Miles of Milestones

May is the month for milestones: graduations, baby showers, band concerts and baptisms currently dot my calendar. Additionally, there is the list of milestones as I go through the “lasts” of everything at my job. The last report cards, last talent show, and last class of eighth graders will be gone faster than I realize.

But with my head and calendar spinning, May is also the time I choose to focus on my re-birth.  Five years ago last week, I left my house in a funk, just as a howling thunderstorm approached. As with most moments that end up changing our lives, I’m not quite sure why I started running down the street. I made it a short distance that evening; the pain in my chest and my legs was new and as fierce as the storm.

That night changed my life. As I wrote five years ago.  “I keep running. The wind chases me now. I turn the corner and head for home. I’m not in it for the distance tonight. It is too new and too raw. But now I see. There is more to me than I already know. Some strange strength is gathering like the roiling clouds blowing in from the west.”

The power I found that night, when I landed on my porch breathless and dodging rain, was the beginning of this five-year journey. I had never exercised, and truly felt running was abhorrent. But in the past five years I have experienced hours of training,  nasty shin splints, a few half marathons, and the hottest and longest run ever: 26.2 miles on an 86 degree day. I have dodged ice and heat but somehow, inexplicably, I cannot dodge my dream of running a half marathon in every state. Believe me, I have tried. But what happens to a dream deferred? It keeps popping back up.  And so I run.

Five years later, and I’m pounding out a five-miler in the woods last night. (No small feat between my workday and the band concert.) Thoreau went to the woods to live deliberately. So do I. I want to move and breathe and focus. I want to do the impossible. I want to be someone I didn’t know I could be.

The process has been slow. It is so much easier to change my body and my breath than to BELIEVE that I am a runner. Last night I passed a woman walking her dog on the trail. Since that part of the trail is a loop, I quickly passed her again. She smiled and said, “You’re moving fast.” Immediately I responded, “Not really.” I spent the next mile frustrated with myself. Why is it so hard for me to feel like a “real runner”? Why is my speed at all indicative of my heart and my purpose and the pride I should feel at re-inventing myself?

But the moments of beauty help. I think I smiled the whole five miles last night. Deer, chipmunks, blooming trees, red-headed woodpeckers, a killer soundtrack, the “good sore” of my muscles. My daughter helps too. She did in one word what I haven’t been able to do in five years. Brought home her school project where she had to use three words to describe me, and one of them was “running.” She’ll never realize how her observations have helped change the way I look at myself.

Running is such a great metaphor for life. I’m always running, though I’m not always sure where the path is headed. The work is harder than I think, but the pay-out is more powerful than I can imagine. It’s the same in my home and my classroom.

A friend reminded me of this quote by Christopher McDougall: “Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up, it knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve. It doesn't matter whether you're the lion or a gazelle-when the sun comes up, you'd better be running.”

I do hit the ground running each day, each moment. And in many ways, my running career really is this life-and-death for me. Fear, fatigue, doubt, the feeling of being unworthy: they are always chomping at my heels. Running gives me the power to keep the problems at bay, and to become more than I know.  Some days I’m the lion, and some days I’m the gazelle. But each day and each mile brings me closer to the heart of who I want to become.

Setting Sail

The blue sky is the perfect replica of the lake this morning, the horizon line lost from my view.  The birds are loud, and the little kids on the playground even more so. This is the kind of spring day I was made for.   The chirping warmth of the blue sky, the promise of blossoms turning to full-fledged beauty, and the tiny voice inside my heart that says anything is possible.

And so it goes. Anything is about to be possible. For the past 11 years, I have breathed in this lake view, these junior high students, these countless essays and lessons and moments. And now it is time to go. Albert Einstein said, “A ship is always safe at the shore – but that is NOT what it is built for.” I understand this sentiment, and I am ready to put his theory to the test.  This week I signed a contract to teach AP Literature and junior American Literature at Elyria Catholic High School.  This morning I am watching a freighter filled with rocks float by on the lake, and it helps me to cement the decision to move, to sail away from the comfort of the shore.

