Still Afloat...

“…Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall, and our sins sweep us away like the wind.” Isaiah 64:6

Imagine cutting up a priceless painting with an X-Acto knife and Scotch taping the pretty parts on modern, mass-produced backgrounds to make children's trading cards. Picture sorting through all those tiny little fragments taken out of context and deciding which ones carried the most significant value independently. Curate a strong collection of the greatest fragments for distribution and discard any visual information which does not stand firm as a 'part' out of context from the 'whole.'

It is absurd—the idea that arrogance could cut apart a masterpiece and expect to create something of equal or greater value with the leftover shards. Much in the same way, it often hurts my heart when people quote bible verses out of context—assigning them to photographs, wearing them on t-shirts, making stickers for their cars, waving them around without a care.

It quickly becomes manipulative, condescending, and misleading if not done with deep respect. I suppose it is like most things—there is not really a right and wrong—it is more about the spirit in which the action was done. And well, I guess that was never up to me to judge.

But here I am, sitting by the water's edge, watching a leaf float down the river. All I can think to myself is, "… Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall…." Sitting in the moment, I recognize with a heavy heart I have become all I have judged.

It has been a year since I have written on this blog. This has been a humbling journey; I was not comfortable talking about it. I can finally walk my two miles—but it is not always pretty. In fact, I walked two miles to get here, and I have another two to finish the loop. It was slow going today, and I know I will have to rest by the water for at least a half hour before I can make it home. Still, it took almost a year of training, a pacemaker, and meds every four hours to get to this point. While I celebrate the success, I still quietly mourn the loss. Autonomic dysfunction is no joke.

I wonder if I will ever run again. Or stand up without feeling dizzy. Or digest food without getting sick. Or be able to draw standing up. Or be able to read a book without getting confused. Or talk with my family in the evenings without slurring my words. But I know I cannot compare myself to myself or yesterday to today.

I am ashamed to say I have been bitter about this process. I did not handle the stagnant grief well, and in desperation, I hurt the people closest to me. I did not allow myself much of a support network, partly because no one understands this disease, partly because I was tired of people trying to 'fix' or 'heal' me, and partly because I was humiliated by how far I had fallen.

I have indeed fallen, and like this leaf I am slightly discolored and full of new holes. (A couple cardiac ablations burned at least a dozen…) However, grief was responsible for the most extensive tears in my heart. As grief soured into anger, it scorched thousands of tiny new holes in me. I am ashamed of the ugly emotions which bled out from those holes. Rage is corrosive, and desperation is not attractive.

This leaf is my heart—not only full of new holes but disconnected from the source, totally adrift.

Still, it is a beautiful day, and the water glimmers in the light. I have worked unbelievably hard to be here. As I sit here in the sun, I realize I am somehow still afloat, on crystal clear waters, with a gentle current carrying me to an unknown destination. And for now, I have made peace with that.

Navigating POTS

“You can do anything for two miles…”

My mom first strung these words together when I was around 12 years old. We were on a group cycling trip to Big Bend with plans to do a 40-mile ride which included a daunting 2-mile climb. I grew up riding the flat highway which ran between the cotton fields in the Texas Panhandle, but this was no ride through the flatlands and was obviously better suited for adults, so I was uncomfortably nervous. I listened quietly to the adults ramble on about what was to come. As a hardheaded girl trying to prove I belonged, I said nothing and tried to swallow my mounting fear. My mom, noticing my anxiety, smiled and whispered the phrase to me for the first time.

Despite being way out of my league, I finished the ride and “you can do anything for two miles…” stuck.

Over the years, the words repeatedly resurfaced as she sagged me on training rides or runs, and she often shouted them to me on the sidelines of challenging races. Gradually, they became encouragement for any difficult path in my life. The phrase grew to mean I was stronger than I gave myself credit, not to be afraid, and that pain was only temporary. With these words, I could talk myself through almost any distance, two miles at a time.

But these words died with her a year ago today.

Included in the heavy pain and loss of the past year, I’ve also learned I have POTS (which spells STOP backward btw), so I won’t be training for a race any time soon. This means I did not run a marathon in Alaska with Jenni last week. And also means for this season, there will be no trail running, no waterskiing, no bike riding, and no open water swimming. At the moment, I can’t even take a walk with my dog. Instead, I’ll spend the upcoming months training to continue standing up.

Because POTS is an autonomic disease which causes blood not to move through the body the correct way. Basically, I am now ‘allergic to gravity’ and instead of my blood circulating to vital organs, it pours internally to the ground- potentially affecting all my body’s auto-pilot functions. If the human body were a car, it would now be driving long term without oil. Still, POTS is defined as a ‘serious, but not usually life-threatening condition’ unless, of course, you ignore it, and it damages your organs.

Which brings us to my case, which is POTS with a severe cardiac response. I would not usually use any platform I stand on to complain about a medical condition. Except, having POTS means I am now painfully mindful of how unaware the medical community, and the general population for that matter, is about this condition. The average time for a patient suffering from this disease to receive a diagnosis is almost six years! (And after that, they will often wait upwards of a year for an appointment with a specialist!)

Almost six years of doctors turning you away. Six years of the medical community dismissing you as ‘anxious and depressed.’ Six years of asking for help, being ignored, all the while internally knowing your body is deteriorating. Research has shown the quality of life and impairment for a POTS patient is comparable to those with congestive heart failure, COPD, or patients on dialysis for kidney failure. And I wonder, if somewhere along the way, these patients were taken seriously sooner, would their health have rapidly declined? The estimated one million people diagnoised with POTS (over 85% female) in the US should raise their voices in unison to raise awareness and ask for help.

The treatment chapters of my POTS story started in the office of my OBGYN. Though I had seen several other specialists, no one could find an answer to my alarming fatigue, extreme dizziness, and dangerous brain fog. The common theme was chronic anemia, and since my symptoms were worse around my period, I chalked it up to hormones. And there was a significant problem there. (As side note - studies suggest POTS might be linked to estrogen dominance, with many women experiencing exacerbated periods, cysts, and uterine fibroids.) 

My periods became horrific - think fetal position, unable to stand, crying on the bathroom floor passing clots the size of a ping-pong ball horrific. Still, I was quiet about it, as a good girl is trained to be about such issues. I was naïve enough to believe all my problems would cease if I did something as permanent and painful as a uterine ablation.

Only, that is not what happened. Instead, my health continued to decline. As my heart absorbed and responded to the brunt of my circulation problems, I was initially having upwards of 900 PVCs an hour (over 20,000 PVCs a day) with bigeminy, couplets, and R-on-T. After navigating the grueling ebbs and flows of medication side-effects, with the advice of my EP, I opted for a cardiac ablation. Only it did not work, and the PVCs dramatically increased. Six weeks later, we tried again, and this time I stayed awake, without drugs or sedation to increase my chances of success—finally, sinus rhythm. But...the celebration was short-lived.

Back in the OB’s office, my doctor asked for any new developments. When I alerted him to my cardiac issues, he showed genuine bewilderment and concern. “Why is this all happening together?” For a few minutes, he was engrossed by my chart on his computer screen, occasionally glancing back at me, before finally shrugging his shoulders and saying, “you must be shopping at Walmart.” Before heading out the door, he added “about those 15 pounds you gained suddenly… there is no excuse for that.”

I left crying and cut my 1,200 calories a day down to 1,000 for the next four weeks and, against the advice of my cardiologist, pushed myself to exercise five days a week regardless of how I felt. By the end of it, still on a myriad of cardiac drugs, I had gained three more pounds. 

Then there came the point when I could no longer stand up or walk unassisted, and I would at times collapse completely. The hours I spent laying in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to read, unable to write, unable to stand, and at times unable to even form words, increased. I could hardly shower on my own.

Cardiology and EP compared notes, did another series of tests, and diagnosed me with POTS. As relieved as I was to finally have an answer for the elusive illness overturning my life, my doctors were out of their element. They left me again crying in the hospital, unable to stand, with a pat on the back, some advice to drink water and wear pantyhose, assurance that there was no cure, and a reminder to maintain a positive attitude.

I did my best to preserve optimism despite my increasing symptoms. In that optimism and resignation to chronic illness, I stopped reporting my symptoms. However, the collapses continued, and my heart further deteriorated. After a loop monitor insertion, and a same day collapse and complete loss of consciousness, the doctors determined my heart was indeed frequently stopping, ‘asystolic’ they called it, for upwards of 9.5 seconds. Sick sinus syndrome - they implanted a permanent pacemaker.

It’s helping, and I am no longer passing out, but it is not fixing the problem. I’m thankful for the progress…. but significant life-altering issues remain. I am a former marathon runner who now can’t walk through a parking lot, a once energetic mom who sometimes needs help walking across her house. I still deal with significant dizziness and chest pain so constant and unrelenting it is hopeless.

I don’t share this to whine, solicit pity, or sympathy, but I think honesty is relevant for the sake of others trapped with this disease. And here is the truth – POTS breaks strong women (and men).

In addition to challenging my relationships with family and my dearest friends, threatening my career, and ending my athletic ambitions, at 38 years old, POTS has taken my uterus, cauterized my heart in almost 20 places, and left me with a metal device permanently implanted in my chest. Correction - not being heard - has taken my uterus, cauterized my heart, and left me with a permanently implanted device in my chest.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love and respect men, so this next tangent is likely unfair rant…

Outside of my husband, on the shortlist of my two very closest friends, stands a man whose friendship I could not imagine my life without. I am not a bitter man-hater, quite the opposite. To simplify things, I would be content to take gender out of the conversation in most arenas. (I would love to just be an artist, instead of a ‘female artist.’) But in this instance, I cannot quiet the nagging voice inside that compels me to slowly raise my hand and ask a line of related gender questions like, “why is it we have so little information about the female heart?” or “why are my cardiac ‘normals’ compared to that of a middle-aged man?”

The answers are shamefully rooted in unacceptable discrimination. The truth is the female heart is only recently being studied at all. In many places, it is only within the last 20 years that women were even allowed in cardiac studies. Which I believe is why 78% of early female heart attack symptoms go undiagnosed. This mentality has robbed me, and countless other women, of long and fruitful lives. Honestly, we can do better. And if anyone with financial means reads this and wants to invest in gender equality, please start by sponsoring research here.

I recognize our medical system is overburdened, and I’m thankful for the hardworking and self-less individuals who dedicate their lives to the profession, some within my own family. I acknowledge too, that despite its best efforts, the taxed system invertedly sidelines both men and women alike. However, as I wrestle with the years it took the system to make my diagnosis, I can’t help but be suspect. I begin to wonder if one million US men all had the same disease and asked for help, would they be dismissed, or prescribed anti-depressants, would it still take six years to diagnose? And if, after all that wasted time, would they be offered better solutions than pat on the back, a pep-talk about attitude, and a bottle of water? The bottom line, we need more research for women’s health.

Enough of the soapbox. Emotionally, I’m at that transition in the landscape where the wind drops the sand at the base of the mountains. The invisible wisdom which flowed so effortlessly through the rest of my life has suddenly hit a wall, fallen short, and dissipated. Ideas like, ‘this too shall pass’ and even the sweet ring of my mom’s gentle encouragement, ‘you can do anything for two miles…’ aren’t enough to carry me over this impasse.

Because this pain isn’t temporary, this is long-haul suffering. I’m not strong enough to get through it and it likely will not pass on this side of life.

And all I can think now is, “I would do anything to go two miles.”

Gray Skies

I'm not tracking in much mud these days. At present, I just don't have the heart for it. I feel like a dark shadow of my former self. My furthest trek is now to and from my studio outback. Granted, the grass is not planted yet, so I do have a dirty pair of shoes stationed by the back door, which in a way, makes things feel like old times.

It is that phase of winter that just drags on, the excitement of the holidays has long since worn away, and the monotony of the cold gray skies day after day is spiritually draining. It was enchanting at first, the trees with their icy branches, but now—this dreary, monotone sky is almost unbearable. Even Ember dog feels it; she is restless and spends several hours staring anxiously at her shadow or chasing the few and far between little glimmers of light on the wall. She stays annoyingly close.

I find myself longing again for those Texas skies, where the sun rises and sets with an intense array of colors. And while I am looking back, I cannot help but reminisce about those sunny days behind me - not all that long ago - when I was running through the woods, riding my bike, or swimming in the lake. Instead, I am sitting in heavy fog - every day - and it does not burn away before night. Those brighter days might be on the horizon again, but if they are, I can't see them.

Without vision, the people perish. Typically, a favorite proverb, but currently, it mocks me. In this icy fog, I can't see anything ahead of me. It's all about survival now. And then I worry, if I do survive, will the me that emerges even resemble my old self?

This is changing me; I can feel it. Each bad beat of my heart is a slow and tormenting erosion. The best of me is now a dimensioning return. Despite my genuine effort, what I accomplished yesterday I can no longer obtain today.

