength I never knew I had. And dealing with circumstances that are not at all ideal. And at the end of any run, I’m always glad to say: “I did it!”

Perspective at the Meat Counter

I really need to stay out of the grocery store. Or at least stop going there by myself. When I don’t have to say “Sit still!” and “No!” and “We are not buying those today!” a million times to my children, I actually have time to look around and see my fellow shoppers.

And it invariably breaks my heart. Today it was the old man shuffling around in his sweats, his Irish tweed cap askew on his bushy white hair. He stopped for a long while at the paczki, picked up a box of apricot and then blueberry, but walked slowly away without them. We met up again at the deli and fish counter where he slowly sampled the crab dip and crackers laid out for customers. He didn’t buy anything there either.

His cart held just a few items. A miniature loaf of bakery bread, a few bananas, and a few other things I couldn’t make out from where I stood. I started to speak, but he turned before I got going and so I just gave up.

Turned my own cart and almost hit an older woman shopping alone. On the top of her cart were a bag of salad and a few boxes of fiber bars. She held her coat closed and her purse close to her chest. She was looking through the pork chops.

I don’t know why it makes me sad, to see these elderly solo shoppers. It’s my dream really. To shop alone and eat alone and buy exactly what I want at the grocery store: peacefully and on my own schedule.

But it always makes me wonder what I am missing. If the old man is finally getting away from his caregiver role for a bit, or the elderly lady is pinching her pennies hard. One glance and I am feeling their imagined pain. And I want to make it better with a donut or a smile.

But who’s to say that THEY aren’t the happy ones? That they are worried in similar ways about me, harried and unshowered and racing the clock to meet the school bus or the end of the pre-school class. Maybe the sadness I imagine in their eyes is really pity. And the memories of the difficult days they had when they were younger.

I think I will always struggle when I see these kind of shoppers. My empathy meets overdrive in grocery aisles. But perspective is a funny thing.

And maybe it really IS me who needs the donut. And the smile.

The Boy Whisperer

They find a quiet corner, these two, amid the cacophony of a giant pizza party. The school’s annual trip to Kalahari Water Park Resort, and the youngsters have finally dried off and are waiting for the pizza to cook. Four families, eleven kids, and five giant sheet pizzas, and it is definitely difficult to find a quiet nook.

I glance in her direction: my daughter with her long brown hair and hazel eyes, the tallest girl in her grade. She has left her girlfriends in the other room and is sitting cross-legged in front of the fire. And knee to knee with a boy in her class. My breath catches. Just for an instant I flash ahead five years. Or ten.

She is such a beauty. Despite my bias and a mother’s rose-colored glasses, I know this to be true. I am in for it, I know, for a young adulthood of boys and crushes and drama. I can see it here already. Her long tresses and tiny mouth, her eyes wrinkling just so at whatever he is saying. I am too far away to tell. He looks at her. She can’t help but return the gaze. And they sit for a while as if no one else is there.

I ask her later, what was there to say? They were talking about deer, she tells me. He is an avid hunter, a family trait and pastime. At eight years old, already killing creatures for sport. The art of the deer hunt is his best.

It makes her sad, to know this about her friend. He is the twin brother of one of her besties. She has known this hunting story for some time. And by the fire, she tells him how she loves deer. They come to her back yard, she explains. She watches them with her grandmother. And her little brother. She picked her bedroom for them, looked beyond the biggest room in the new house to choose the one with the view, perched above the back yard so she could always watch the deer.

I didn’t know this story at the time, but I saw how seriously they talked. And I didn’t know that her words would have such power. (Really, how could I not? She can move mountains with those words. And the passion in her voice.)

Later, the twin sister said “He likes you,” so like the boy/girl dramas of my past. But now this is MY little girl and her friends and stories. I can picture her smile light up and her cheeks grow red.

“So DO you like him?” I say to her that night, as we snuggle on the couch and recount the day’s events.

“Moo—mmm,” she rolls her eyes like only she can and says “He is my friend.”

Then she grins at me and her eyes sparkle as she says, “ AND, he told me that from now on he would only hunt for rabbits.”

Not quite sure how to take this, I didn’t know this would start so soon. But she is a girl who speaks her mind and is willing to go out on a limb. And already people are listening to her quiet intensity.

Facing Grace

Sometimes grace is barely a whisper, a miniature moment hardly discernible to the naked eye. But there are moments that throttle you, hyper speed and loud as thunder, and you know you will never be the same. That is the grace I found this week.

I can’t stop thinking about the Buddhists. “When the student is ready the teacher appears.” But I always seem to cast myself on the wrong side of the curtain. I know better this morning, with the sun finally shining in the cold March air and my limbs sore from my morning’s run. The glorious gift of a day spreads before me. And I have an entirely new view of the world.

It started innocently enough. I’ve been trying to eke out some spare change as a writer. Good for my bank account AND my self-esteem. Picked up a gig for the glossy Ignatius magazine, infrequent but fairly lucrative. My newest assignment seemed simple, a quick profile of an Ignatius grad who was injured in a diving accident.

But then the teacher appears. I arrive at the nursing home to meet him for a quick interview. And two and a half hours later, I exit his room and I know I will never be the same. In between I learn more about faith and resilience and hope than I can believe.

He’s paralyzed from the shoulders down. It’s been a year and half since he dove off the dock and changed his life forever. He can’t hug his family or pet his cat or scratch his nose. But what he can do? Man, does he shine. I have never met a man who spoke so passionately about his faith. And his idealism. And his love for his family. And the way his Bucket List changed from climbing Mount Everest and riding a bull to hugging his mother and building a home for other young quadriplegics like himself.

I cannot do him justice in writing. You have to be in the room with his energy and his unwavering faith to get the full affect. He’s not a Pollyanna and he’s no hero. Just a man who is making the best of the situation he’s in.

He told me he’s not afraid to pray big and make each day better than the last. That’s just the grace I need. Pray big. Work hard. Move slowly and surely in the direction of my dreams. Such a great lesson from such an amazing teacher.


Find some grace yourself: scottwfedor.com