Encouraged.

This week, I’ve gotten lucky.

I have been introduced to people that have truly given so much to me. And I didn’t even ask.

If you have followed me, or known me even for a minute, I don’t ask for help. I will silently go forth and push on, quite probably hurting deep on the inside. Regardless of facial expressions, or daily activities, somewhere in my crazified brain, things are running rampant.

I forget because I haven’t in the past asked for help, but it is okay, all right, good even, to work together, and ask for help. I offer, I work hard to help others, but sometimes I don’t take the time to check in with myself, and ask, am I ok?

This week, I started with a group of people. We shared a meal, and I met so many new faces, and got to know more about them and learn their stories. I was a encouraged, by their thoughts, and good tidings, and welcome arms as I entered a room full, not knowing full well what to expect. I was encouraged by invitations to seek out more, and even an email the next day letting me know it was good to meet me, and an offering of resource, guidance, help. It’s ok to take up on that offering. I will.

I was encouraged by a sit down meeting where I got to talk about something that is important to me. And I got to talk about dreams and goals and opportunities for myself. I was encouraged, because someone saw something in me that I haven’t even thought of for myself. Someone believed I could do more than I had aspired to. So I asked for help to guide me to those dreams, goals, aspirations.

And finally I was encouraged as I ran fully and entirely pain-free. Nothing hurt. And I pushed myself into that uncomfort zone of running and it felt joyous, spectacular and refreshing.

So here is to encouraging one another. And here is to asking for help. It’s ok to ask. It is commendable. No one should ever have to walk alone. 

Writer Wednesday 1.15

My grandpa called me a wordsmith as I grew up. And recently, someone said that and it reminded me of that moment felt infinite with him. I was proud and honored and loved. Recently, I decided to write my grandpa's story. Here's a first draft excerpt. Any and all critiques would be much appreciated!

He sat there, his chair pushed back from the table, still able to reach his steaming cup of black coffee in the cardboard cup. The cup he had been carrying around since yesterday. Why waste another cup if this one was still good. He still had remnants of whiskey in the bottom, so each sip was a little extra kick that morning. Not enough to get bad, but enough to cut the edge.

No one can remember how these meetings started, not for lack of trying though. They just appeared once. A group of retired men, meeting in the early hours of the morning, papers folded to the Sports Section, or half started crossword puzzles. They all took turns as they charmed the baristas, asking for some outrageous drink and then settling for black coffee, the thing they wanted all along.

Always four of them, never more, never less, they were a selective group. They didn’t really care though. They enjoyed the company. Wrinkles may have been added from year to year, but only because of the laughter. And the same stories told week after week, but that was ok, they enjoyed them anyways. One man always stuck out from them though. When he stood, he was near four or five inches taller than the others. His eyes changed in the sunshine, and his smile rarely left, only when he was telling a really good tale and had to add it for effect. His clothes were normally tattered. His favorite brown cardigan, eaten with holes in the elbows, and a button dangerously close to losing its last string. Some weeks it would change though. He would wear his deep green Highlands golf jacket, with the embroidery over the left chest pocket. The deep pockets carrying the mound of change that may normally way down his standard khaki attire; he could buy coffee for weeks with that change. His shoes would no longer be scuffed, but his church shoes worn. He was going to see his grandkids that afternoon. Taking them to lunch, and hopefully a bucket of golf balls at their local driving range. He loved them so, leaving his home an hour before necessary, just to sneak a few extra minutes. His granddaughter was starting high school in the fall, and his grandson was still in his awkward stage, but he brought them books and lessons of time.

The guys always noticed those days, and he would tell the same stories he had before, and they smiled and laughed along with every funny moment, seeing the love twinkling in his eyes. They knew theirs sparkled just the same on other days.  

Writing Assignment. 1.14

One of my intentions for the year is to actually write more. Or continue writing. Hopefully one day I may finish a project, Lord willing and maybe even become a published novelist, or essayist, or something –ist. And hopefully it is a good thing.

So to get myself started I found a few lists of writing prompts and practices to be able to continue and practice my own writing. Maybe even learn some more about myself in the process? Ruhroh.

This list has been sitting in my notebook for the last 14 days. Yes, since the beginning of the year. I have wanted to start, I have had the intention of starting, and have not. The first prompt scares me. And they only get a little bit harder as we go. It takes time and thought to come up with the answers. I don’t even care if they are good answers. Maybe I try too hard. Ok, I am heading in a tangent, I’ll bring it back.

So here is the prompt:

Five ways to win my heart.

That actually forces me to take a deeper look at myself. What really gets me? What am I attracted to?

I have actually had that writing assignment before. I had to list qualities, both surface and depth, of what attracts me to someone. In this particular case it was to the opposite gender, what I would look for in a significant other. But some of them, at least the depth, can be said for what I look for in a close friend too.