I again remember those days behind me when I once spent my summers swimming open water. During the offseason, I drilled in a pool, working hard to roll efficiently from side to side with each breath so I could cut tighter through the water. Excellent training for the pool's clear waters, where one can measure the straightness of their trajectory off the darkly painted lane line. What happens when those clear waters are replaced with a murky, open body of water—wind, and waves breaking in your face? Look down in the water, instead of seeing clearly in every direction with lane lines cradling the path, all that's there is an eerie and consuming darkness, and stroke after stroke it's the same—sort of like this fog.

When unfamiliar with it, swimming in open water's enormity can cause panic, especially when swimming alone. Continuing to propel forward while maintaining sanity often requires considerable focus. Instead of working as an advantage, all that training of rolling tightly side to side often left me erratically swimming around like an idiot, wasting a considerable amount of energy heading in the wrong direction.

It takes a while to get used to the equilibrium of breathing normally while scouting out a direction ahead. For a pool swimmer, it requires a retraining of motor skills. Everyone handles it differently; I liked to count my strokes, breathing on three, changing my breath to look up and out every sixth. It is a delicate balance—looking out, keeping my head above water, swimming straight, still monitoring my breathing, controlling my emotions, all the while trying to swim towards something.

To swim in the right direction, I was supposed to look up. But, taking point from a distant marker frequently made me anxious. Far unlike the sharply painted T-marker in the pool, my open water markers were typically hazy, with a daunting and, from my perspective, unmeasurable distance between us. My spirit never processed well, looking at the end while swimming in the middle.

There is no more talk of swimming—just gray, icy fog, day after day, and a heart that does not beat right. Considering the circumstances of this past year, I am not sure if I can ever find it within myself to put my face down in the water.

This season is dragging on. Stroke after stroke, it's the same murky abyss. And in the consuming intensity of this fog, not even I can make out a marker ahead. Pushing forward requires all my focus.

But Ember and I hike to the studio and back several times a day. A tiny glimmer of light, something to chase, something to hold on to.

She runs back into the house, leaving muddy footprints dancing around my rug and all over the wood floor. I know I am supposed to be angry—scold her or shame her in some way. Instead, I laugh out loud. Ember is a dog. She should celebrate running carelessly through the mud.

My fun-loving, energetic mutt is still in there, and if that is true, perhaps the real me is still embedded behind my weary facade. Maybe the gray skies of today are just like dark water and despite all that has happened, I may remember how to swim in dark water. Or at the very least, I am open to a retraining of motor skills.

Focus. Control my emotions. Set the autopilot.

One, two, three—breathe. One, two, three—look ahead.

Less is More

There are millions of stars shining brightly in the clear mountain air. The snow sparkles in the moonlight, and the dead of night proves to be unexpectedly bright, with the mountains' silhouette still sharply contrasting against the skyline. The white dusted trees tower over both sides of the trail, and three and a half feet of undisturbed snow covers the path ahead in a crisp, pristine blanket it pains me to disturb.

It is mid-night and two degrees below zero.

The night is so quiet; it's loud, apart from the squabbling behind me. The kids are grumbling at each other, wrestling with their snow gear and backpacks. My daughter falls waist-deep in snow, losing her snowshoe and a boot. We all stop to help her dig it out. There are tears, and for a fleeting moment, I regret I pressured my family into such a trip.

It was Christmas vacation. But, for the last several months, I've been sick. And for the first time in my life, I've been a kind of exhausted even I can't talk myself through - the sort of sick which might one day defeat me. So, my husband and I went to great lengths to give our kids the Christmas they had their hearts set on. I wanted to compensate for my parenting shortcomings, which coincided with my physical exhaustion, and bring some joy to an otherwise overwhelmingly dark year. With so many uncertainties ahead, it seemed like a good plan. Yet, as the boxes laid unwrapped and the bickering quickly resumed, the sinking feeling in my stomach rose to the top, and I could not help but think I missed the mark.

We had tried Christmas their way. It was time to try it ours. I refused to be the reason we resorted to celebrating Christmas in line with the cultural norm. Christmas at the cabin was a family tradition. So, with only a few hours' notice, we rented a car and made the 12-hour trek to the mountains. We drove the car as far as we can without getting stuck in the snow, then started off on a hike to the cabin, which leads us to the moment where my kids are tearing up in the snow, freezing their butts off.

I love every minute of it.

Don't report me to CPS; I am not altogether a terrible mother. They have proper gear, and honestly, the only thing they are truly in danger of is discomfort, which is good for them. My kids need more suffering. I think in an effort to provide them with a decent upbringing and overcompensate for my childhood, I have inadvertently made them weak.

Still, I must admit, though we frequently stop to regain our breath in the high altitude, it is still a challenging, cold walk as we work to break through the snow carrying our packs and dragging our gear. I quietly listen to the grumbles behind me, only intervening when the arguing severally threatens morale. As I suspect, most of the quarrels sort themselves out, and ever so slowly, we are all hiking in silence. I start to smile as I hear them working as a team to maneuver the sled through the snow, and as we all come closer to our goal, the grumbles fully transition to laughter. We make it to the cabin and spend another hour joyfully telling stories around the fire.

This is exactly what I wanted for Christmas. My kids to work together towards a common goal, to realize they are stronger than they give themselves credit for, to understand that what lies behind uncomfortable is truly obtainable, worth fighting for, and often priceless.

In the months ahead, there is still much mourning to be done and uncertainties to navigate. But because we were willing to be uncomfortable, we were able to finish out a dreadful year all bundled up together in one of the most incredible places on earth, free from electronic screens, Wi-Fi, and running water.

And I cannot help but reflect, as we drive back to our beautiful home, how wonderful it was to walk away from more in pursuit of less.

The Long Way Around

Memories carry much more weight these days, with all travel plans canceled and none scheduled for the foreseeable future. For me, this weekend marks the anniversary of a significant personal tragedy, but, in more recent years, it also marks the anniversary of one of the most incredible races of my life. 

Since I find myself grasping at hope, I choose to focus on the latter, and my mind drifts to the brighter days behind me. Three years ago, Jen and I were preparing for a ‘girls’ trip to run the Silver Falls Trail Marathon on this very weekend.

We booked the cheapest red-eye tickets we can find on Spirit airlines, and for those who have never had the joy of traveling with them, the experience is not for the faint of heart. Spirit allows you to carry on NO bags… so I packed a ‘purse’ with all my crap in it in a cheap fold-up bag my mother in law gave me as a gift. I figure it worked itself out as I’m superstitious about checking my running shoes and pretty committed to figuring out a way to carry them on the plane.

Spirit would not let us sit together, so we begrudgingly started our adventure off apart. I end up being assigned a window seat at the back of the plane, next to a dark-haired man around my age who was uneasy and visibly agitated. We had a layover in Vegas, so I made two wrong assumptions: one, he is either broke like me and can’t afford a real airline, and two, since Vegas is his destination, he is likely headed there to party.

I made a bad joke about both, and he forced a smile. 

As the plane took off, the man next to me became increasingly upset before confessing he was horrified of heights, and this was his first flight.  Still annoyed I’m not sitting with Jenni, I started to feel sympathy as heights are not my favorite thing either. I attempted to comfort him by explaining the noises on the plane and talking him through takeoff. Then I started to worry he might be physically sick, so I made another stupid joke about Vegas. 

He offered me some grace since I talked him through takeoff. Then he responded, “I’m in a hurry to Vegas because my best friend was just killed in a motorcycle accident.”

And then it was me who was almost physically sick. I could not find my breath, and all the tiny hairs on my arms stood up. We stared at each other for just a second in awkward silence. There was a quiet wall in me, holding back a stampede of emotions. I knew something more than chance had coordinated my seat assignment.

Fourteen years later, I find myself sitting next to this man because, in early November, I still needed to schedule reasons to wake up in the morning. I was not sure what to say, but words formed themselves, and we filled all the airspace until we landed. He needed to pour his heart out to a stranger. And then, a hard hug and some shared tears in the aisle between two people who did not even know each other’s name.

Jen and I endured our Spirit experience and finally landed in Oregon in time to enjoy some of that ‘liquid sunshine.’  I was lucky enough to have extended family who lived outside of Portland, and they were kind enough to let us crash with them.

We spent a few days getting the lay of the land and exploring Oregon before we laced up for our race. Columbia River Gorge did not disappoint, and we drove for hours and at one point accidentally ended up in Washington. Seeing Multnomah Falls was on my bucket list, but sadly it was closed due to a recent forest fire. Waterfalls were the entire reason we decided to run in Oregon, but Silver Falls promised some good ones.

Jen was sick the morning of the race but, as always, was strong and hardheaded enough to shrug it off. I remember being cold and ran the entire race dressed in three top layers with hand warmers shoved inside my gloves. I know it was under 40 degrees when we started, which made running through the water crossing a few miles in rather annoying. I remember thinking shivering burned unnecessary energy and that it was too early in the race for wet feet, but the landscape was so stunning, it hardly mattered.

The air at State Park was weighted down with cool and heavy humidity. Moss grew like a thick fur covering the trees and hung down from the branches in eerie sharp contrast to the cloudlike air surrounding them. The park trails were well-kept, with guardrails installed around all the drops and cut stone steps in all the climbs.

Being the weekend that it was, I silently dedicated the race to those we have loved and lost and wasted a few more tears on should-haves, could-haves, and what-ifs. I ran through the fog in a trance, and the first 10 miles passed with little resistance.  

I remember we ran the first 13 miles of the race without stopping. And how we had hopes of running the entire trail race without hiking any section, but as soon as we left the maintained trails of the state park and hit the backcountry climbs, those fantasies rapidly dissolved.

Large golden leaves, five times bigger than my hand, blanketed the forest floor. The dew and falling moisture pressed them into the mud and magically paved the backcountry trails. I have never seen anything like it, and we joked about running towards Emerald City on the yellow brick road.

We ran 19 miles talking about the waterfalls to come and tried to conserve our phone batteries to take a few photos when we re-entered the state park. At the first rock staircase, I slipped on the wet steps, and I remember I fell hard enough to knock the wind out of me and banged up my knee pretty good. We had a good laugh at my clumsiness, brushed it off, and somehow we made it up through the next 100 stone steps with my busted-up knee and Jen’s worsening head cold. Tired, and more than four hours of soggy running later, we finally made it to our waterfalls.

For a girl with a lifelong love of water and deep respect for running water, they did not disappoint. We stopped underneath one of the falls and listened to the water roaring over the edge and dropping into the river far below. As beautiful as it all was, we started to notice a steady stream of tourists gradually filing in from the opposite direction. Distinctly different from our pitiful, wet, and mud-covered appearance, the tourists appeared unaffected by the elements - warmly dressed, dry, and smiling. Their increasing presence provoked annoyance and anger in both of us. A spirit of ‘us vs. them’ took root. With sweat equity, we earned these views, and we were appalled to find they were so easily accessible to others.

Gradually, the feelings of shame replaced feelings of anger. We all had a right to enjoy the scenery. It was never the tourists I was mad at; I realized as I drug myself through the last miles of the race. I was upset with myself. Given a choice between an effortless path between two given points and an unrelenting and obstacle-lined road, I always choose the latter. The sightseers were not undeserving; they were simply more intelligent than I was.  They chose the easy path, and therefore remained dry and warm, with a car parked half a mile away.

Freezing my ass off, I ran the last of the race contemplating my epiphany. What is broken in me that always chooses the path of most resistance? All of nature disagrees with my instinct and makes better decisions. Maybe subconsciously, I feel like I don’t deserve the easy road, or perhaps I’m still trying to punish myself for things I cannot change, or maybe I am programed to earn something that should naturally come freely.

We finished the race and, in keeping with tradition and as always making things complicated, drove 2 hours to find a Mexican food restaurant in Oregon where we could order in Spanish, only to be disappointed when our fajitas were served in sweet and sour sauce. After icing our wounds and bringing our core temperature back to a safe level, we enjoyed a few more days in Oregon before wrapping up one of the best trips of my life, saying goodbyes to my family, and heading home.

I remember laughing at myself at the airport, recognizing all the ‘hard-paths’ I chose in my daily life. All while I drug my cheap broken bag through the terminal like a puppy on a leash and prepared to board another red-eye flight with a ridiculously long layover on the shittiest airline in the business.

Three years later, I wonder with a heavy sadness if I will ever have the heart again to experience such an adventure. I long for those brighter days behind me and to be the girl I was when I ran this race. Circumstances have significantly changed, but I still find myself instinctively gravitating towards the most challenging path. Slow to learn, I hate myself for it - for not making more efficient decisions. But then I remember how much I cherish the memories that come with taking the long way around and how much more I enjoy the destination when I finally make it there. And I wonder if my stubborn choices somehow assign me to the seat I was meant to be in all along.

Pain and Loss

Some canyons in me are carved by erosion from slow and steady rivers of pain. Many twist and meander with their polished smooth edges, while others are more concealed—barely visible from overhead, but still deeply cut and scattered with hidden caverns. From a distance, altogether, I imagine they could even be beautiful, like intricate lace tattoos adorning the surface of my heart.

Not the case with this new hole in me. This void wasn’t caused by the gentle erosion of time, but by the violent collision of reality hitting me with all the force of an incoming meteor. The disruption of the natural order strikes me with such an impact it threatens the core and throws all of me off balance. The edges of this crater aren’t polished, but sharp, jagged, and in many places still burning.

