Saturday, June 12, 2010
“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” ~William Wordsworth
I remember when I was 15 and on a Confirmation Retreat (a whole five miles from my house—Guam is small) that there were several LIFE LESSONS I learned.
First, I realized that my teenage drama didn’t compare to other kids’. My dad wasn’t in prison, my mom wasn’t abusive and I wasn’t as economically challenged as others. Yes, I didn’t have a boyfriend and that was huge in my mind then, but I did have budding feminine wiles. “Budding” being the operative word—arrested development really, but I digress, thank goodness I’m married, but I digress yet again. I cried when it was my turn in the sharing circle and upped the dramatics so the cute guy next to me could comfort me with a shoulder to cry on. Silly girl, but I have a nice memory of his muscular arm.
But, the TRUEST TEARS shed that weekend were when we were given letters from our parents. In my dad’s beautiful script were loving words our family didn’t easily throw around. I still have that letter and it is proof that I was loved. It was only when I was married that “I love you’s” flowed freely because of distance and mainly because my husband was not stingy with declaring his love. My parents followed suit. Now that my father is gone, I only have the many greeting cards he picked out for me and the letter from confirmation class. Sure, I have the memories of how we SHOWED our love, but I’m a writing freak…I love words, words on paper.
In my constant quest for order in the house (fancy way to say I’m cleaning), I found the beautiful leather journals I bought for my son and daughter. I finally wrote another entry to each of them after a nine month hiatus. I fill it with my feelings for them, the smart and funny things they do or say and some mundane, but important daily occurrences. I envision it full and gifted to them when they finish college or get married or have their first child. I tell my children that I love them more than once a day and I catch myself watching them with wonder all the time. The perfection of their little faces reminds me that there is a GOD.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Life is swell, but I still feel like I’m living under the surface of things. My days are blurring into each other. In November 2009, a soccer mom/friend asked me to participate in the Rock and Roll Marathon Team Relay. I agreed and so started the frustrating (for me) training. Almost seven months later, I had grand ideas that I would be the image of health and running the last leg with a 10-minute or better mile. The day is on the horizon and shape wise, I’m still a sexy pear. Fitness level and muscle tone are better, but my limpy left foot is an issue. My task is under 6 miles, about two 5 K’s is what I tell myself. I haven’t blasted comments about it on Facebook because simmering under my calm is nervousness. I know I can make it to the end without passing out, but I want to perform well for my team-4 Crazy Legs and for myself.
I explored the San Diego Convention Center for the very first time (I’ve lived in SoCal for 6 “ears”) for check in at the Health Expo. I was tingling with the knowledge that my muse-R.P. walked these halls, but I digress. Power bars, massages, Gu and running shoes peppered the showroom. All those free samples won’t make me run faster, I thought.
Full marathoners were given blue shirts and we relayers were given black shirts. I found some confidence in the fact that it was just not fitness buffs with 1% body fat running this weekend. I saw moms, grandmothers, and soldiers with bionic limbs (amongst others) with the blue shirts in their goodie bags. It gave me comfort that I wasn’t the odd woman out.
So, I will take this Sunday in stride, knowing that I will be doing something new and exciting. I will be setting an example for my children. I will be adding to my fitness level. Maybe before I’m forty I can take the next step and do a half marathon, then the whole 26.2 miles.
If you need me Monday, I’ll be sleeping in with an ice pack on my left foot, wearing my R and R shirt proudly—hopefully dreaming of running with a pasty vampire with golden eyes while werewolves vie for my attention.