part two.

This is a follow-up to my over dramatized post from this morning. I'm trying a new thing by writing with emotion. 

Today, I got up.

I had a cup (or three) of coffee. I slipped on my running shoes just like everyone else does, one by one. I laced them, making sure that they were snug but not too snug. Just the way I do everyday. I drove the length of road to the trail head, and waited in my car. My heaters were blasting and it was nice to be comforted in warmth. It was only drizzling, but the wind chilled it evermore.

I climbed. And I climbed. And I realized I was running a little too fast. And breathing a little too short, but I kept going. My lungs were burning, more than I had ever felt in every workout, ever. My heart beat raced and my legs churned. And then…

Rounding some corner I had never been to, the green covered trees stopped shaking. Their mossy exteriors stopped altogether and stared back into my sweaty, salty streaked face. There I was, in the middle of the woods. I was passed the place I had always been. I had gone just a little bit further. My feet slowed and my hands grasped my knees as my breath was more than I could handle. I wasn’t gasping. I wasn’t struggling.

The air was slow, but full and pulling me out from under where I had put myself. I had stuck myself into the funk that was causing me to question, well, everything. I woke up and questioned why I acted the way I acted. And why I was doing what I was doing. Why I was thinking the way I was thinking.

My answer was to run. Not to run away, but to run to something. Run to somewhere I had never been. Run to something I had never even seen.

My legs, my arms, my heart, they carried me farther than I thought on this day.

My reaction is to write things. And then share. In a weird way, that is just who I am. This is my language, how I take control of my life. And today, I decided to question everything right back.

Why?

Why was I questioning my everything?

Why can’t I just start from right now?

Why not me?

I jumped into a new adventure. I jumped onto a new trail. And I am so happy that this is my life. And I’ll stay under my covers. Only because it is warm. I will jump into the unknown. And know that I am forever grateful. And never alone.

sleepless.

At times I find myself at four o’ clock in the morning laying in bed. My eyes are wide open and my senses are awake, but dulled in the darkness and still before the dawn.

I had slept with a deepness I never realized I needed. It was a day that emotions had flooded back through gates I thought I had locked and under control.

But now, it isn’t there. My mind is racing over the what-ifs, what-could-have-beens, and the what-am-i-doings. I trip over long ago thoughts and memories that I wish I had never had, but would never regret.

I wonder if it is too early to make coffee, and my body sinks deeper beneath the comforter. I pull another blanket over top and wonder if I never have to get out of bed again.

It is warm here, and my heart is safe locked behind the down and layers of my blanketed encapsulation.

I know not of what may come. I know not of what will be. I may only hope for something. I pray for everything.

Am I ready? Am I willing? Am I able?

Can I withstand something more powerful than I can possibly fathom? I hope so.

One thought lingers passed all the others. It is slow in movement and in time, and one that will be difficult to muster.

Am I broken?

This leads down to others: am I too broken, am I worthy, am I good, am I well.

Yes. I am broken. And that is what makes me ready. And that is what makes me worthy, and good, and well.

I will never know if I am worthy. Not unless I pursue and understand and believe.

I pray for the strength to understand. I pray for the guidance to release and reconcile. I pray for the faith and guidance that will lead me to the path I am chosen. I pray that I will stand strong with confidence and fullness of spirit. 

Breakfast.

The human noise we were making.

The clinks and clanks of the breakfast table, as we silently sipped our sustenance of

 coffee and eggs.

It is my favorite sound in the morning time. Breakfast.

You wouldn’t think a time of day would have a sound to it, but it does. Like at two in the morning, when the world is silent and still, but you walk the streets for fear of running into another soul who is aimless and wondering. But it excites you just the same.

Or in the middle of the afternoon, when people are running errands, but not everyone and you stop in the middle of a parking lot and just watch. The kids haven’t left school yet, and the moms and dads are rushing to get everything done, but with purpose and direction; no wanderings or listless afternoons. And I begin to feel lost and hopeless, wondering why it is I cannot help myself but to wander.

But breakfast. And so rarely can we experience this together.

Yes, we make ourselves an egg or two, with a side of toast, and if we are daring some roasted vegetables on top. And we may sit on our couch, or at the table, and in the springtime outside on the porch, eating and chewing our way in silence and hopefully thought. We may take the morning paper onto the porch with us, and skim the front page, maybe the sports page too, and eventually I will land on the crossword puzzle. Filling the boxes with my time, and pretend knowledge of random facts, and crossword clues used time and time again, you know, for the vowels. But sometimes, we don’t. We take that time for granted. I like my moments. And I have wondered how to fill those moments sometimes, and I finally found a way to cherish those moments of solitude and fill them with grace. But that’s a story for another time.

