How rediscovering my voice led me to give up coffee

When I last wrote, I shared about finding my voice again, at last. I feel as though it’s returning after years lost in other people’s narratives, speaking someone else’s vision. But even after only a few days, I realize both how powerful and how fragile it is to speak one’s own message and experience. My voice is like a tiny plantlet, just emerged from a seed. Too much sun and it withers, too little and it molds. This weekend I wrote not at all, spoke little, and thought a lot, mostly about how to stay on the path I’m traveling now, with all its gifts and revelations. Which is why, much to my surprise, I gave up coffee.

In general, I am an overthinker and a questioner. I seldom make any decision without exhaustive introspection and fact finding (hello, perfectionist). However, Saturday morning, after a questionable night sleep, I poured my cuppa, looked at the mug and thought, what if I didn’t? It doesn’t seem like a big deal, I know. But after one sip, I poured it down the sink and reached for tea instead. Again, for most, it’s not such a big deal, but for me, this action tells me that I am listening to my inner voice, again.

When I heard about the one hundred day project, I looked into it only summarily. Instead, I felt as though something was pressing on my gut whispering, you should do this. You need to do this. My immediate response to this sort of experience is to go intellectual. After all, my heart is not trustworthy. At least, that’s the narrative I’ve ingested. I’ve survived on intellect alone for years. Intellectualism is a way to survive, maybe, but it’s not so great for thriving. Ignoring my heart and my feelings are part of what got me into this tangle in the first place. Simply taking that message, to write for one hundred days, which came from deep inside, the least intellectual part of me, led me down an amazing path. I shared my heart, and when I did, I discovered a new way of experiencing the world around me.

Even my faith has relied on my intellect for as long as I can remember. I’ve learned rules and tenets and systems and answers. I can defend and define with the best of them. But somewhere I lost the ability to feel or wonder. When rules are all you have, doubts and questions are a corrosive element to avoid at all costs. Imagine my surprise to find, even after bringing doubt in by the truckload, God is still here. She still loves. She is not threatened by my doubts or my feelings. Opening my heart, not to certainty, but childlike wonder remains the most terrifying and life giving discovery of the past few months.

So I gave up coffee. Sure, I’ve been doing some out-of-the-box things in an effort to improve my rest and my health, but none of them without reading and research. I don’t even believe I gave up coffee with sleep in mind. I only know I recognized that pressure on my gut that told me, listen up! your heart is talking.

One of the things I thought about most over the weekend was how to protect my heart from being drowned out by voices in the world, in the church and in my relationships. While I have some ideas I will flesh out with the proper research and intense questioning, I’m also creating space for my heart, my inner voice, to just speak for herself. She knows more than my head in so many ways. She deserves consideration even when I don’t entirely understand.

So I’m curious, are you more prone to rely on intellect or instinct? Do you trust your heart/gut/ inner voice? Why or why not?

 

The End: When endings are the doorway to beginning

In an interview released yesterday, Eugene Peterson said if asked, he would officiate a gay marriage. As I am sure you can imagine, the internet exploded. While I agree with his position, that isn’t actually the part of the interview that brought me to tears. Instead, a bit further down the article, the interviewer spoke of endings. Mr. Peterson is 84 years old, reaching the end of a beautiful career and lifetime. The interviewer asked, “One day, as with all of us, Eugene Peterson will not be someone who exists. He will be somebody who did exist once. When that moment comes, how do you hope people will remember Eugene Peterson?”

What a question, eh? One day you will no longer exist. Here is a portion of his response…

“I haven’t been part of anything big. I’ve never been a big church preacher. I’ve never been on the radio or anything like that. I’m so pleased that people care about what I’ve done and support it because these are difficult times for the church. I’m quite aware of that. Anyway, I guess I’m just surprised that anyone would remember at all.

This is where I cried. For a thousand reasons, this honest, gentle response touched my soul. Not three sentences earlier he uttered words that will echo across blogs and tweets and facebook rants for weeks to come, without changing much. No, it’s the gift of his long, consistently beautiful life which we will remember, and he didn’t do any of it for fame or recognition. This is beautiful.

Last week I told my husband, I feel I’ve written out all my bitterness. I still have things I am angry about, of course: injustice, 45, the ways we treat each other. These things make me angry, and they should. Anger is a catalyst for change; I hope I never lose it. But bitterness is anger we turn inward, hanging on to it like a trophy, to prove our rightness, our superiority. At some point, that feeling flowed out of my fingertips and disappeared. My heart feels buoyant, expansive, and filled with light.