The other day someone let me in on something that warmed his or her heart. Feeling honored and privileged to be let in on this, even though it may have been a well-known fact about them that everyone on the planet knew, lucky to have it shared with me.

 “I’m a sucker for…”

That just melts my heart. 

Dialectic, sure. 

Maybe it really just comes down to word choice.

There is this movie, “Midnight in Paris”, that talks about that. Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Gertrude Stein, Salvador Dali (!) emphatically talk about how important, in their own styles and choices. Words you use say more about you than what you are describing sometimes.

I may or may not swoon a touch if someone were to call me a wordsmith. 

They know me, even a little more than I know myself.

One of my favorite songs is Lorde’s Ribs

. “We laugh until our ribs get tired.” How often do we think of laughing until our ribs get tired? Easily we jump to laughing until our bellies ache. Some of the best ab workouts I have had have come from laughing. But to laugh until our ribs get tired are from the deep, full belly laughs . Boisterous, you know the ones, full of happiness and pure joy. The ones you can’t hold back from, and the people around turn to look and laugh to themselves only wishing they could someday be that happy. That in love with life.

I guess that would be second thing, since I just spent a paragraph describing laughter. A life spent laughing is a life spent living. Which is super cliché, I know. But man, it is still pretty awesome when you get to laugh everyday.

A taste for adventure, whether that is trying new food, or new places in the city you live, or climbing a mountain, maybe even climbing a mountain in the nighttime. Trying new things, seeking out new experiences and opportunities. And learning from those things too. Routine is always a great thing, but sometimes shaking that routine around, to a slightly different rhythm can keep  life on your toes. But really that constant search for knowledge, learning and education. Reading new books, or reading the same ones, but getting new thoughts from them. So lovely.

The willingness to be silly. I don’t exactly stand in front of a crowd and dance in front of everyone, stone-cold sober just to win a prize I can’t even accept, but for bragging rights. Oh wait… maybe I did that once. And I won. Plus, getting my own awesome theme song is pretty darn rockabilly. But if you can bust out sweet dance moves in the kitchen while cooking dinner, you’ve got my attention. I’ve done some pretty silly things in my life. And really, it shows great confidence to be able to walk into a room, with paint, mud, chalk on your face, hair askew and messy, and be content. Or to snort when you laugh, because you just can’t hold back anymore. Making fun of yourself for making a mistake. Not self-deprecating, but a “ohmuhgarsh here we go, look what I did!” Willing to laugh.

camp gets crazy. 

And I guess if I had to put a finger on it, it would be confidence enough in yourself to stand alone in something. Or have the confidence to not fall to peer pressure or stand by your ambitions, values, ethics, morals. And play it positively too. You don’t have to rationalize, justify, or place blame on someone or something else. I respect people for their opinions, especially if you are able to respect mine too. We may not agree, but we can work together. Like, I don’t drink. People don’t always understand that, but I just don’t want to. Maybe one day, I will go back to sharing a glass of wine, but for right now, I just want to enjoy your company. No peer pressure, no snarky remarks, nothing like that, just talk, hang out and enjoy the time.

I don’t know about this list, but hey, kinda fun.

What about you readers? Anything you like that I missed?

Questions 1.13

 Every summer for the last umpteen summers I have worked at a running camp. I know, I went to a camp to work with high school age kids, to help them run. Run. I know.

But this blog was meant for me to express things in running and in life. It has been a mainstay even when I have not been allowed, or able, to lace up and head out the door. It has taught me so much about not only getting one foot in front of the other, but about life, happiness, sadness, and so much about myself than I can even begin to describe and write.

This camp in particular, I have learned more as a counselor than I ever did as a camper, and I continue to learn every year I am honored to go back. I cannot wait for this summer.

Recently I was reminiscing over the last year, as we all tend to do when a new year rolls around. And I was brought back to a moment at camp.

Every year is basically the same. Sunday we introduce everyone, go for a run, get into your groups, start activities, enjoy the first night. Monday is morning run, breakfast, volleyball, foursquare, jenga, lecture, lunch, quiet hour, run, dinner, activities, lecture, food carnival. And so on. Each day is just the same. The only things that change are which teams are doing which activities, and sometimes the lectures. Thursday is a fun day. It is a relatively open day. We run in the morning, we have lectures most of the day, and dinner date, lecture and dance. The lectures throughout the day are separated, boys and girls, for just a bit.

It is actually a lot of fun, we all gather in the room, female counselors, female coaches, and the athletes. We don’t smell that bad at this point in the week, just dirt smeared legs and caked in mosquito repellent. Tired eyes, and doodle-filled notebooks stare at the counselors at the front.