Breakfast is my favorite. Hopefully I have made something healthy instead of just eating raisins, and toast, and then grazing all day long, but when I get to sit down with people, and eat, and talk, and laugh, that’s when magic happens.

Again, I love time by myself. Or I do now.

But...

Last weekend, I got to have breakfast with people. I know that might sound really odd, or lame to some, but for me, it was a nice, the perfect addition to a day. And luckily, it became multiple days.

This time, and these sounds, I didn’t realize that I loved them so until this last weekend.

Waking up Saturday morning and enjoying the daybreak with people, discussing books, and experience and life, as we ran along roads none of us had ever been on before. We showered and dressed, and in all of our awkwardness, joined hands and blessed the food and the day set before us. With tired eyes we put our heads down, and sipped the cups before us. The scraping and clinking of forks on plates, piling eggs, bacon and fruit in equal portions along the edges so as to not touch the other food on the plate. My eyes closed and my heart was warmed with this noise; the low mumble of conversation, at first. And building as we nourished our bodies further. And then, that laugh. Someone breaks that silence with a laugh, leaning back in their chair, tipping it slightly, hearing glasses carried to the table, and smiles squeal across faces in the room. Just pure joy on this morning. I can’t help but smile myself. No more is there discomfort or misunderstanding, awkwardness or quiet. The dam has broken and we enjoy. The sounds of the morning quicken as we laugh together, regaling in stories of past and sharing in adventures and hopes restored. Our plates are cleaned and our coffees gone, running now on energy from ourselves.

We have given and been given.

And I am thankful for this human noise we are always making. 

(We didn't have phones last weekend, so I know these are repeat pics. But without phones or devices, we were able to experience so much more. Live so much more.)

Another Piece.

Just another little thing I have been working on, hopefully sooner or later all the pieces will fall into place and become something really special. 

Thanks all who care, listen and read. Grateful and honored you would take the time. 

Flapjacks

“I’ll have the number three. Can I get an extra hash brown?”

His words were forced, slowed, and slurred. The frightened and dainty cashier visibly sweats from behind the counter, avoiding eye contact with this aged man. His tatter Dockers hung loosely around his waist, held up by his hands lifting up from his pockets. Not enough holes were drilled through the worn leather belt that showed at least an extra inch of worth.

Glassy and foggy, his eyes stared passed knowing exactly what he wanted, but not sure of what he was getting at.

“Sir that will be $6.49?”

She questioned even his ability to pay for his breakfast, glancing up only for a moment to pass her judgment on the matter. Hoping he wouldn’t lunge across the counter, her hands were audibly trembling against the register, anticipating his next move. Glancing back to the fry cooks, the thoughts of their needed protection became entirely visible on her face.

From behind the man, a younger woman stepped out to the counter, eyes downcast at her hands, flipping through the stack of bills.

“Grandpa? Check your pockets, I know you’ve got the change in there. How ‘bout it? Forty-nine cents is all we need.”

Confused the cashier stumbled over her words trying to ask the woman if she would like anything, even feigning a slight apology, embarrassed and relieved all at once. Looking at the two, there was a slight resemblance.

It was the eyes.

“I’ll just have an oatmeal and a coffee, thank you. Maybe a couple of orange juices too”

The young woman glanced slightly at the man, counting out the pennies in his weathered hands, wandering away from the counter. Noticing the Times for the day, he picked one up and found the nearest empty seat to enjoy.

Chuckling, she handed the cashier the money for an extra coffee, and the paper too. She walked over to her grandfather, taking her seat across from him.

Their sockless feet padded down the staircase, hands raised up to grasp the railing and they could hear the TV turned to the news. Opening the door to the basement and another set of stairs, the warmth enveloped them. And as they descended slowly, the shuffle of the paper stopped and then dropped all at once.

He sat in the armchair that had been there forever. At least since she could remember.

His gaze not at the TV, but at the opening in the wall, waited for them. Those eyes stared and shone, squinted by the wrinkled smile he threw at them.

“Good morning, Grandpa!”

The trotted and skipped the few feet to the chair and he squeezed each child.