Some people think I’m nuts for leaving the safety of a job I know so well, these dear people that I call my friends, and the routine that is ingrained in my muscle memory.  But I am ready.  I’m not always the most adventurous, but this decision seems rock solid wonderful to me.

Only slightly masochistic, I know my new job will be harder. There are nine novels lined up on my bookshelf for the first quarter alone.  And the high school students come with their own set of angst and technology and neediness. They can also drive away! A lot has changed in the time I have been gone.

I will also miss my friends. You don’t have the all-in personality I have and work somewhere for 11 years without getting attached. These people have seen me through births and deaths and everything in between. They have saved my life and my soul and my sanity. I will not take that parting easily.  

And there is something about this lake view that has buoyed me as well. The Panther football field outside my new window will not quite suffice.

I am leaving my kids behind. I know they will be well-loved, and I am happy for them to spread their wings without my shadow at the end of the hall. (It is hard to be a free range parent when you work twenty yards away.) And every seventh grade girl deserves to navigate the rough seas of junior high without her mother at the front of the class. For that I am most grateful.

As I sit here on the brink, I appreciate the freedom of my choice. I am thankful for the lessons learned here, the pieces of these students I will carry with me. I wonder at the blurred horizon; but I’m content with knowing that 20/20 vision of the future is impossible.

The day I got offered the job, still reeling and amazed by the new fork in my path, I left EC and turned on the car radio to hear the song “Say Geronimo.” Such a perfect moment of clarity and expectancy that afternoon, and I feel even more certain of my decision today. I CAN make this leap, and anything is truly possible.

On Breathing and Balancing

Why do I feel like crying at yoga class?! Under normal circumstances, crying and I are actually quite well-acquainted, including but not limited to baseball game brawls, school masses, moments with my lawnmower, and the general beauty of the natural world.  But what is this strange intensity that makes me feel as though tears will well at any second once I come to the top of my mat?

Let’s be straight. I know just enough yoga to be dangerous. But I do feel a strange calling to investigate this art of breathing and strengthening my muscles. I am assuming it will make me a calmer mother, too. (It really shouldn’t take much to improve on the lady yelling “I am not Cinderella” the other night. But really, you should see the ways these clients load the dishwasher!)

So lately I have been taking my talents to a local yoga studio. Last night I showed up with the awkward grace I am known for, and OHMed my way to the top of the mat.  I love the idea of the static stretch, the quiet, the focus. But the breathing sends me over the edge. I always feel like I am teetering between hyperventilating and breaking out into tears.

And there is the metaphor. I AM always teetering.

It’s been a big week of preparation for my children. The middle guy has his first Gallery Opening this evening at BayArts. His drawing class met every Tuesday all year, and I am amazed by the creativity that lives in his brain. Tomorrow, my baby makes his First Communion.  The importance of that moment is not lost on me, despite the chaos of fried chicken and baked beans and chalice cookies. Not to be left out, my girl is competing in the county-wide spelling bee on Sunday. Yes, I know I am blessed.

But I have been spinning lately. And running, both literally and figurately. And I guess it makes sense that when I stop for a second, emotions that I didn’t know I had will appear.   And it is somewhere in this chaos of mothering that the breathing beckons me. I read an article a few weeks ago about how kids grow up too fast. I can attest to that myself. But the article also contemplated what WE mothers are doing WHILE the kids are growing up. Am I growing too, and who will I be when they leave the nest?

Last night I scared myself. Went too far too fast in a halasana position, and felt like I couldn’t breathe.  But you know what? Just last week I couldn't do it at all. Progress.  I felt this same kind of amazement when I ran my marathon: 26.2 miles of me pounding asphalt.  And it made me wonder, what ELSE is there that I think I cannot do?!?

Yoga is a great way to see that my mind and body are connected, and I CAN do more than I realize. I can learn that on the yoga mat. I can practice that patience in my house. I can feel the fear in my career and challenge myself in new ways. I can relish those moments when breathing deeply is my best and only choice.

So what am I doing as my children are drawing and growing and spelling? I am breathing. And reaching. And balancing. No professional yogi for sure, but a woman in the midst of becoming. And the art of becoming is the perfect pose for me.