I have changed. Nothing else about our situation has. I’m still checking the weather in other people’s cities. I’m still a misfit in a conformist culture. I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I really haven’t figured out anything at all. But I understand myself better, and if that is the only thing I take away from the last 100 days, then it is worth the hours and days of effort I put into it.

But it isn’t my only takeaway, not at all. Writing for one hundred days has helped me rediscover my voice, the one I use to speak when I’m not defensive or wounded or (very) afraid.  I learned to sit comfortably with fear, but not with silence, not anymore. I understand now that  I am most powerful when I love well, and sometimes the best way to love well is to let go.

Most importantly, I know I am not alone. You all came with me. Maybe not every day, but you showed up. You spoke up. You let good enough be good enough on days when showing up was the best I could do. I didn’t take this journey alone. I hope that you may also have felt a bit less lonely you yourself. Deconstruction is a difficult, often isolating experience. It’s good to hear the voices of others to help you feel normal, sane or at the very least, not condemned. Like Eugene, I’m just surprised anyone cared enough to read at all. That’s the truth.

I love new beginnings. I always have. But endings? I haven’t always done well with those. Still, here we are. Together at the end, one hundred days later. It takes an ending to give birth to something else new.

There it is. Can you see it?

 

 

Efficiency is boring: Why I always stop for ice cream

When my girls were young, I often felt overwhelmed. Part of the problem was the unrealistic expectations I placed upon myself. Another part was the constant feeling that I needed to get more things done in a shorter amount of time. Many nights I went to bed feeling worn out and frustrated, as though all I had accomplished was spinning my wheels. I constantly chased efficiency.

Hindsight is kind to me now. I’m able to see what really matters was happening quite invisibly while we stumbled about. My children were growing into human beings, and oh what marvelous human beings they have become.

But it didn’t happen efficiently.

Raising children is a long, sprawling, messy, inefficient process. Sure, you can rush it along, but why? We have decades and decades of adulting ahead of us. Childhood, on the other hand, is just a tiny span of time. And yet its sprawling untidiness often made me feel as though I was somehow living completely wrong. I knew there must be a way to tighten up, to remove the messiness.

If there is a way, I sure never figured it out. We had cereal for dinner for days when my husband was out of town. Also, ice cream. We wore dirty clothes and, sometimes, skipped baths. We definitely skipped school on beautiful days and not-so-beautiful days. They never took a test or received a grade. Not one. I never got it all together, and so each day was a bit of an adventure without a map leading us to the end point.

Gosh, I’m so glad for this.

I’m so glad we chased curiosity and went to Sea World on Thursdays (sometimes every Thursday.) I’m glad we watched movies on rainy days and took unexpected trips and left chores unfinished to read just one more chapter.

Our rampant inefficiency has led to the most interesting life. My delightfully messy children have grown into such captivating adults. Sometimes we sit around the dinner table and have discussions that swing from silliness to serious and back again so fast I almost have motion sickness. We look at the world from the front, back, and sideways and never see the same things twice, nor hold the same opinion very often. We’re not neat or conventional and, most certainly, not at all efficient.

We aren’t boring, either.

It’s only taken me forty-four years to figure out efficiency is boring. The point isn’t  to get to the next things as quickly as possible just so to cross it off some cosmic list. The point is to suck every bit of enjoyment out of the journey even if it means it takes five minutes or five hours more. Also, you should definitely stop for ice cream. With sprinkles.

 

Coddiwomple: Moving into an unknown future

So, here’s a funny thing: I don’t know what’s next. Stranger still, I’ve made an odd form of peace with it. Me, the planner, the anticipator, the dreamer, has simply decided come what may, it will be alright. This reaction is unusual for me. Sometimes I sit with it and hold it softly, like a rock on my tongue, unfamiliar and secret. I actually found the word today to describe this state of being: coddiwomple. Isn’t it great? It’s real world, I’ll wait while you google it.

Coddiwomple:

Origin: English Slang Word

Definition: To travel in a purposeful manner towards a vague destination.

It’s been ninety-five days since I started writing a blog a day. Simply focusing on one habit suddenly brought other habits into focus, good and bad. When I’m not writing every day, I work on other things – adding and removing, shifting, adjusting, making peace with the fact that some changes stick and some fail, and some should never have been changed in the first place.