I have another hole like this, much older, the boundaries carefully camouflaged with overgrowth, so no one sees. Sometimes I hike back to it when no one is watching and sit at the edge. I know these holes don’t grow back together, they can’t - the nerves are instantly cauterized. And that’s why I don’t know what to feel. So much energy transmitted through those nerves—I feel the pain of them severing, then emptiness—a deep hollow void.

I have a growing resentment for those who try to fill my emptiness with shallow, scripted encouragement, for any who try to distract me from the truth, or for the rest of creation, which just keeps spinning. Likewise, I’m weary of hearing about some sadistic master plan which scripted the murder of my mother for some greater unseen good. Bullshit.

I wish, if only for a second, the world would require nothing more from me. Because this crater is mine. And right now, I want to lay in the fetal position at the bottom of it or sit alone in the dark and stare at the truth with mounting anger that has no place to dissipate. There is no one to hate. It just is. Rather, it just was, and then it suddenly wasn’t. If I ever climb out of here, I will stand at the edge and scream indefinitely at the top of my lungs.

I’ll defend and protect this pain because, at the moment, it is all I have left.

Honestly, it might be the only thing that was ever truly mine.

Crossing the Line

I’ve been riding my bike again these days. We’ve moved outside of town, so there are many old country roads to explore, which I love. I do wish we had moved in the fall, as the sticky summer heat here is suffocating—something to look forward to, I suppose. Perhaps we will have a few routes we love mapped out by the cooler weather.

Running and riding here makes me miss those flat, Texas roads and their comfortably wide shoulders. Looking back, those shoulders seem a little over the top. But it was all I knew. They must be at least six feet wide… six feet, a safe distance these days.

There is not much else I miss about Texas. But definitely the roads, and burritos from little trailers where you order in Spanish and pay in cash. And maybe the big open sky. And now that I’m thinking about it, I miss my friends… and maybe just maybe my family. But other than the list, there is not one thing I miss about Texas, though I refuse to admit any of this out loud. Because for the time being, Missouri is home, and so are these winding, hilly roads with absolutely no shoulder.

I’m getting used to it, and I am not afraid. The incredible landscape, lush green ranchlands, and the trees that frame the roads are honestly worth the trade. Though, I am incredibly thankful that in busy areas, the highway department still paints the white line on the edge of the lanes. On Texas highways, I used to think it was tempting fate to ride anywhere close to that white line. Now I laugh at younger myself and cross right over the line, if I can even find it—a few inches to the right and I would drop several feet into the drainage ditches.

My bike has logged a lot of miles on those Texas roads, especially the ones around Brownwood Lake, and I am sure it remembers. Home changes, but my bike doesn’t. My old Trek is an antique now, I suppose, but like so many other things that share experiences and travel from place to place with me, I cannot seem to part with it. It might be old, but it still makes that ticking sound bikes make when they coast—next to the sound of running water, one of my favorite sounds in the world—so that’s really all I need.

A friend of mine called me out to others a few weeks back, “Chels has a hard time letting go.” That stings honestly, I was not aware it was quite so apparent, and this is of course, nothing we should point out to strangers. Though perhaps she’s right to some degree.

How could I possibly let go of this bike? After all, we have been through together; it just seems wrong. What would I even do with it? List it ‘free to a good home’ carelessly like those people whose dogs accidentally have puppies? No way. I’ve thought maybe someday I could gift it to a college student who doesn’t have any money. One who would love it as I did. But then what happens when she earns enough money to buy a bike with gears that actually shift? I can’t even think about it. For now, I’ll just keep my old bike hanging in the garage, moving with me from place to place like a security blanket.

Have I mentioned the gears don’t shift well? It got really bad a few months ago, and I swear a demon-possessed it. So, I begrudgingly loaded her up and headed to a bike shop. It is better now, but not great. Some nicer than expected, twenty-something trendy guy helped me out.

Doesn’t matter. Gears are for sissies. I love this bike. And I am starting to love this road. Because in just one day, I saw a turtle, a pack of llamas, a crane, a field full of cows and calves, a snake, an aggressive chihuahua, and a Doberman Pincher who tried to look meaner than he actually was.

As I balance on this white line, I’m thankful for the comfort, safety, and clarity it brings to my life. And it goes on for miles. I start to wonder what it would be like if I could someday let go of the things behind me. Risky. Would life feel more meaningless than it already does? Would I be left holding onto nothing? Or would it allow me to drop my guard, and make space in my heart to grab on and connect to something new?

Forget it. For now, I’m on a beautiful road in Missouri climbing hills on a bike that hates to shift gears, just waiting till the next time I get to hear the ticking sound. 

Ornament of Grace

I am anxious around horses. They are uncomfortably large, feel to me unpredictably wild, and have those intimidating eyes which are eerily larger than mine. In my opinion, they are not to be trusted.

My daughter does not share my apprehensions - and hasn’t since she was three years old, the age she was when she talked me into letting her ride a horse for the first time. Since she was born, she has had almost a spiritual relationship with animals – calling out to the lost, the homeless, the sick, and the hurt. On the day she came into the world, two stray dogs wandered into our lives and found homes among those in the L&D waiting room. We joke about this still. We finally capped our animal count when we hit four rabbits, two stray cats, one very needy old dog, and a box of baby birds Adleigh was feeding with a dropper every 45 minutes in a desperate attempt to save.

She still takes in animals if my husband and I allow it, but these days she is filling her need to nurture by volunteering at a rescue ranch. While I’ve locked myself in the studio grumbling about deadlines, she’s out there loving and caring for those no one else would.

But today was different. Today I have the opportunity to help chaperone her and the other ranch hands on a short trail ride to the water crossings. It’s been a standard Missouri summer, with sweltering humidity and little breeze, the girls and the animals were feeling it. Everyone needed some time in the water. Still, I am embarrassed to admit, I was initially frustrated and annoyed by the request. I’ve been chasing my tail a lot these days as I try to juggle my own work, graphics deadlines, drawing students, and the new COVID confinements of my kids. A day on the water with my daughter seemed like another distraction in a long list of those I am trying to protect myself from. As a creative person, I am somewhat my own boss, but with that comes the added responsibility of pushing myself to work when no one is there, making me do it. It’s difficult to explain to those around me who assume being self-employed means a stress-free life of leisure and who typically seem offended when I say no to recreational activities.

‘No’ was certainly on the tip of my tongue, but I could not bring myself to say it. Adleigh was never one to need me often. Even as a baby, she barely wanted to be cuddled or held – her independent spirit causing her to be early to roll-over, crawl, pull-up, and walk away. The days when my daughter wants or needs me are slowly growing further and further apart. I cannot shake the feeling this is one of those moments I am supposed to grab and hold tightly. So, I suppressed ‘no’ along with the bombardment of anxious feelings because I am behind in my work and offer up a ‘yes’ to my daughter and her friends.

And that is how I got here, in my trail shoes, balancing on a pile of rocks waist-deep in the river, holding up a camera that I’m pretty sure is worth more than my car, in the middle of 5 horses that make me nervous and five teenage girls each laughing and jumping around. The splashes of water washing away the resentment I held for being there and bringing a smile to my face.

I fight against myself and the maternal instinct in me welling up to protect my daughter from the 1,000-pound animals she is taking into water over her head, and acknowledge that she is often called to the very things that make me uneasy. I must learn to trust her judgment.

This is new ground for me, and these days it feels as if I get it wrong more than I get it right. But I am thankful to have a daughter who can laugh and sometimes cry alongside me at the mistakes we make along the way. In the water with my daughter, I wonder how I could have ever thought there would be a moment more deserving of my time than the one I am standing in now. As I watch her riding bareback through a river on a horse she trained and helped nurse back to health, I cannot stop thinking about how beautiful she is, a delicate embellishment to a life I never thought I would have - strong, independent, free-spirited, brave, and compassionate.

She truly is an ornament of grace.

Afraid to Fall

Everything is different.

This spring brought a churning far outside of our understanding. As we pick up the pieces, even what was familiar has now changed. Normal is not as it once was.

We drove to the lake to welcome summer. I deeply wanted the water to be the same. Nevertheless, even the wind on the lake was steadily blowing in a direction I had rarely seen. Typical calm spots were now textured with steady waves. We waited hours for the wind to shift enough for a decent ski run and committed to being on the lake by sunrise in hopes of better water.

My waterski is also new, and amid all the different, this is a change for which I am genuinely excited. Still, my old ski belonged to my mom, and I have been skiing on it for 25 years. I am a rather sentimental person, so I am going to struggle to part with my ski. But I have my own daughter now, and she’s 13. About the same age I was when I upgraded to cutting up water on that Connelly. Maybe the ski is ready for a third generation…

I am now standing on the back of the boat, stuck in the moment that catches my breath before I jump in. I hesitate. I feel like a kid again, but not because I am eager. Feet frozen, I realize I am afraid. I’ve stood in this same spot for nearly 3 decades. I encountered fear here often as a kid, and I am embarrassed to admit it usually creeps back in for the first run of the season.

Most of the time, my anxiety is easy enough to work through, and I’ve experimented with several methods of suppression over the years. Positive self-talk, usually takes too long, so it is not my preferred method. Sometimes distraction helps, perhaps make a joke about the water being cold… Then there is my personal favorite—simply ignore the alarm bells in your head—then dive in. If nothing else motivates me to jump, the fear of regret is most often greater than any fear in the moment and is usually enough to propel me forward.

I ran through all these tactics today before my feet finally left the platform. Which leaves me wondering what it is exactly that I am afraid of?

The cap for women’s waterskiing is 34 miles per hour. I am exceptionally bad at physics, so I am not sure how fast that means a skier is traveling when they cross the wake. But I do know it’s fast enough that I am not enthusiastic about the idea of crashing.

Falls, however, are nothing to fear. Sometimes they clean out my sinuses with lakewater, or leave me seeing stars, or tattoo my body with bizarre shaped bruises, or call out tiny amounts of blood. But, for the most part, ski falls leave me with little more than an injured ego. Though on very rare occasions, I’ve taken some epic falls on the water (like the time I fell out of a parasail twice), and these experiences somehow stay in my mind. They keep me humble, remind me I am small, and help me maintain a healthy respect for the water, so in the end, I am grateful for them too.

There is no rational reason to fear falling on the water. So, I must wonder if the physical part of the fall is really the issue. As a long-distance runner, I am no stranger to pain or sports injuries. There must be something other than a physical threat haunting me.

Somehow, I think I have wronging equated falling to failure. It is the moment when the reality of who I am faces the image I have of myself in my mind. Horrified, I realize I am not as strong as I once was, and I face this as I summersault across the water. My fitness and skill level are now public record, witnessed by the passengers in the boat and anyone else who might be on the water. As I reconcile my ego with reality, I understand not only am I not what I once was, but I am also not who I want to be, and I feel shame. If I stay in the boat, I can deceive myself, but holding onto the rope handle will not allow me to lie.

While there is truth in all the above, there is also deception. Falling does not always equate to failure. Sometimes it runs parallel to courage. The woman I want to be is on the other side of that fall - many of those falls. I will not find her if I stay on this boat, bitterly, quietly stewing with regret.

In this season of churning, I feel like I’m stuck on the back of the boat in many areas of my life. Fear of failure interlaced with a longing for what is behind me keeps my feet glued uncomfortably to the ground. I cannot walk forward, and I cannot walk back. But I can no longer allow my mind to torture me with ‘what-ifs’ all the while shackling me to shame and regret.

So, this season, when all is different, I’ll be different. And for the first time, I’ll commit to falling. Because with each bounce across the surface of the water, I am stronger. As I push the boundaries of myself and ski outside of my comfort zone, I’ll bite the water on purpose. I’m no longer interested in playing it safe. I understand this means I will have to stare at an appalling reflection of myself and push through it. I know this means early mornings, push-ups, TRX workouts, cold water, sore shoulders, bad falls, blistered hands and an array of other discomforts. But with those comes a joy I am incapable of putting words to, the joy of holding tightly to the rope of now while training for what lies ahead. 

The wind is still blowing out of a strange direction, but I must find the courage to leave the platform. Commit. Jump in. And like a baptism, sink down into the water and come back up for air.

To be clear—I am still afraid to fall.

But greater still—I am called to it.

A Loaded Gun

The Bible is a loaded gun.

Given proper respect, it offers provision, defends the innocent, and protects the poor. Still, like any other firearm, it is dangerous. A hardened or misguided heart might misuse it to take life, to divide, to judge, and to oppress. A soldier armed with such a weapon might defend sacred ground or be tempted to stake a claim by force—with the threat of a loaded gun creating a hierarchy of intimidation and granting false authority.

Manipulating the words of truth is easy. Those who are willing to stand firm in ignorance, eliminate context, disregard the relevance of the story, ignore any cultural framework, and cut or paste without regard to order can effortlessly twist the word of God to advance almost any agenda. Many are willing to speak loudly without taking time to reconcile their message with the heart of God. This spray of misfired messages carries substantial causalities as the best lies often contain strategically placed bits of the truth. The deceiver has penetrated the innermost circle of disciples—and kneels patiently at the steps of the altar, disguised as a child of the light.