The girl, a little older, watched as her brother was wrapped into this giant’s arms. The length stretched wide and draped around the little body, drawing him in close.

“Good morning! Did you sleep all right? What do we want to do today? We had better start with breakfast. Grandma isn’t here. How about oatmeal?”

The two little ones, not wanting to defy their grandfather, just looked to the floor, curled their toes drawing patterns in the carpets.

“How about that Scottish restaurant? Just don’t tell Grandma! Get dressed quick, we might miss it.”

Had the kids looked at the clock, they would have realized it was still early, and breakfast service would not end for another three hours.

There were only two seats in the pick up truck, but they were both small enough that the kids would be able to share the passenger side, fighting over who got to sit closer to Grandpa. On the drive he let one of them guide his hand on the stick shift, changing gears down the busy thorough way. Still too young to realize they weren’t actually doing any of the work.

“We’ll have three flapjack breakfast specials,” he said with clarity and authority. Standing next to him, proud and tall, the kids were protected and happy. Nothing could be better than breakfast with Grandpa.

“Remember when we used to come as kids, Grandpa?”

His hand was shaking, trying to decide which to hold: his coffee or his paper. Not seeming to notice her words, she continued on.

“Oh man, that was a treat, when Grandma wasn’t in town, kind of like this weekend, and we would drive down in your old white Toyota? Still cannot believe that thing runs. Do you know where they hid the keys? Maybe we can take it out later today. Go hit a bucket of balls at Jade Greens? Anyways, do you remember that? We used to all get flapjack specials. And B-man would need extra syrup, he would just smother those things.”

Laughing she looked up at him from her own coffee, only to see him missing from his seat across the table. Half his coffee spilled along the edge. She got up to look for napkins when she saw him at the counter, lilting slightly, trying to grab the change from his pockets, catching on the edges.

She laid out some cash on the counter as she caught up to him, resting her other hand on his shoulder.

He turned to her then, tears welling, deepening their grey-blue tint, Her own now filling, she grasped him wide and tights, overlapping her long limbs around his back.

“I just wanted some flapjacks.”

Bloomsday Week

It’s a Tuesday.

And it is Bloomsday week.

Since moving to Spokane, a little over three years ago, this week has become one of my favorites. Let’s face it: my absolute favorite.

It is a week filled with so much joy and fun, it is hard not to end it smiling and happy, even if you have a bad race on Sunday.

This Sunday marks my fourth Lilac Bloomsday run. Crazy to think about really. And along the way I have created these super random “traditions.” It may seem crazy but if I don’t do them, I don’t run well. Two of my last three Bloomsdays haven’t turned out the greatest, time wise.

Last year I hadn’t run the three months prior, so that doesn’t help. And my first one, let’s just say I had had a little too much fun the night before. So here’s to the week. Updates along the way, I am sure.

my favorite race photo. Boss man checking my time. 

sometimes, you just have to laugh. 

One thing I always seem to do is work. A lot.

I’m constantly moving and shaking all week long, no matter what job I am at, or who I am with, I am working all week. This is an amazing event, and I can think of nothing better than giving myself back to it, year after year. And yes, it makes waking up on Sunday morning a little bit harder, but my eyes still fill with tears as I wait in that corral for the gun to go off, surrounded by 52,000 of my nearest and dearest compatriots.

I eat a lot of yummy food too. This year will be a little bit different as I finally get to attend my mom’s awards banquet for her school. I haven’t been able to see their speakers, and they’ve had some good ones, but this year, I get food out of the deal!!!

Friday morning, before the Trade Show at the Convention Center, I wake up and head on down to the Spokane Club, starting one of my summer traditions as well.

There is a small and dedicated group, meeting every Friday morning at 7:15 downtown. They run the same five-mile course every time. With no fail, the only time it may differ is severe weather, but even then they may wait an hour or so to warm up.

I line up next to an Olympian and Lilac Bloomsday founder, some collegiate and high school phenoms, and even just your everyday, average “Bloomie.” Friday morning before the madness starts, I get in that one precious run. We don’t talk about Bloomsday. We catch up, and we enjoy the run. It is always sunny on Friday morning. 

American Bison Racing Team 2011

There is coffee flowing, shoes a flying and so many smiles, by the end of the weekend I don’t know which cheeks hurt worse… see what I did there?

Come on down to the Show. 

 Pick up your bib number, meet all the Bloomies, and enjoy the week.

It’s one of the best around.