Somehow, making space in each day for transparency, opened up space for other things I was either too fearful or too busy to try before. Let’s face it, even a routine we hate can be more comfortable than the new and unfamiliar. Or perhaps the sheer scope of possibility is too wide open for us to consider, after all, we’re certain to make a wrong choice with so many options in front of us, hey? When you wrestle with perfection, this is a truly paralyzing thought.

I’ll be the first person to tell you I’m a work in progress, someone who still has a great deal of progress to make. But the fact that I can look back and see the heavy burdens I’ve carried littering the path behind me lets me know I’m at least headed in the right direction. I may not be certain where I’ll end up, but I’m no longer afraid of being someone different when I arrive. In fact, I desire exactly that, a reborn me, fresh and new in the sunshine.

Surprisingly, there’s a fair number of things about myself I plan to keep, as well. I’m not throwing everything, far from it. My journey this year is revealing things I’d forgotten that I really like about myself. Self-love and self-care have brought these buried treasure to light again. I won’t be casting them by the wayside so quickly, but I’m willing to refine and redirect them as necessary. Only time will make those refinements clear. 

And so I coddiwomple along, unsure of my next move, my purpose or what I want to be when I grow up. But I’m learning to embrace the journey; even here there is purpose and direction. I don’t have to know the destination. I only need to take the next step.

The state of home (or I have no idea what to say today)

The air-conditioning is out in my van – again. I’m sad about it, mostly because it’s fairly hellish outside. Although, it does give me a great reason to not go anywhere at all. We all know how much I love staying at home.

This week, in a fit of energy conservation and frustration at my inability to stay within the grocery budget, I unplugged the second fridge. Hunky keeps asking me, “Why are we doing this again?” And I’m not sure how to explain that it feels like an act of resistance and a stab at control.  I may still have rage issues.

One of my progeny (I’m not allowed to say which, publicly lest her application isn’t selected) is applying to an international mission trip in the spring. I’m excited and jealous. She’s stepping out of her comfort zone to do this and I applaud her for it.

However, I either need to win the lottery or start making money blogging or get a real job. If I apply to Chic-fil-A my daughter can be my boss. Also, I will starve to death. (Chicken isn’t vegetarian).

This morning I fed eleven cats. ELEVEN CATS. As much as I like the quiet of summer when all the college students are away, I need school to start again so I’m not the only person in the neighborhood caring for these semi-feral critters. All commentary on my decision to feed these cats will be ignored. I don’t kill spiders – do you really think I’m letting kittens starve? No.

Family vacation coming soon. I am ready ready ready. The ocean is calling. I’m collecting books and making grocery lists and trying not to be anxious about leaving the dogs for ten days. As I write this Mo has draped himself across all my pillows staring at me with lovelorn eyes. Perhaps it’s ridiculous but our love is real. I miss them when we leave home.

Today relationships are on my mind. How I do better with a few, close friendships than a vast sprawling network. About the power of small kindnesses and the interconnectedness of sharing the day-to-day mundane over the span of years. I started to write about that today, but it’s not ready yet. I need to let it marinate a little longer.

I’m terribly behind on book reviews which is a shame as I’ve read some really great stuff lately. Since I don’t plan to leave home this week without A/C, maybe I’ll get a chance to finish them at last. I can’t make it rich as a professional reader while being a book review slacker now can I?

Thus is the state of my head, heart, and home this Friday. Summer rolls along and takes me with it, just as it always has.

 

Embracing space: what’s left when there are no distractions

Do you know why most New Year’s resolutions fail? (I know, we’re in the middle of a July heat wave. Bear with me, here) I think it’s because we try to add new things to our lives without actually making space for them. We want to hang on to all the old ways which are familiar and comfortable and on top of them add all these other, better things which will make us new and improved. I know it’s what I do, anyways.

This concept occurred to me this morning while I was sitting with my funk. Somehow, when I was journaling this morning, I wrote myself into a funk. Usually writing works the other way around for me. So there I was, stuck; stuck in the mucky, monkey-mind mess that likes to snare me from time to time. You know the one. There’s never a specific thing you can point to and say, this is the problem. Instead all the little imperfections and quirks and wish-it-could-be’s and if-only’s pig pile on your brain and dance around in spiky tap shoes.

No? Am I alone in this?