I recognize I am not exempt from the innate desire to advance my own agenda. To speak and mislead puts me at risk for the gravest of judgements. However, to see oppression and ignore it, puts me at even higher risk. Furthermore, God does not require my feeble mind to attempt to offer His defense. To do so acknowledges my arrogance and endangers my heart as it walks too near the ledge of polarization. I, with my glaring lack of credentials, tread lightly here.

I am a mother and a wife who spent years standing on both sides of feminism and found myself content in neither… but I keep trying to put the entire struggle out of my mind, continually committing to taking care of my family and learning to hold the joy in the moment.

Holding onto joy is easy to do on a day like today. It is early in the morning; the sun is just rising and the humidity in the air has settled in the valleys as it often does in Missouri. I am driving home from my early workout through the twisting shoulder-less roads meandering and rolling through the hills. The trees dressed in their new spring leaves frame the highway while the sun filters and falls through it all. It is a peaceful morning, and I consider myself blessed to start my day in such a way. The radio scans through stations, and I stop it on a sermon that catches my ear. I keep listening, glancing at the clock. I know I'll make it home before my family wakes up, so I am pleased with myself.

Then the words begin to tighten my chest and pull the air out of my lungs as my grip on the steering wheel gets tighter and tighter. The sermon continues to drain the air from the car and my heart beats faster while my eyes fill with tears. Anger wells up inside me as I struggle to suppress it. When I arrive home, I sit in the driveway and try to regain control of myself before I have breakfast with my family. As I finally make my way inside, I fight the urge to kick over the bins lining the outside of our garage.

There are few platforms left where concerns of discrimination are so unashamedly disregarded and limited airways that would broadcast such a message. Nevertheless, sometimes the pulpit forgets to Whom it is supposed to submit, ignoring any checks and balances which would have certainly steered it in the direction of mercy and love.

"What is wrong with the world today? What is wrong with our country? What has gone awry in politics?" This morning's sermon held all the answers. The core problem—Women. Women and their struggle for power and a voice have broken the whole intended order of creation. Let us all remember she is responsible for the fall of man. Her desire to control her husband is the original curse. He is to be her master. Instead, these women have 'infiltrated' politics and even the ranks of the church thereby jeopardizing all of society and threatening the Kingdom.

Thankfully, not all pulpits broadcast such a message, and slowly less are held hostage to gender stereotypes and cultural customs. Half of me wants to walk away from this nonsense and go on about my day. But my broken heart understands that not only do messages such as these hurt women, but the twisted and projected laws of false religion also unjustly represent God. Ignorance speaks with the loudest voice.

So, here I will speak softly, even in my anger and my hurt, as I plead my case. Not many pulpits would see fit to share their mic with a woman, though I am blessed to know a few, so I will bring my case before an altogether different judge.

* * * * * * *

The Bible offers little description on the pre-fall and so-called intended order of creation. The curtain rises on a stage already set, with only a few lines of text alluding to a type of perfect that humanity could scarcely tolerate and quickly challenged. The rest of the text describes the suffering of man as we continue to walk east of Eden.

Out of the very limited text we have on Eden, much is written on the sin of Eve. She was the first to consume the fruit, the first to misunderstand, the first to be deceived. She took into herself a very dangerous seed and shared it with the one she loved most. I will not negate the gravity of Eve's sin. On the contrary, I will own it. I am Eve, as we all are. And I suspect, I am equally as easy to deceive. With the best of intentions, I too take into myself a poison that spreads like a virus unstoppable through the ranks.

However, let us talk now of the sin of Adam. Look closer at the character of Adam - notice a man who left his companion vulnerable to deception, who stood quietly by while she was tempted by the serpent, who offered her no council while she consumed the fruit, and who took sin into himself remarkably easy, offering little resistance. Furthermore, Adam, when questioned by God about his defiance and lack of judgment, felt it necessary to point the finger of accusation not towards his own imperfect heart, but at his wife and boldly at the Creator Himself.

The sermon this morning spoke of the power struggle between men and women. Obviously, there is a power struggle; of course, I agree—evidence we are still east of Eden. And what was once united in perfect unashamed love, now stands in opposition. Adam and Eve both sinned, and they were and are both equally punished. Read the rest of the Bible, and come to understand the phrase, ‘like a woman giving birth’ is not used as gender-specific. Likewise, our struggle against 'thorns and thistles' applies on a personal, national, and universal level all simultaneously and is also not the least bit related to gender. New life is now born of suffering, which we shall struggle to carry and deliver. In any case, the war of the sexes started as we were expelled from the garden, so why should we be content to camp there? We were already standing east of perfect.

We cannot draw many context clues from the short descriptions of Eden. However, it is implied that even amid perfection, Adam was lonely, and God was not content to leave him that way. The story of the creation of Eve is remarkable. Of all the bones and flesh at His disposal to create Eve, the story tells us the Lord chooses a rib from Adam's side. Interesting that He did not choose a bone from the heel of his foot, or perhaps the tip of his thumb, nor his tailbone… no instead, the Lord chooses a part in Adam’s side, a part of the very construct that protects man’s breath and his heart. Without this piece of his side, Adam has a weak spot, as it is now man who stands with a hole in him. With Eve, he is not only not lonely; he is whole. When they are operating as one, she is standing at his side, protecting his heart, while he would naturally have his arm falling gently around her. And all was excellent in every way.

However, the preacher from this morning’s sermon did not speak of Eden. Yet, he did quote Paul, as many often do, when they attempt to establish a hierarchy of social order. Although there are a few patronizing instructions for females among Paul’s writings, the prevailing themes of love and unity run throughout his work. It is insulting to the author and overall ignorant to discredit the underlying message of the entirety of Paul’s writings by removing cultural context and focusing on a few select passages.

 “I appeal to you by the authority of the Lord Jesus Christ to stop arguing among yourselves. Let there be real harmony among you so there will not be divisions in the church. I plead with you to be of one mind, united in thought and purpose.”

-1 Corinthians 2:10

The Bible offers no letter by Paul’s hand which ever wavered from this mission. It is the writings of this man who also preached, “let love be your highest goal…” of whom we now use to bring segregation and division. As we strain for a gnat, we are in danger of missing the message altogether.

The writings of Paul offer instruction for Christian marriage. The most often quoted, or partially quoted of these passages is in Ephesians 5. The quote we so often hear is, “Wives submit to your husband.” I pray that any man led to quote this text has the courage to read aloud the entire passage.

“And further, you will submit to one and another out of reverence for Christ. You wives will submit to your husbands as you do to the Lord. For a husband is the head of his wife as Christ is the head of his body, the church; he gave his life to be her Savior. As the church submits to Christ, so you wives must submit to your husbands in everything.

And you husbands must love your wives with the same love Christ showed the church. He gave up his life for her to make her holy and clean, washed by baptism and God's word.”

-  Ephesians 5:21-26

We should reflect on how Christ loved the 'church'. He offers ‘her’ a love which forgives an unfaithful heart, overlooks transgressions, and hurls itself in front of death—a love which protects and does not possess. With this love he rescues ‘her’ so she can be free.  Paul continues…

“In the same way, husbands ought to love their wives as they love their own bodies. For a man is actually loving himself when he loves his wife. No one hates his own body but loving cares for it, just as Christ cares for his body, which is the church.”

- Ephesians 5:28-30

And then goes on to close with this…

“So again I say, each man must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband.”

- Ephesians 5:33

There are as many instructions for males in spirit-guided relationships as there are for females, yet the male call to action is so often marginalized. Point toward a man who loves his wife as he loves himself, who cares for her so deeply he would overlook her imperfections, and run headfirst into death to spare her—next to him undoubtedly stands a wife, who out of intense respect for her husband would joyfully submit to his authority.

Though it was bold and packed with revolutionary ideas, Paul's writing is not free from the trenches of culture and tradition. Paul wrote to several church gatherings, some of whom had become so focused on the socialization and fashion of the whole assembly they were at risk of losing the message. (Picture a gathering of over the top and inappropriately dressed people distracted and missing the point…sound familiar?) Here he offers instructions for women in worship, but at one point seems to question himself before leaving us with this, "all I can say is we have no other custom than this…"

Paul was a rebel who challenged legalism and customs, but the evolution of moral law on a national level is a slow process. Not unlike the law of Moses, Paul’s teaching might have yielded to the hard-heartedness of man. (Paul also offers instructions for slaves and their masters…)  Read all of Paul's work in its entirety, and the takeaway is this, "There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male or female. For you are all Christians—you are all one in Christ Jesus."

While I have the most profound respect for Paul, and his writings, I understand he was simply a man on his journey. As merely a man, he was not immune, as none of us are, from the heavy influence of culture and tradition. Though I study Paul's teachings, I do ultimately submit to a more credible source—Christ.

While Jesus Christ never saw fit to author a book, He did lead us by example. If the role of women is intended to be only beneath men, and this hierarchy is important enough to build our faith upon, we should see the Messiah model this behavior and echo it in His preaching. Only the Bible offers us no such record.

The Beatitudes make no mention of gender. In place of a hierarchy of men and women, Jesus builds a ministry completely backward of anything a legalist might predict, a ministry that serves from the bottom up. The gospels introduce a Messiah who heals and loves equally and reveals the Kingdom of heaven to both men and women. Interesting to note, it was women who stayed past the end of the first act of the Crucifixion, watching from a distance as Christ was buried. And as the stone rolls away, it is the grieving spirit of women who are among the first to learn of the resurrection and see the risen Lord. They were given a life altering message to spread to the apostles… and yet in the beginning the words of these women were diminished as nonsense.

The gospels paint a picture of Christ who observes the spirit of the law without adhering to the letter of it. There we see Jesus, who is willing to defile himself in the eyes of the law in the name of mercy. Christ presents a compassion which has little concern for itself and disregards custom, which associates with prostitutes, which heals a hemorrhaging woman and calls her daughter, and which even takes the hand of a dead girl to restore her life. There we see Christ who was anointed multiple times, not inside the synagogues, not by members of government, nor wealthy respectable men, nor high priests, but by women.

Read the entire gospels and it is impossible to argue that Christ does not have a heart for women. However, Jesus Christ wastes no breath on the battle of the sexes. Though, He does allot substantial airspace to tearing down corrupt leadership, speaking against corporate religion, warning us against the destructive power of legalism, and teaching us to love.

Against ‘biblically supported’ demeaning arguments of women, I could prattle on in resistance longer than anyone would care to listen. For, unlike Christ, I am afraid I now waste considerable time venturing too close to the edge of polarization and I am at fault. I may well spend my entire life compiling a defense of women and fighting for a pulpit to file my complaint. But in the end, this is all just a meaningless distraction causing us to shift our gaze from the real work we have in front of us. I will undoubtedly have a platform to plead my case privately before the King of Kings, though I have my suspicions He may dismiss my defense for it is simply not relevant to the objective.

Forgive me this. Vile scribble. More chasing of the wind…

It is not my heart to bring division, though offering any type of defense for myself here most certainly will. Swab my heart for gunshot residue. Firing in self-defense is likely no excuse. Perhaps someday I will come to understand why we are all encouraged to ‘turn the other cheek.’

I believe it unlikely God will ever declare a victor in the war of the sexes. For I do not serve a God who requires me to take up arms against men, but one who would ask me to lay them down. So, as a woman who submits, in lieu of declaring war against males, I will have the strength to lay down my weapons along with my hurt and instead declare my heart for them.

I love men

and I respect them.

As I search for a way back into Eden, I want to find my place not standing against my brothers but standing at their side where I was always meant to be. And if I feel their arm falling gently around me in protection, I will be forever grateful for it. In exchange, I will work to help guard their hearts and together we will heed Paul’s warning, “to watch for those who might bring divisions...” and united we will walk forward to advance a Kingdom of love, a Kingdom of mercy, and a Kingdom of grace.

On earth, as it is in heaven.

The Adulterous Woman - Worship on Easter Sunday

Adulterer.

Hear the word, and something inside of you tightens, silently screaming out ‘unclean.’ You step backward, glance sidewise in judgment, or quickly look the away, as your spirit attempts to put distance between the ‘you’ that is righteous and the ‘them’ who have clearly fallen.

The story of the adulterous woman is an unlikely discussion for Easter Sunday. And yet I feel compelled to examine it. Throughout the Bible, adultery is a prevalent symbol and allegory both in the old and new testaments. Contrary to our intuition to pivot from the topic, the theme is so widespread I’m afraid it was intended to be studied and cannot be outrun.

‘Us versus Them’ mentality, or the spirit of comparison, lures us into creating a hierarchy of our fellow man. Sheltered under the guise of legalism, we twist ‘laws’ to develop a ladder of morality, which somehow ranks us on the higher end of the spectrum in comparison to our brothers. However, when we finally understand ‘Us is Them,’ that is to say, we are the same as our brothers, neither superior nor less than, we begin to recognize that no system which considers itself ‘morality’ could ever set out to rank us. We inhale and exhale the same air as our brothers and sisters, which forces us rather uncomfortably to admit in this instance that not only are we wrong in judging, running from, or condemning the adulterer… we, in fact, share the same spirit.