When I was a camper, we went through and had to listen to these long drawn out lectures. Not entirely different from the ones you may have received in health class in middle school, but a little more pertaining to endurance athletes and the like.

Well now, on the counselor side, we have changed it up. And we have made it fun. Or it is fun to me, which I have the maturity of a twelve year old sometimes, so who knows. The girls probably think I am weird. And I take that as a compliment.

We have them write on pieces of paper, everything they may ever want to ask. And this year, I will be bringing a mason jar.

It places anonymity into their hands, and we ask them to ask anything they want.

We get the typical questions with female in athletics, and then we get the pile of questions, of girls either trying to make a joke, or are really, really afraid to ask.

This year was fun. We answered, how to wear your hair while running, and how to wear bright colors, choosing a sports bra.

My favorite was “How do you know when a boy likes you?”

In reflecting on the past, I realized, I wish I had a group that I could go to and write down on those little pieces of paper, and ask the questions I have always been afraid of asking. Or just wanted an opinion.

Like, “How do you know when a boy likes you?”

That's just life I guess, we don't always have those groups. We just have to find the answers on our own. By trial and error in my case. 

we even take bathroom selfies. 

We never found the answer. Amongst 7 female staffers, there was no answer. You just never know. They’re going to need to say something. Or you could be brave and be the one to make the move. 

NOTE: I would definitely be asking more than just that question. I've got a lot to ask. 

Blank 1.10

I've probably posted this, but didn't know where to put it. 


Soft against her skin, the air lay damp against her flying, floating limbs. Time sweeps and life flies by-forward.

Clocks chase but never catching. You would think it would be the other way around. Ticking past, slowing the exertion. The slight hesitations of the seconds clocks firing with the miles past. And yet she still carries on.

Wind striking her hard and fighting back, braving the excess elements; sweat defeated by the pouring rain, hidden in droplets and rivers afloat. The salty skin soaked to the bone.

But why was she running? Bravery? Courage? The overwhelming urge to fight the good fight and win?

Or was it fear? Was it demons in her life telling her she isn’t good enough? She can’t run that fast, that hard, that far. Was it to prove them wrong- the ifs, the maybes, the doubters, skeptics, blasphemers, unknowns, the antis, the non-believers. Was it they who were pushing her limits-the burning lungs, trembling muscles, and the tired mind.

Or was it all just something inside, something that at the end of a real hard one said, “One more.”

Slippery 1.8

Running in the Winter.

A How To.

Or a How To Not.

Today is the 7^th of January as I sit down to write this. It probably won’t be posted until Thursday, so I apologize for the past tense. I take that back, I don’t apologize. Deal.

So we are in the heat of winter here in good ol’ Spokane. And the roads are a little slick. To be fair, the trails are a little slicker.

I have run most days of winter, no matter what. I spent some time in South Dakota. I braved the -11 degree temperature runs.

If you cover up just right, you should be fine.

But there is some treachery out there you must be aware of.

Ice. And snow on top of ice.

Now, we all worry about running on such degrees, but we go out and do it anyways. We look mighty funny, jogging along, at a pace much slower than the summer, but we are out there anyway. And then that patch of ice catches us and we slip, slide, whee-ing along with random sound effects spewing from our mouths, trying to avoid the long list of obscenities that trail through our minds.

I have actually never fallen while running.

I have fallen walking.

I know, it is like some karmic act telling me you should have been running.

This winter, I have fallen a total of 12 times. 11 of them were yesterday.

A few winters back, I fell walking down the steps of my house, landing square on my tailbone, catching the edge of the final step to the walkway. I sat there, forced myself to laugh to avoid the tears, and got up. I ran the two and a half miles it took to get to the YMCA and hopped on a treadmill for ten more miles, and then hopped back off and ran home. I thought, oh I will run off the soreness. Well, my tailbone was bruised for a few months. Sitting was difficult for quite some time.

Yesterday, I couldn’t laugh at the last one. I slipped sideways on the trail and caught a few of my own limbs on the way down. Today, I sit here, a bruised shoulder and wrist, a nice big bruise on my hip, scratches and a bump on the head. I knew the moment I hit my head, I was going to be in trouble. I tried to sit right up, but it only increased the dizziness. Headache was immediate. And the tears just fell.

I was thankful it was dark, so that the people I was with couldn’t see me, but they could hear the shaky breaths as we continued on down the trail.

I am more so thankful I was actually with people. Had I not been with them, I wouldn’t have gotten up. I would have probably let the blurred vision and woozy feeling take me over and just stayed there in the middle of that trail.

Sometimes I am thankful for my stubbornness, not wanting to seem weak or fragile in front of others forced me to get back up and keep on going.

Can’t run for a couple days, which is frustrating, but maybe it will give me time to be more thankful for my friends.