As I sat there with all the tap dancing things I should be doing-thinking-improving-changing-being, I realized something. By allowing this fallow time in my life, by not filling it with appointments and obligations, I have no distraction from my funk. I just have to sit with it. I suppose I could have created some busy work. Something always needs washing or sorting. But I didn’t. Instead I just sat with the funk.

I am funky, I thought. Not very pleasant at all.

A funny thing happened, then. I sat there and accepted the funk without fighting, without creating a distraction, without rushing to escape. Pretty soon, all those terrible tap-dancing things began to seem quite silly. The longer I sat, the sillier they became. The more I made room for them, the smaller they shrank. After awhile- poof! – they disappeared.

How strange, I thought. This has never happened before. What’s different?

Then it came to me: space. Empty space made it possible for me to sit quietly  while the jiggering, yammering demons did their worst. When I didn’t flail and flounder or argue and chide them, they wore themselves out. They disappeared, leaving me none the worse for the experience, and perhaps, even, a little bit better.

I began to wonder how many other simple lessons I miss because I am always busy, always thinking, always striving to be something better than who I already am. Don’t misunderstand, there’s nothing wrong with activity or with aspiration. Only I get tripped up by trusting in should or must instead of simply accepting who I am, and letting what comes, come.

I should be better than this by now.
This must finish this so I can be….
If I don’t accomplish what will they think? (They who? I don’t actually know.)

It’s no wonder I fall flat at resolutions, be they New Year or otherwise. I never make room for anything to be fully realized, especially not my own heart. Instead, I just try and squish newness in and around the things I love to do, the things I need to do, the things I should be doing and the tap dancing demons. I’ve never found the courage to clear out enough space for anything to change or grow. Whether I’m afraid to let go or certain I can hold it all, the result is the same. I smother everything in layers of expectation – the good, the bad, and the messily fantastic- and expect it to be different this time.

So yes, this morning I was uncomfortable. Funky, if you will. But I survived. It didn’t last too long or hurt too bad, really. Those fiery darts turned into flowers when I stopped using all my defenses against them. There’s a lesson to learn in this. I plan to make space for the rest of the day to let it sink in, making room for the newness, room for wonder.

It’s kind of amazing the insight you can find in a wide open space when you stop looking for something to fill it.

 

The Power of Showing Up (even on days you’d rather not)

Eighteen years ago, I stopped working to stay home with my children. At the time, I had an almost one year old and a new born and working simply to break even with day care seemed ridiculous. Of course, when child number three came on the scene seventeen months later, I was locked-in with stay-at-home parenting. As the girls got older, we made the decision to home school. And that’s my life in a nut shell for the last twenty years. Sure, tons of other things happened, but when I look back over it what stands out is showing up to raise and educate my ladies. All day, every day for a very long time. It’s been a worthy couple decades for sure.

I say all that to share this, I’m no stranger to the occasional tedium of simply showing up. For me it was the daily routine of young children and then the daily routine of school. Day after day, week after week… Maybe for you it’s something different, but we all have seasons where it seems like showing up is all we do and nothing ever changes.

I feel like that today sitting down to write more words. Yes, more words. I am not sure how many words I’ve tapped out over the last ninety-two days. 50,000? 75,000? Many, many words. I show up and I sit down and I tap, tap, tap. But days like today it seems like a whole lot of effort for very little result. Truthfully, speaking, I’d rather be watching Gilmore Girls.

But here I am, showing up again.  Same effort, new endeavor.

It’s not easy the little mundane things we all have to do every day. It’s easy to believe we’re the only ones caught up in the mundane repetition of what it takes to build a life, a family, a career, a legacy. Everyone on social media is posting the highlight reel; television and Hollywood constantly promote the dream of miraculous discovery followed by instant fame and fortune. Meanwhile, I’m doing good if I have on clean shorts and a clean shirt on the same day.

Can I get an amen?

We’ve packed a thousand lunches, washed ten thousand plates and matched (or shoved in a drawer) at least a million socks. I can fold a fitted sheet neatly in under forty seconds, but there’s not an audience for  that on America’s Got Talent. I’d throw in the towel, but I’d just be the one that has to pick it up again.

Sometimes it just seems like we ought to have moved on to something more important, more glamorous, more rewarding by now, am I right?

I may not have fame and fortune to show for these weeks turned decades of showing up, faithfully, day after day. But I have gained a little bit of insight now that I’ve finally stuck around long enough to look back. What I realize now is there is great power and deep beauty hidden within the bland facade of the day-to-day grind.  I see it in the forms and faces of my children, near grown.