We think first of the adulterous woman. While we examine the story, we build a monument for ourselves, then stand upon it, all the while pointing our finger at a whore who threw away her chastity vows, disgraced her husband, and found solace in the arms of others.  Before we built our monument, we were standing next to her—yet we ignored her tears, watched her teetering on the balance beam of morality, without extending a helping hand as she tried desperately to hold truth. Legalism does not bend to circumstance, so we offer no grace to her lonely heart, and in arrogance and joy, we abandoned her and stand now among those who condemn her.

Many might find comfort in stopping the investigation here—an unclean ‘woman’ has fallen. May we wash our hands of her—the end.

But we should know by now parables point to deeper truths. In the stories, the woman plays the ‘role of’ the adulterer… but the character of adultery has substantially deeper roots. We see the narrative reenacted time and time again… to make sure we have all understood, we even see Hosea marry a prostitute, under specific instructions from the Lord.

Further investigation reveals that the adulterer, while represented by a female character, was never truly meant to point toward a woman at all.  So, who then is the whore? Israel is the unfaithful wife, who blatantly disregards the covenant, and in the spirit of desperation, turns to idolatry, chasing down and enthroning any god she can conceive.

For a passing moment, we feel superior to ‘her.’ But then we realize we too find ourselves at times lonely, tired, and weak, desperate for a tangible God. Since God and love defy our understanding while requiring a patience we cannot comprehend, we settle for the comfort and certainty of religious tradition. We use the gifts from our Creator, to build a god with our own hands and offer to him alone access to our despairing hearts.

There is a false image floating in contemporary culture which paints the Creator as an angry god on high, who waits with fiery judgment (not meant to free us, but ensnare us), who unjustly demands a blood sacrifice to cover our filth and shame. I pray we have the strength to replace this image with something which is closer to the truth and yet all together beyond comprehension. God is creation dying for creation (like the sun) he himself is the shame covering, he himself the offering, he himself breath, he himself the lamb sacrifice. Not just once, but always, from before the beginning to after the end, with everything in between.

The false, angry, bloodthirsty, child-abusing god we have enthroned would certainly condemn adultery to a swift and painful death. While the true God, would stand not against us, but with us in our agony, until the final moment when he throws himself in front of the guilty verdict.

The gospel of John offers a glimpse of how Jesus deals with the adulterer, though this time, she is simply portrayed as a woman. The Pharisees caught her in the act of adultery, so there is no denying her guilt. By twisting the spirit of ‘the law’ originally created to serve and protect, they now use it to convict and condemn. With little regard for the life they might so casually take, they parade the accused in front of Jesus and a crowd. In an effort not only to condemn her, but also with the intent of ensnaring (as false religion so often does) the Messiah. With the trap methodically set, legalism waits patiently for Jesus to step forward. He will either uphold the law, condemning her to death by stoning, thereby standing with legalism, or he will be forced to disregard the law, thus condemning himself. 

He does neither and both. Christ did not come to abolish the law but to fulfill it. And he did not come to judge the world, but to save it. (Matthew 5:17, John 12:47) Jesus is scarcely disturbed by the circumstances, as he knelt writing with his finger in the dirt—what we do not know. He finally stands to face the accusers.

“Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Anger and judgment slowly dissipate, and one by one, the accusers silently set down their stones and exit the scene. The confrontation once again displays the power of Truth to disarm and free, of which Isaiah foretold. (Isaiah 2:4)

Jesus continues to write in the dirt until only He and the accused remain. With no stone in his hand, unprepared to implement the judgment, Jesus stands again to face her as the only one worthy to carry out her death sentence.

“Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”

She says, “No one, Lord.”

“Neither do I condemn you; go, and from now on sin no more.”

And now even the bait in the trap goes free. And the woman walks away to begin again.

As we attempt to navigate cultures numerous depictions of the Creator, I think it significant to remember who set the trap and who disarmed it. Here we see the power of false religion manipulate the letter of the law to disregard the spirit of it. Here we watch as those high on the rung of morality, unashamedly threaten the life of a woman to bring glory to themselves. Necessary to remember, it was never the Lord who paraded the woman in her sin publicly—though He undeniably sees all done in darkness. Instead, He not only sidesteps the trap, but gently, wisely, and confidently saves the life of the bait.

I am left to wonder, where do we stand in this story? ‘Us versus Them’ mentality leaves me casually watching the scene unfold from the outside, while ‘Us is Them’ mentality helps me understand I am not merely a bystander to this story. This is my story, our story.

And now, I am split in two. Half of me stands high on the pedestal I build myself, with an outstretched finger pointed at the accused; while the other half saw her reflection in the mirror, climbed down in shame and took her place next to the damned, all the while knowing she too embodies the spirit of a whore.

So now I stand both as the accuser and the accused. I am hopelessly ensnared in a death trap I built for others.

But then I remember that it is Easter Sunday. And I recall the false religion and legalism which solicited a conviction and crucified innocence. And with a heavy heart, I understand I may stand there too as the accuser and the accused.

I imagine a different ending to the story of the adulterous woman… what if the crowd had not dispelled? What if even one accuser had overlooked their faults, seen themselves equal with God, fit to carry out judgment?  While some may consider it unfair to speculate, I think we have enough evidence to imagine a hypothetical answer…

Jesus finally stands up from the dirt, between the accuser and the accused.

Staring at the accuser, he might say, “It is me you wanted all along anyway, set her free.”

Then He may likely turn to the woman; he may likely turn to me, “Go, and from now on, sin no more.”

And just like that, he would swallow my death in exchange for my freedom.

I think something like that happened on Good Friday thousands of years ago. And because of that sacrifice, I know the whore in me who betrayed the covenant is set free to go forth and begin again. And as for accuser half of me left standing on the pedestal…the one who someday might find themselves entangled in a trap of their own making…I think He mediated that too.

As He prayed from the cross, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

And soon after cried out, “It is finished.” Then offered His last breath.

Good Friday…

Forgive us for all that we’ve hurt in the name of God…

East of Eden

LOST. In a world with Google maps and Garmin watches, I'm not sure we understand what lost means anymore. We use it casually, throw it around for dramatic effect when we turn the wrong way, or miss an exit. Like so many words, it has lost its original bite, but for lack of a better one, we continue to use it.

A few weeks back, I tossed it out there myself when I got turned around on a long run. During the late fall and winter in Missouri, runners find the trails littered with muddy leaves, which pile and build like snow. Most of the places I run have enough foot traffic to keep the leaves slightly packed down, or the trails are wide enough to cut a noticeable—and still easy to navigate—line through the trees.

But on that day weeks ago, Em and I decided to take the less beaten path, on a trail it would take a dog to find. As we ran up the ridge, the trail got narrower and narrower, we began to run single file, and the path through the leaves became more challenging to spot. When we hit a fork in the trail, I was comforted by a prominent stack of rocks marking the turn. I felt sure I would have spotted it on the return trip, but as the miles drag on, the sinking feeling in my gut let me know somehow, we had missed it. It took us 4 miles of wandering and Ember's nose to find our way back to anything recognizable, but we shrugged it off and lived to tell about it.

I had to admit the whole ordeal spooked me. 'Lost' was a stretch—I knew I was only in danger of annoyance and discomfort since I understood the general direction of the highway and figured if I ran far enough, I would come to it. Yet, I typically run alone, or with Ember dog, so I try to be more aware of my surroundings. Anyways, determined not to be 'lost' again—I headed back out a week later to the same spot to understand better where I had gone wrong.

The 'due over' run was almost as bad as the first. I brought along Jenni this time, as we had a half marathon training run penciled in on our calendars. We made lots of jokes at my expense—it is common knowledge I am directionally dysfunctional—but in the end, Jenni also voted it was the wrong time of year to navigate the narrow section of trail. After a few miles, we reluctantly opted for plan B, which meant leaving the high ground and logging the rest of our miles through the valley with its cold-water crossings.

It was hardly 40 degrees, and the air was damp and heavy with the Missouri humidity that makes you shiver in the winter and sweat in the summer. The first water crossings were waste deep with the water moving pretty good, but we hardly broke stride. If we aren't wet over our belly buttons… we don't usually whine about it. The last crossing was the deepest and the slickest, so of course, we both fell. Me first... the shocking cold took my breath away, when I came back up, I had just enough time to see Jenni laugh at me before she bit it herself.

We froze our asses off—to put it politely. Luckily, we were towards the end of our run, but it is a memory I won't soon forget. Jenni still insists that water came straight from a glacier. Since it took me four hours of fierce shivering to get my body temperature back up, I might have to agree.

So now, my long run training log looks something like this:

Round One - Lost - or whatever you want to call it.

Round Two - A hauntingly cold run.

Which brings us to - Round Three – AKA today…

Today it is Ember and I again, trying to make a 20-mile training run. Honestly, I don't want to be here, and I am making up a lot of solid excuses to get me out of this. In addition to feeling overwhelmed and behind, I have some legit medical reasons why I should not do a 20-mile trail run. Add those excuses to the scarring memories of the last two times I was out here, and they all combined to create a seriously lousy attitude sprinkled with a little self-pity.

The sun works to balance the equation, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, it had managed to break through the drab grey sky. I needed something positive to hold onto, so I found myself thankful for the sun, then the time alone, and finally, the quiet…

Yet, not even sunshine could make me want to be here. Today was about commitment, as is so much else in long-distance running. I committed to this race, I committed to Jenni, and I told myself for better or worse, I would get this training run done today. So here I am—suppressing my feelings because they are overall irrelevant to the objective.

I figured I might as well find joy here, or I was setting myself up for a long day. Still scarred from the cold, I decided to run the high ground for as many miles as possible. Translation: slow miles, rocky climbs, and that stupid narrow trail covered in leaves. As I started my watch, I added an uneasy feeling in my gut to the list of reasons I would rather be at home.

Ember and I find our stride while the sunshine slowly melts away my sour mood. I did not expect this would be an easy run, but we were covering ground at a consistent pace, and I am encouraged by the progress. We make our way up the first fork, to the narrow trail no one is stupid enough to run on—but of course me.

After several more miles, we hit the fork in the road with the oversized stack of rocks. I smirk to myself… Fool me once—but I wasn't likely to make the same mistake twice on the return trip. The water runoff transformed the trails into something more like creek beds, and I find myself overly consumed with watching my foot strike to prevent a fall. With the path still challenging to spot, I put one foot in front of the other for a long way, all the while starring hard at the ground in front of me. I feel the uneasiness take root in my second stomach, which I ignore in the beginning. Nervous energy continues to build so that even Em' could sense it, and she slows her stride down considerably. We push through and make our way through a small creek crossing and up a short climb before she comes to a dead halt.

I am annoyed, but as I finally do a 360 scan of my surroundings, realize Ember is right. If I was barely 'lost' the first time, I certainly wasn't 'lost' now. Sadly, I know exactly where we are, which is over a mile and a half from where we were supposed to be. I'm pissed off at myself for not listening to my gut and begin running the math through my head to determine if there was any way possible for me to finish this run and make it back in time for my afternoon meetings. I can't believe I missed the marker again. A stream of self-criticism floods my mind, and I'm hurling insults at myself steadily. The first step to getting back on track is admitting you are wrong and coming to terms with lost time.

As we make our way back, I keep wondering how I could have possibly missed the marker again. But the faster we run, the more I ignore my peripheral vision and focus my gaze on the footstep in front of me. I take a deep breath and realize I know exactly how I had ended up in the wrong place, make my peace with it, and what it would take to get back on track.

My running (and my art for that matter) often seem to parallel my life. And right now—spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and physically—I think I have somehow missed the marker. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I know my heart is east of Eden.

I'm not the type of person who finds comfort or hope in looking ahead, and I even pride myself on finding joy in each unplanned step. It is not often I have a reason to raise my eyes from the ground. But I currently find myself in a season which I believe might require something else from me. After all, 'one foot in front of the other' mentality is how I ended up in this mess because without vision, the people will parish.

I am not lost. I begrudgingly understand now exactly where I am, and I admit I was wrong to ignore the gradual uneasiness building in my spirit. I know how much ground I wasted looping around in the wilderness to end up where I stand today. I know it is quite a trek home, but I think I still know the way. If I am going to make it safely back and prevent such a wasted journey in the future, I will need to understand how to better balance looking down with looking out… or learn how to be present today but still find hope in tomorrow.

I run home in the quiet and the sun, inhale and exhale all of this, until these last words remain.

"Look up, child."

Under Every Green Tree

There is a coordinated attack on time, and many of us are weary from the battle. Time is well on its way to becoming the new currency. Success appears flawless from the outside—we work harder, sleep less, eat worse, and fight more—all to drive nicer cars, have bigger credit card bills, compulsively buy things we don’t really need (which end up in landfills), as we scramble to pay for and drive our kids to ‘lessons’ we should have had time to teach ourselves.