Oh, I say, breathlessly, when catch them in the corner of my eye. Oh, there is a masterpiece. I didn’t see it until just now.

Even though those moments are fleeting, the weight of them adds magnitude to my soul. This is the moment, even if no one else sees it, this is the one.

But we have to be watching, waiting, expectant, because for most of us, glimpses and glimmers of glory are all the fame we are destined to receive. We have to open to receiving the unexpected holy moment right in the middle of scraping the egg pan and punching the time card and tap, tap, tapping the words on the screen.

We have to be ready, and we make ourselves ready by showing up. By doing the next thing. By not checking out even though binge watching Gilmore Girls sounds so much more appealing. (Even if you sometimes binge watch Gilmore Girls instead of showing up, it’s ok. Show up tomorrow. )

There’s power in showing up. There’s depth and beauty and hope and encouragement in the midst of those who don’t lose sight of what matters in search of something more exciting and renowned. These little things, the mundane, loving, self-sacrificial things can shape a home, a neighborhood, a city, a culture…the world.

If we just keep showing up, we can do anything.

 

 

Hibernation Zone: When I can’t get no satisfaction

One of the things I love about our annual family trips to the beach is how very isolated we are. We stay offline, barely even taking phone calls or texts. We sometimes stay outdoors from sun-up to sundown. It’s like living in a safe, gentle bubble with only the wind and  the waves and one million books to keep us company. It really is my favorite time of year. This year I seem to be particularly anxious for it to arrive, I think it’s the hibernation factor. I feel the need to unplug (ironic, I know, as I say this online).

This week I’ve been particularly edgy (not that you’d notice- wink, wink). The political atmosphere is very hard for me to escape. I can’t find the balance between informed and sane. Actually, it’s sanity I truly struggle to find. It’s bleeding into all the areas of my life. I can’t, in good conscience, completely shut down, but even being informed leaves me feeling enraged and powerless.

Honestly, my general attitude about everything is dissatisfaction.

So what do I do when I’m cranky, and snappy and generally dissatisfied? I’m giving into my urge for hibernation.

It’s a long, holiday weekend so I won’t be torturing myself with guilt over pulling out of the information cyclone for awhile. Hopefully the fire hose wanes to a trickle for a week or so.  Either way, I won’t be around to see it. No news, no email, no social media. At least until I get grip on this mood.

I’m not leaving the house. I might love to be home slightly more than a normal person should. It’s not so much about the house, just the home part. Give me a day on the back deck with the dogs and some food and a stack of good books and I am a happy girl. Today I shopped for groceries for one billion years so now I get to hide away from the world until the food runs out again.

I plan to read until my eyeballs fall out, run until my lungs make me stop, meditate, listen to good music, smooch on my Hunky, and generally find my happy again. I know it’s in there. It just needs to wake up from hibernation. I’m coaxing it out with all my best moves.

 

What a caffeine ambush is teaching me about disruption

Two or three months ago, maybe more, maybe less, I put myself on a caffeine curfew. This means I no longer have afternoon coffee (though I have found some delightfully yummy teas). I hadn’t considered it until this week, but so far this year, I have developed multiple small habits which are beginning to add up to significant differences. I gave up caffeine as one of several small changes to improve my sleep patterns, and it’s working. I’m happy to report, my sleep has improved drastically this year. That is until I hit a minor disruption.

Yesterday I was ambushed by caffeine..a lot of it, late at night, around 10pm. (Hush, I’m old.) I never even thought about what I consumed being “against my curfew.” I rarely drink soda. I know it has caffeine, but I don’t think about it being on the curfew list. Even after a terrible night of sleep, I couldn’t figure out what went wrong.  It didn’t hit me until around lunch time today. STUPID SNEAKY CAFFEINE AMBUSHED ME AND MADE ME INTO A ZOMBIE. I’m struggling today. Dragging and sleepy and trying not to bite everyone’s head off.

Which is why sitting down to write something seems daunting. The 100 day project is not an insignificant change. It requires planning and preparation. I didn’t do either of those things today. But now that I’ve put in eighty-two days of effort, I’m not letting a caffeine disruption keep me from doing what I set out to accomplish. And perhaps, that’s the most important thing I’ll keep from this little project.