If we, by chance, find the time to ‘be still’ our minds are still not free—as we then battle the endless stream of polarizing backlit screens filling us with a ‘truth’ which promotes hate, division, violence, lust, greed, and false religion. We sacrifice ourselves and our loved ones to feed the machine, but it is not enough. Slavery takes so many forms.

‘Christmas’ is supposed to be different, the calm in the storm, and yet it leaves me feeling hollow and tastes like counterfeit Christianity. My friends worry I am pagan and goad me into half-ass decorating out of guilt. “You can decorate for other holidays,” they say. And that’s true; I can. Because I am not claiming to decorate in the name of God, so it doesn’t hurt as much. They worry about my soul, I smile and say silent prayers, but must acknowledge that it feels kind of good to have someone care about me. A friend even brings over a big green Christmas tree and sets it up in my living room for the sake of my children… and honestly, they are grateful.

I participate in Christmas just like I am supposed to, but as I stand in an absurd Target returns line, I find myself thinking this holiday has little to nothing to do with Jesus and everything to do with capitalism. Call me ‘pagan,’ or a ‘pessimist,’ and I will not argue, although I would prefer ‘jaded’ or perhaps ‘convicted,’ because these labels do not carry the same negative connotation.

Whatever the case, my heart hurts, and I cannot explain why. Something is off, but it’s not the kind of off that takes a form… you can’t see it, or point at it, or label it, but you can feel it. And for better or worse, I want to stand against it.

But that is not what I did this Christmas. Instead, I ran, because it is what I do when I don’t understand things. My ability to run away is my greatest strength and my biggest weakness. This year, my husband and I loaded our kids in the car and ran to New Mexico.

What I wanted this year for Christmas was time—time with the people I cared about most in the world—and silence. I needed a Sabbath with the people I loved, my friends, and my family. I wanted time to hug them, and hold them, and laugh with them, and be still all together (or make a back-rub pile on the floor in front of the fire).

I got everything I wanted this Christmas and so much more, but I am afraid I will have to give it all back now. You cannot hold moments; they just slide right through your fingers.

As I re-engage, I am not certain how to regain the ground we have lost. I am not sure how to stand against this force I can feel but can’t see. But I do know from my very core, I sincerely want to worship God, not idols, on the hilltops and under every green tree.  

Building Fear and Trusting Love

I have run quite a few marathons. I consistently find some pressing reason to sign up for something so absurd, as if I need some higher-level purpose to help me rationalize the whole ordeal. Honestly, its compulsive—this need to have something in front of me to run towards. I am not confident I can trust myself to look out over an empty calendar.

This race was no exception. November is not an enjoyable time of year for me. I am supposed to wake up and move on, but as the days get darker and dreary, so does my spirit.

Being a November race, I have had my eye on the Moab Trail Marathon for several years. I was registered for it the prior year but delayed my registration for last-minute enrollment in an international art class. This year I was determined to make the starting line.

Early on, I sold my husband on this ridiculous event. Between our kids and work and sports and parents, time was moving faster and faster. Work paths were leading us both in different directions, and we had settled into playing zone defense to manage our kids and their busy schedules. It was becoming increasingly easy to see ourselves more as business partners then as mates. Shared suffering brings people together, so we decided to commit to training for and running this race as partners.

Four months of training runs later, and we find ourselves shivering together at the start line. Moab Marathon is not a street race—meaning you cannot discard extra clothing as you heat up—so you had to commit to carrying anything for wanted to wear at the start for the next 26.2 miles. The start is taking off in waves that roll across the line seven minutes apart to spread out the traffic on the trail. We are in wave 5, meaning we shiver longer and start the race closer to the back of the pack.

As we huddle together, I know this race is more than just about bringing us closer together. For me, it is about understanding my fear of heights and maintaining control of my emotions as I push myself past the borders of my comfort zone. The course climbs, descends, and overlooks the edge of drops I am trying not to think about.

When our wave rolls across the start, we instantly find ourselves running in deep sand, which seeps into the sides of our shoes and spills over the backs. I’m not a minute into the race before I regret not wearing gaiters. The sand covers a layer of solid rock that is firmly embedded into the ground. For this, I am relieved, as the rocks in Missouri are often slick, loosely planted, and covered in a layer of moss and wet leaves. My feet glide faster and faster over the rock I am learning to trust, and I am comforted by the thought of running on solid ground.

Patrick is quickly ahead of me, and I worry he is heading out of the gate too fast. It is easy to allow yourself to be swept away by the flood of adrenaline at the start of an event. I am struggling to hold onto his pace, and several racers take their place between us. We all form a tight line for a while, the whole gang running Patrick's line, with me holding firmly onto the back. I am slightly annoyed and concerned at what is to come, and I am fearful it is not possible to maintain this pace for the remainder of the race but make peace with the idea of running swiftly through everything we can. Early on, I find myself missing Jenni. It has been a long time since I ran a race without her, and I am just not sure about handling this without her goofy, encouraging, pain in the ass by my side.

It is not long before we all begin to climb, and our line breaks down. As we navigate the rock ahead, there is no clear-cut path to the top, so we each find our own way. We are less than 6 miles in, and I am surprised to realize how much I am already climbing with my hands. I give thanks for my gloves and recognize they may serve a dual purpose.

We climb a steep rock for several miles, still slightly shivering in the cool of the morning. I am anxious for the sun to break over the mesas, heat the ground, and reflect back at me. Ever so slowly, the light breaches the rock and pierces the shade. Now it feels as if we are running beams of light, and it's all a kind of beautiful I cannot use words to explain. As the harsh light hits the ground, steam gently lifts from the rockface and suspends in the air. As we run the sun, the shivering slowly gives way to sweating, but the warmth is short-lived. We make our way back into the shade, only now slightly damp, and find ourselves trembling cold again. We run like this for miles, jogging light beam to light beam.

Still battling to hold onto Patrick's longer stride, I find my mind tempted to rest in a darker place. Negative thoughts begin to buildup, though at first, I attempt not to acknowledge them. Then all at once the dam breaks and they rush past full force.

'He should be free to run his own race.'

'You do nothing but hold him back.'

'It's better for you both if you just separate.'

'You should end this now, while you still respect each other, and agree to each run your own pace.'

The thoughts hit relentlessly, one after another. There is often that moment in a race when you realize it is a more intense commitment than you initially bargained for, marriage is no different.

We keep climbing the light. But the glory of the top of the rock is short-lived, and as quickly as we earned it, we give it all away. The descent is steep, and I am again shocked to recognize still how much I am using my hands. The ledge we are running becomes narrower and narrower with an unobstructed view of the canyon below us. When I registered for this race, it was an honest attempt to overcome my fear of heights. Something I have tried to come to terms with and failed many times before.

I have a close friend in Australia who visited us for ten days this summer. We worked together to hang an art show where I found myself balancing on a tall ladder for hours on end. The heights conversation came up, and through her counsel, I developed a new understanding of fear.

"Fear is not real, you know," she would say in her beautiful accent. "Fear is something you create in your mind, then submit to."

She was right. I am not quick to trust any of my other emotions. Why should I submit to fear? This race was no longer about overcoming my fear of heights; it was now about never building fear at all. In theory, it was easy to talk about, but it took more than a little focus to keep my mind from constructing paralyzing fear as I quickly navigated a thin footpath on the edge of a cliff.

I thought to myself it would help if I never acknowledged relativity. "I am running fast, up high, on a narrow edge of a cliff face." (Example of relative thinking – the spirit of comparison is often dangerous.) I could not afford to place my position in relation to these rocks. I had to guard my mind against such thoughts. In all honesty, there was no other way safely out of this. Instead, I changed my thinking slowly, "I am running." "These are rocks." I would not allow us to be in relation to each other. Then I kicked it up a notch and dropped the whole idea of running. I figured the only way to determine I was running at all was to measure myself against the passing rocks. So, I finally dropped it too. Gradually, it became "I am," and "they are," and ever so slowly, I was at peace. And then for a moment, I was totally free. Gliding effortlessly—I just was. I felt like I was flying and found myself enjoying the rocks, and I would like to think they enjoyed me.

I was jolted back into this reality when the woman in the dark glasses behind me stumbled, cried out, and then recovered. She ran another fifty yards and stumbled again. And now it was clear she did not trust herself, and suddenly we were both back on the edge of a cliff. She became emotional and stumbled a third time. It was at this moment I had a new revelation about fear—it was contagious.

We both fought through it, and the sight of my husband reassured me. The narrow ledge doubled back on itself, and we found our way down several steep switchbacks marked with orange flags. There was not a trail at all anymore, just orange flags tied to rocks, and we would each make our way to them one at a time. To lower yourself to the next switchback, you would plant your hands on each side of the rocks, then cautiously do a dip, lowering yourself until you were fully extended before dropping to the next level.

My confidence was building with every drop, and suddenly all the thoughts of separating from my husband were utterly ridiculous. I was thankful for a partner. He was brave enough to make all the drops first, then gentleman enough to turn around, prepared to lend a hand to me if I found myself needing it. We were a team again, working together to find the best route, making our way swiftly down.

We found ourselves at the end of a long line of people. Then waited anxiously on the ledge for what was to come. "I am, and they are," I tried to comfort myself as I overlooked the edge. Several race officials attended this area of the descent to reduce the risk of failing. There were two paths down, and we lined up for the one which felt right for us. When it was our turn, I climbed out onto the rock overhang and tried to find my footing. Patrick went first.

The rock ledge was solid, too smooth, and too steep. Runners had to slide their footing down it before they jumped off to another narrow ledge several feet beneath them, and the whole thing was overhanging what felt like a thousand-foot drop into a canyon. I was committed to not building fear, but as I slid out over the rock, I started to feel something paralyzing welling up in me.

My husband must have sensed it and yelled, "Hey, look at me…"

Then his voice changed from a request to a command, "Chels, look at me. Jump to me."

I re-positioned—locked eyes with him—then jumped off a freaking cliff with a narrow landing zone.

I felt empowered, and the adrenaline surge carried me the next few miles. Certainly, nothing could be more complicated than the miles we just covered. I let myself be swept away in hope.

The miles pass in a blur. We did an incredible climb up to mile 16, and I find myself using my hands again, enjoying views you can only earn with sweat equity, all the while making a conscious effort to keep from building fear. Patrick pulls away from me again, and I struggled to keep sight of him.

We drop into a valley, and the trail disappeared. We scan for the well placed, orange flags, and stayed alert. We ran through rocks, which slowly got taller and taller beside us as we made our way through a short slot canyon. My pack gets stuck on a rock wall as I tried to shimmy through, and honestly, I wished the whole damn thing would have just ripped off because my back hurt.

We ran past a man who is 78 years old, racing for a national championship title. I know we were in a hurry, but I find myself wanting to talk with him. I tell him he is a badass, and he asks if he can use me as a reference. We encourage each other for as long as we can, and then it is clear we must pull away from him.

As we were pulling away, he hollered out, "Hey, want to know the secret to being awesome?”

"Yeah, of course!"

"Stay alive. And keep running. Your competition might drop out of the race."

It sounded like solid advice to me. I might not be the best, but I certainly would put 'stubborn with endurance' at the top of my list of qualities. Maybe it was not about winning for either of us. Perhaps it was about enduring, and we just needed to wait out the competition.

We ran through rest stops, and I find myself concerned about Patrick. He doesn't seem to understand the danger of these necessary, welcomed, but risky stops. I began to rush him through them and discouraged him from standing still or sitting down. Twenty-three miles in, and we were both feeling surprisingly energetic. But in the obstacles to come, shit hit the fan.

As I admitted to myself I was growing tired, my mind wandered to New Mexico and the friend we planned to visit when this whole race was behind us. Without warning, I was ambushed by thoughts of being done and getting to Santa Fe. They were dangerous thoughts considering the circumstances, and I needed to keep focused on planning my where my feet would strike the ground next, so I pushed them from my mind.

We work our way down another steep drop. There is a woman in front of me being exceedingly vocal about her fear, and we find ourselves trapped behind her. She is yelling out and asking others to join her in her reality. She cries out every drop, groaning and asking, "Is anyone else afraid?" I have already learned today fear is contagious. I wish I could comfort her, but I know she is a threat to me, and I need to get away. I looked out over the ledge at the deep green color of the water in the river. I refused to put this river or these rocks into context — not today. I won't let myself stand in fear with you, my friend… I refused to acknowledge her due to self-preservation. For a second, I feel like I am a terrible person. But then, if fear was contagious, perhaps so too was courage. Maybe I was helping her by moving steadily forward.

At what I think was around twenty-four miles, we come to the edge of mesa with a ladder leaning against it. I am annoyed. The pictures of last year's race showed a ladder bolted to the wall. This one looked a little short, and when we climb it and stand on the top, there are still several feet of rock to free climb before you hurl yourself over the ledge. I handled it reasonably well, and I decided I am more powerful when I stand outside of fear.

We ran until we come to a rock overhang with a few hand lines. The stream of participants built up again, and we wait on the edge for our turn on the ropes. I encouraged Patrick to go first but instantly regretted it. When it was my turn, I handled the first rope well. But when I tried to switch lines, I found I could no longer guard my mind against fear and exhaustion to focus on the task at hand. I made my way through the second rope, but as I rounded the corner where a big rock overhang forced you more uncomfortably out on the ledge, I came to a dead halt.