Sometimes we get unexpectedly waylaid. When disruption happens, we are  tempted to let ourselves off the hook with habits or changes which require effort, telling ourselves, I’ll just do it tomorrow. Maybe it’s OK to lean into some self care and give yourself a break. Goodness knows I am all about the self-care lately. But maybe, it’s even more important to push through and do the thing you’re avoiding anyway.

Sometimes the consistent, small changes are the ones worth the most effort simply because they are the real momentum shifters. 

I made a list this weekend of the little incremental shifts I’ve made since January. From dog walks to running, from caffeine curfew to full, uninterrupted nights of sleep, from a few hundred words to over ten-thousand. These little shifts add up and before we even realize it, we’re so much closer to the person we aspire to be.

So maybe I could have blown off the little rituals, the stacks of small habits I work through from day to day: meditation, journaling, vitamins, writing, herbal tea at 4pm and BY GOLLY NO SODA. But I didn’t. Instead, I showed up and kept aligning myself in the direction I want to go rather than expecting to wake up there one day as though by magic.

And by the way, even after showing up I found time for some self-care, and a really early bed time.

This and That on Saturday: ideas, projects and books

On Writing

Yesterday as I blogged, I realized it’s becoming difficult to come up with new content every day. Apparently, seventy days worth of words is all I have without some sort of break in between. I’m not giving up on the one-hundred days project, not at all, but I am feeling more challenged. This is actually a good thing. It means I am looking for new things to say instead of rehashing old ideas forever. I feel like I’ve taken seventy-three cleansing breaths, and now I’m ready for anything.

I started a separate book review blog. You can click the link, or find it in the page menu. The Mo’Joy Reads page will direct you there. It’s a teeny, tiny, baby blog with just a few entries so far. But it’s making me immensely happy. It’s so clean, organized and lovely. I’m using categories and tags to help facilitate looking up subjects and genres. I’m toying with author tags too. I’m like Monica from Friends with her label maker. SO HAPPY. Feel free to check it out.

On Reading

Earlier today I was commiserating with a friend who is reading too many books. I have too many on-going myself right now, even after trying to carefully curate my consumption. (I get alliteration points for that sentence, right?) I started reading on Netgalley and went a little crazy with book requests. So I’m hammering through some advanced reader copies and trying to wrap up a few loose end books. I’m still having a great time reading all sorts of new things for the 100 Story Summer. I’ve picked up so many books I might never have otherwise. In fact, be looking for a review today of The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf which may end up being one of my favorite books of the year. SO GOOD!

For years, I’ve felt a bit guilty about giving in entirely to my desire to read like a maniac at every spare moment. But this little side-project of mine has actually proven not only fun, but a huge productivity boost. Instead of getting fewer things done because of my reading, I’m doing and enjoying a lot more. I think I’m just not wasting time like I used to. This is an unexpected and delightful side-effect.

On the Month-of-No

The landscape of summer has shifted a bit since May when I got the idea for a month of no. It has actually opened up a bit more, relieving me of a few more responsibilities for a nice little window. I’m going to keep refining my schedule and saying more no than yes this summer. In fact, if it’s not a hell yes, it’s a resounding no . I like myself a lot more since starting this little plan. Although it can’t go on forever, this little window seems tailor made for me to take advantage of it and listen. Since I’m learning to trust my gut more and my guilt less, I’m going with it.

On Running

In January I set a little goal to lose 36 inches. I can’t use a scale because I obsess over numbers and climb on the awful device no less than twenty-seven times a day to see if I’ve fluctuated an ounce. It’s ridiculous, and not very healthy for me. We don’t actually own a scale. But for whatever reason, I can healthfully engage with a tape measure.

Anyway, since January I’ve been walking, and then walk/running, and now, I’m a runner again. I’ve had an on-again-off-again, mostly off-again, relationship with running since the half marathon almost two years ago. In fact, I’m beginning to toy a tiny little bit with doing another one. NEXT YEAR. Part of my crash and burn was training too fast and too hard for the last one and then a really difficult experience with heat and humidity actually forcing the route to close for marathoners.

This month has me clocking some of the longest distances I’ve run since before half marathon training (remember the giant toe blisters? and the terrible fall? I was a beat up girl). I remember, now, why I loved running to begin with and what a healing practice it is for me. The continued shrinking is nice too. I’m a little bit ahead of pace to meet my measurement goal by the end of the year.

So here we are. Caught up on the little things that matter so much to me, but seem difficult to work into a blog. Happy weekend to us all. I hope you find a good book to read, a quiet place to rest and someone you love to share it all with!