The man behind me was patient. Of course, it would have done him little good to be angry. Neither one of us was going anywhere until he talked me off that ledge. We did it together, and he gave me short instructions, which I followed one step at a time.

"Put your foot here."

"Walkout farther."

"Keep your rope tight."

"Watch your head."

And soon, it was time for me to let go of the line and make my way to the last knotted, vertical rope we would use to climb to the next tier of the rock. My husband and my kids' rock climb, but I like to keep both feet on the ground. I pulled myself up the knots in the rope and lay into the rock in an effort not to panic. I could feel the tears coming, and by the time I made it to the top, there was no stopping them. I let myself shake and cry for a minute or so at the top of the climb until I could get my head around finishing the race. Two more miles and we could drive to Santa Fe.

I am surprised at how many obstacles—and how much sand—was packed into those last few miles of the run. There was one final hand line to help you down a significant smooth rock drop. We turned around backward and walked down the rock as we lowered ourselves to where we could run again.

The last mile was relatively flat, and they handed out cold beer at mile twenty-six, right before you did your last steep climb to finish the race. The finish line did not come into view until you pulled yourself over the last rock edge, and then it was a welcomed sight steps away.

I came across the line in perfect sync with my husband and after a few cold drinks and a couple of cheese quesadillas, reflected upon the lessons I learned this race.

Fear is something we build ourselves. Like other emotions, you cannot always trust it, and as it turns out, it just might be contagious.

Love, on the other hand, you can trust. Though it might sometimes require more endurance than you initially bargained for, it is worth the investment. Marriage is indeed a long, challenging, unpredictable trail, and at times it seems more logical to go it alone. But I know now when I am tired, the path is narrow, steep, and emotions are running high, I am grateful to reach for my husband's outstretched hand—before I cautiously lower myself over the edge of a cliff.

Lost Satellite Connection

I glance down at my watch for the third time over the course of just a mile. It’s still running, so I am reassured for the moment.

The morning light is soft, but already I can feel the weight of the heat in the air. We were here before sunrise to escape the inevitable humidity and record temperatures the day promised. My husband is with me today—though he’s already ahead of me on the trail. I catch glimpses of him in the trees from time to time and at some points, catch up to him briefly when he stops to refuel. I know we will leapfrog like this all morning, yet I am comforted by the thought of him, and it feels good to know I am not out here alone—as I usually am.

I glance at my watch again. It has failed me the last three runs, and I am hopeful but not confident it can hang with me during these 16 miles. There is not much which frustrates me more than a GPS who cannot keep up. Battery life is the typical culprit, but not with this guy. We have a long beautiful history together - I used it on many 12+ hour runs, and even multiday backpacking trips, and it kept up without issue. But, I have a fault of holding on to things too long. I should have traded in my watch last year, yet I could not bring myself to do it.

I know in my heart this is all my fault. A few weeks back, I got busy and left the dang thing plugged into the charger for almost a week. These old watches can’t handle being left in charging mode for extended amounts of time. I’m sure I fried something internal I am not smart enough to explain. It is dangerous, you know, staying connected to the source so long you lose functionality… I can identify.

The miles tick by steadily, and we are covering ground at a consistent pace. We are finally running on dry rock, and honestly, I am thankful. The wet moss-covered stones are difficult to navigate. I am not proud to admit, but during last week’s run, I fell four times to the ground.

I catch sight of my husband again at the third water crossing. The water has receded with the heat and lack of rain. This crossing is most often to my waist with clear water which flows gently. When the weather is below freezing, it gets interesting, but during the summertime, it is almost always my favorite part of the run. This time I can smell the stagnant water. I barely get my feet wet as I slow to a cautious walk over the slimy green moss. I’m more than disappointed and make a mental note of the heat rash developing on my chest.

We are 12 miles in before I see it. LOST SATELLITE CONNECTION. Dammit.

I run what I think is another half-mile in hope, but I know it’s a lost cause. Still no connection. Now I am confident I am going it alone.

First, the missing water, and now this. I cannot suppress my anger, and I begin to become emotional. The humidity wraps itself around me, and I stop to a dead halt. I think about quitting—though that would be impossible since there would be no other way back to the trailhead. Any runner these days know if your GPS didn’t log it—then it didn’t happen. I might as well get into an airconditioned car and head to a Sonic.

Then as I’m standing there feeling sorry for myself, I notice the light filtering through the trees. It is so beautiful, and I find myself wondering why it took me so long to notice. I look in front of me, and behind, the same light is falling everywhere. I take a few pictures and a few deep breaths.

Suddenly I am mad at myself for ever being upset at all. How did it come to this? I used to run because I loved to, because I loved to breathe hard and sweat in the sun, because it made me a better person. Thanks to my beloved watch - now, I can finish my runs then promptly drowned in the sea of data. Now I have the option to know precisely how quickly my heart beat, how fast I ran, how far, how high I climbed, as well as a lengthy list of other information which details my run every step of the way. Instead of feeling pride, I manipulate the knowledge to compare myself to myself and quickly weave shame.

With my watch on the fritz, I’ve been running my shorter runs old-school. I have a black-spotted mutt dog as my running companion, and as it turns out, she is an incredible indicator of when to call it a day. Her tongue falls out the side of her mouth, then she gets a particular look in eye, and when she uses it to look up at you sideways without turning her head, you know its time to point towards home.

I take one last photo of a flower and walk for just a second. I have time to you know because no one is watching me. Not even the satellite can see me now. It is easy to perform when you have an audience… much harder to be accountable to just yourself. I start thinking, maybe its who we are when no one is watching that really matters. As soon as the thought enters my mind—I run again. I told myself I was running 16 miles today.

The satellite missed so much in the last 4 miles of my run. It didn’t notice the heat rash spread to cover my arms and legs, or the stumble and quick recover down the last descent, or the several feet of the grass that quickly slithered two inches from where my foot struck the ground. It did not take note that I tried as hard as I could to finish strong. Of course, I’m confident it ever takes notice of any of these things.

I look at my watch again and chuckle to myself. LOST SATELLITE CONNECTION... I’ll take that as freedom.

I head out to take a cold shower and get started in the studio.

No one is watching me, but it doesn’t matter—because I have work to do.

Everything Belongs

I spent the last eight nights sleeping in a hammock with my husband, staring up at the stars.

My vision is pathetic and I wear contacts, so that’s typically a complication. I should take them out early, so I don’t risk falling asleep in them, but then I can hardly see the sky. I take a chance and wear my contacts until the last possible second. I only fell asleep in them once this trip and woke up that morning with my eyes painfully red—I can feel good about those odds, so overall, I’ll consider it worth the risk.

We stayed on a small bit of land my parents have owned since I was a kid. I flashback to my childhood memories of my brother and I helping my dad to clear the property, then playing hide and seek, or paintball among the overgrown trees. I remember the summer my brother fell hard, butt first into a cactus—with its infinite fine-haired spines—which immediately penetrated his layers of clothing and implanted in his bottom. No one would help him, so in the end, it was me who spent hours with tweezers in my hand. If we were keeping score, he would owe me for this still.

The best parts of my life happened within these few miles. I spent my summers here, playing with my cousins and my childhood best friend. If the wind blows just right, and I close my eyes, I can still hear her laughing.

There is a quiet little cemetery just up the road from the property where my grandfather is buried. Though nobody likes a tattletale… I secretly sneak off to visit him at least once a season and would consider him pretty much in the loop.  

My parents’ property backs up to an empty field of scattered mesquite trees on the edge of a valley. The land is flat for a bit, but then the mesquites (always prettier and greener from a distance) gently climb over a hill before they disappear. The sun hides behind the hill in the evenings, and right before the mosquitos come out, the sky catches on fire and shows off those beautiful Texas sunsets I find myself missing so much.

This trip, we set our hammocks in a small grove of trees on the edge of the property. The deer were angry at our presence, and we feel a twinge of guilt for invading their space. We see sightings of them in the evenings, but mostly, they wake us up in the mornings in kind of a noisy and angry way, which I have never actually seen a deer act.

My husband and I have dared to call several places home, yet as I lay there in the evenings and sway in the trees, I realize I feel more at home here than in any bed I have ever slept. I find myself wondering why people ever bother to spend money on building houses.

The mornings were cool and dry. Eager to get out on the water, we would eat quickly, then head to the lake through a small footpath we cut through the knee-high grass. The wildflowers were in midsummer bloom, which meant the fields displayed a gentle balance of flowers in all stages of life. Tall, colorful blossoms were sprinkled about, mixed with wilting flowers, showing signs of wear from the hot sun. But almost more beautiful to me—the dead and dying flowers which were slowly taking over the grass, leaving behind delicate dried stalks.

I find myself fascinated with this balance of life and death. Those flowers so full of life, growing next to stark reminders of the end which is to come. And yet, those dead stoic flowers still standing tall, encasing the seeds of the future generations. I wonder if the colorful life next to them understands they owe themselves to those who stood before them. I wonder if they pay homage as they gaze upon death and know they too will someday pay their debt and fall for the future. But for now, they are all just standing together.

And then there is me—lying face down in the dirt—taking pictures of it all. And feeling like somehow, in this field, during this season, neither life nor death is out of place. And somehow, they are both beautiful, and for a brief moment, everything belongs.

A Long Way to Nowhere

Potawatomi - A 50 Mile Trail Race

This race was not like the others.

I have never actually run to nowhere before. All my past events were point to point, or out and backs, but this event ran 10-mile circles through the wilderness. Around and around and around with nowhere to go. In this race, the journey was the destination.

I knew in the days leading up the event I would have to get my head around this idea of ‘nowhere’ if I had any hopes of crossing the line. In any case, 50 miles is a long way to travel, and the idea was not only to cover that ground but to cover it as quickly as possible. After we finished the first loop, we’d know exactly what was ahead of us. The idea of running 50 miles, while knowing most of the way what is to come – with the option of tapping out every 10 miles – is not a recipe for success. Jenni and I knew we would need a different head game.

I might not be able to run 50 miles of trail, but I could consistently and quite easily log 10. This was no longer a 50-mile race. This was a 10-mile race, stacked one upon another in a way I would never let my mind think about. A 10-mile run with a chance to stop for just a sec and refuel before we crossed the start line of our next event. No reason to worry or feel sorry for myself. This was a good game plan, and I decided my mind might just have a shot at processing the miles and miles to come.

Jenni and I had spent the drive up hashing out the word ‘race.’ Sometimes the whole ‘race’ concept seemed so loaded to me. The idea of ‘race’ appeared as something only the leaders could stake claim to. But the more we processed, the more we realized the race for us was never against other people.

Against other athletes, we would never stack up. But for us, the ‘race’ was – and always has been – internal. It was a race against ourselves. It was rarely about overtaking others, but about overcoming our own minds and each of us applying our personal best (which was always a sliding scale) to registration, to all the miles in training, and to whatever number of miles spanned from the start line to the finish line.

So today, in the cool dark of the morning, we would bring the best we could to the miles to come… because we were about to run a race.

But our personal best got off to a rocky and disorganized start. The tent was a mess, and although we had packed and repacked our running gear the night before, it was a very tight space to both quickly get dressed in. We had let ourselves sleep at least 15 minutes too late, I thought, as I crammed a blueberry bagel with a smear of peanut butter down the hatch to the light of my headlamp. Nothing to do but make the best of it, so we headed out and quickly set up a rest stop area outside the tent for the miles to come.

The moments before the start of an event are never the time to begin making a list of all you have forgotten. Comfort, like so many things, also functions on a sliding scale, so there was no sense being a baby about it. Seemed to me the only reason to keep a list of things now was to better prepare for future events. No sense in derailing today because of yesterday’s mistakes.

We laughed it off… stopped off at the potty stop, and made our way to the line.

The quiet meadow and starting line are now littered with headlamps and pre-race buzzing. We huddle around the announcer as he gave us some instructions which I was almost too nervous to listen to. I realize it has been a very long time since I was actually nervous before a race.

But 50 miles was a new distance for me, and it was already taking its toll on my mind. We lined up next to a woman from Arkansas who was excited to meet Jenni and who knew of several of our past events. Judging by the looks of her she was a seasoned athlete. Once the race began, we likely would not see her again. She offered some last-second encouragement, and then we all made our way through the line.

I love it when we start a race before the sun comes up. There is something almost spiritual about seeing a trail lit by a steady stream of headlamps as far as you can see in front and behind you. The miles before the sun rises never seem to count, and they often pass quickly. We could not fully know the ground we were covering, and honestly, I am okay with that because we had plans to cover it again 4 more times later in the day.

It was not long before we turned out of the grassy meadow and headed into our first muddy climb. Our shoes sank down badly, as did our hearts, and mud poured in over the sides. We were less than 2 miles in and already I could feel the moisture making its way through my wool socks. No sense in thinking about what is to come, nothing could be done, but I began to recognize it might be a long day, so I started to prepare myself emotionally.

We laugh it off, as we typically do, and covered the beginning miles rather swiftly. Before long we came to a considerable climb, with terraced pools of mud stepping their way up the sides. Someone had been kind enough to tie a long thick rope to a tree higher up the climb, and one by one we took our turns ascending. We came to the corner in the climb only to find another rope end dangling. As I grabbed onto the second rope, I tried not to stare out at the steep drop-off only a foot away. Jenni and I made it to the top and consoled ourselves. Well, we only have to do that 4 more times today.

We laugh it off…

We came to a water crossing. It was not deep, but water in your shoe is water in your shoe. My tights were wet and cold higher than I would have liked.

We laugh it off…

We passed another aid station; the course was well stocked with encouraging volunteers and impressive food options. Good to note, we could drop some of the food we were carrying on our upcoming laps. Next up was a short loop heading out from one of the stops. The loop added an extra few miles to the course. In the daylight or the dark, it would prove to be my favorite part of the path. We restocked and pressed on to the final miles of our first lap. Jenni looked tired, and it scared me, but I knew she would likely bounce back. We crossed another river and a section of trail so boggy I was concerned I might lose my shoes. Already I was feeling the hot spots on my feet, but we laugh it off.

I needed to pee, and finally I could no longer avoid the thought. We passed an ancient and unstable bathroom stop, and I skipped for joy into the air. I was afraid I would have to squat in front of all these other people. As soon as I head inside, I realize my mistake… remote villages would offer a more suitable place to relieve yourself. Comfort functions on a sliding scale.

We turned a corner and saw our little tent set-up. Ding, ding, ding. Round 1 was over. We fumbled through the rest stop. It was – and always is – difficult to think straight when you’ve pushed yourself that hard. Once again Jenni and I realized we probably should not have undertaken this event without a point man. We sat down on the dirt and tried to clean the mud out of our shoes and quickly tended to our hot spots. The sympathetic man named Lee in the tent next to us took notice and wasted no time. Before we knew it, I was in his chair, and this man I’d never met was washing my feet and applying preventative measures to help me cover the miles to come. Lee took care of Jenni too and helped us run through a checklist of things we might need in the lap before he sent us on our way for Round 2. Maybe we were not alone after all.

We passed through the line for Lap 1. Still smiling and laughing, we snapped a selfie together and headed out into the rest of our day. I was embarrassed at how badly we had fumbled our first transition area pass. We knew all the rules, and yet we forgot to drop half the crap we were planning to and forgot to pick up half the crap we intended to carry into the coming miles. I felt we needed a better system. Jenni and I complained to each other about our failures and wondered how we could handle future pit stops more efficiently. It seemed like common sense, but your mind cannot be trusted in such moments.

I decided we needed an acronym. Jenni was annoyed but played along. “How the hell can you come up with an acronym at a time like this?” And just like that, it shot out of my mouth… DREAMS. It came to me too fast to possibly be my own. D stands for Drop (as in drop or dump whatever you needed to leave behind, and yes this can also mean – go to the bathroom) R is for Reload (pick-up all you might need in the coming miles. E is for freaking eat. A is for Apply (sunscreen, body glide, trail toes, bandaids, etc.) M stands for massage, (we also used for Memories as we snapped a photo of our drops) S stands for Shoes and Socks. It was cheesy, I know, but man did it help!

Laps 2 and 3 (meaning up to the first 30 miles), passed effortlessly. We ran what we could and hiked the strenuous climbs, the muddy trenches, and the boggy marsh. We were having a blast, enjoying our weekend away from the world. We knew we had Lee in our corner and even if he was not around the rest area when we passed through, we could feel him taking care of us. He would leave out provisions for us, spread out a mat for us to lay on, and even closed our tent when we forgot to zip it up.

At mile 38 Jenni had pulled away from me. I ran alone a bit and watched the ground for tree roots. Then at the very last second, I hurdled a snake which looked like a stick sunning in the middle of the trail. It was an impressive jump if I do say, and with the new burst of adrenaline, I was able to catch Jen to brag about it. Turns out she had hurdled a snake too, and we thought for just a second, they were the same. But they were different colors… I guess we had each made a new friend. We tried not to think too hard about it as our feet again sank down into the marshy grass. Surely there were not more than two snakes out on this course.

We laughed it off…

I was in dire need of something substantial to calm my stomach. I asked for hot food when we passed the aid station, and they had little still available. My option was brisket. I know it is not appropriate for me to criticize beef – being from Texas and all – but honestly sometimes beef really is difficult for me to stomach and being nearly 40 miles into a race I probably should have known better. The aid volunteer sold it well and talked me into a few bites. A few too many, and I would come to deeply regret them in the miles to come. When we hit the shoot, I threw my pack at my tent and sprinted past the line to the port-a-potty. Everyone cheered. If they only knew I was just desperately trying not to crap my pants in public.

As we headed out on our last loop we were still in good spirits, but it was becoming harder and harder to push thoughts of pain out of my mind. Lee had helped with my feet again earlier on, and I had tried on my own during this loop to prevent any further damage. But it was a losing battle. There is a point in distance running when you balance preventative care with acceptance – I was there. We found some dry socks and hot food, solid reasons to remain thankful. Comfort functions on a sliding scale.

I started mile 40 praying, and I am not sure I ever really stopped. We tried to run our first two miles out of camp. It was probably pathetic to watch. When we hit the aid station, there was another woman behind us. The three of us stopped and dug through our packs to prepare for the sun going down. The man at the aid station was probably trying to be encouraging, and I would like to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he blurted out, “Come on, ladies” and hung on it in almost a condescending way. It stung a bit more than I care to admit. I get it – the real athletes were ahead of us. We were just wives and mothers with day jobs trying to enjoy something we love. I could feel shame start to lurk and I was afraid of it. Of all things, shame is the one thing I can rarely outrun. I put it out of my mind for the moment.

We moved steadily until mile 45, enjoying what was left of the evening and watching the sun go down. Usually, I love seeing my headlamp lighting up my footsteps-but not tonight. We had passed this ground 4 times prior, and I knew outside of my next lit footstep there was information I needed to see. The trail was dangerously muddy, and now I was at the mercy of climbing and descending only what I was within my limited view. There was no longer an option of charting the best course. As the mud continued to spill over the tops of our sinking shoes, it took some effort not to cry.

We had dumped one hydration pack at our tent last round and decided to share the burden of just one pack between the two of us. My core was giving out, and the added weight was almost intolerable. At the rest stop by the loop, we decided to stash the pack and take our chances running the two miles without it. We could pick it up again when we passed or just throw the freaking thing in the trash. I honestly did not care anymore.

By now, there was no longer anything about this race which was funny.

We passed a man sitting on a rock with his head in his hands. We were worried but had nothing to offer him. We asked if he needed medical attention and all he could utter was, “wall…hit wall.” Ha. Those damn things were everywhere tonight.

We kept going, caught up with and passed a group of women who we were astonished to find we had lapped. I was quite worried about what was to come for them since they would spend at least 3 more hours on the course than we would, and no one could claim we were in good shape.

We crossed the river at the wrong place because we were held hostage to the light and could not see the best place to navigate a little to the left. Again, we were wetter and colder than we wanted to be. We met an incredible man, likely in his 70s, who was about to log his 90th mile… and to think he was the one encouraging us. I carried him with me in my mind for awhile, and it helped. One cure for feeling sorry for yourself is to think about someone else. We were in awe of our new friend and yet concerned for his welfare, but we hiked on.

At this point, the pain in my feet was beyond excruciating, and it took all of me to put it out of my mind. Jenni and I passed the hydration pack back and forth, taking turns trying to carry the ‘weight’ of it - not that it is heavy on another given day. I strapped it to my stomach instead of my back hoping to redistribute the weight to a new group of muscles to save what was left of my core strength.

At nearly 48 miles, we were cold, wet, and hurting in ways we might finally have to admit, but we kept putting one foot in front of another as we were programmed to do. The tears came silently at first and I hardly even noticed they were there.

A 30-mile race had started right after the sun went down, and slowly were being to be passed by a steady stream of fresh legs making their way through the dark. It hurt my spirit to be cast aside by those still strong at the beginning of their journey. Shame ambushed me there in the night. I had left myself unguarded and highly vulnerable to attack. We had hoped to be across the finish line by this point, but that was not the case. If I was ever racing others – here was evidence I was again not enough. The silent stream of tears grew louder to the point that Jenni heard it. She was concerned but had her own demons to battle.

We had two miles left, and I had found my wall. I was desperate to talk with someone who could give me strength. I longed to hear my husband’s voice and wanted to reach out to him, but I knew I would just break down. I thought about calling my friend Theo, but I was not sure I could hold it together even for him. I decided I could not take the risk of being vulnerable to anyone no matter how bad I wanted it. I made every decision which led me to my current predicament, so I should embrace the good and the bad of it on my own. If I heard a loved one’s voice, I would have likely come undone.

As if on cue, my father texted me. I was hesitant to read his words. He asked if I was finished with the race. My hand began to shake as it held up the weight of my phone. I was too far gone to fake anything, so I told the truth. “Dad, I’m not done yet. 48 miles in and crying.” 

I held what was left of my breath while I waited for his response – the cell silence was heavier than my tears. I wondered if he was embarrassed by me for not finishing before dark, or if he might make a joke of our situation. But I never received such a response. Instead, what came was harder to process, “Honey we are so proud of you. I am pulling for you with every ounce of me.” I read the words over and over again. If my tears weren’t loud enough before they surely were now. I was ugly crying, and I did not actually care who heard me. 

We were now only a mile out from the finish. We entered a clearing and scanned it with our headlamps for the reflection of a marker but found nothing. A mile from the finish and we were freaking lost. We came to a complete stop in the middle of the clearing and did a 360-degree search but came up empty. This was our 5th pass through, but somehow in the dark everything was different. We decided we should rely on our instincts – which pointed us absolutely in the wrong direction. We took off.

Fortunately, call it fate or provision, a man 80 miles into his race came up from behind and called out to us. “You guys looking for the marker? It’s over that way…” And just like that, we were saved from a night of wondering off in the wrong direction with almost nothing left in our hydration pack. We gave thanks, and he celebrated us, knowing we were about to cross our line.

We came through the line side by side – together, as we often do. Someone handed me a finisher buckle which I held so tight it hurt my hand. I knew I should eat, or drink, or dry off, or something, but I could not. Once again, we recognized we needed someone in our corner.

The race line was buzzing with new energy. A 10-mile race was also running now, and it produced an influx of new finishers. I stumbled off to find a bathroom, so I could get sick in private. When I resurfaced, I found a young man who appeared about college age in line for the port-a-potty. He was visibly agitated at the much-older man who had inadvertently cut in front of him in line.

But the older man was a familiar face to me, and I was ready to battle for his honor. “That man has just covered 90 miles of ground. I believe he deserves our respect.” The young man fell regretfully silent, and we watched together as the pillar of strength disappeared into the night, alone, to cover his last 10 miles.

For me, the sick which followed at this point was unlike any I’ve ever experienced. I somehow made my way back to the tent and fell onto Lee’s mat. I knew better, but I just couldn’t help it. The shaking which followed became violent. I knew I needed to sit up and put on some dry clothes – my tent within two feet of me, but I just could not do it. A damp, muddy blanket we had used earlier in the race was within reach, but it took all of me to figure out how to cover myself with it. Once I did, I was content to lay shaking on the ground while staring up at the stars. I could have camped outside on that matt for the night, but Jenni had overheard rain was coming. The silent tears came back.

Jenni was smarter and stayed upright. She called her family and learned her son had won several games during the day and was unexpectedly still in a tournament. Maternal instinct kicked in… these days before we were athletes – we were wives, then mothers. The call for home was real, and she wanted to make it to the game to support her son.

One possibility was to pack camp at 4am and head home, but then we never could get our heads around another cold night and packing our camp in the rain after all we had been through. With heavy hearts, we discussed leaving camp in the night. This would mean there was no chance to give Lee a hug and thank him for his care, no chance to check in on the group of ladies we were worried about behind us, and no chance to cheer for the strongest old man I have ever met as he crossed the line of his 100-mile race.

Nevertheless, at 11pm, we somehow managed to find the strength to pack camp, hike our gear back to the car, and drive ‘till 3:30am. Rest assured, it was altogether another marathon. We consoled ourselves with a warm shower and a dry bed in a hotel I cannot even remember. Comfort functions on a sliding scale.

Looking back, I am thankful for the memories. If it was a race against others, we came in 65th and 66th out of the 98 people who finished that night, though 130 people had intentions of finishing at some point or another. We brought in the last quarter of racers, as we typically do. But again, this was no race against others.

In my race to nowhere, I battled my mind for 5 rounds (16 hours and 44 minutes) in the wilderness. I clearly had won the first 4 rounds, and I am content to call the 5th a draw. On this day, I was strong enough to claim victory in the war of Me vs. My Mind.

The scary thing is we both live to fight another day…

Fear and Racing - Potawatomi Trail Race

Fear found me tonight as it circled around in the wilderness. Every hour it shined a headlamp in my tent, then chased the light with the sounds of defeated voices.

Jenni and I rolled into camp later than we had hoped to. It was our first time on this course and we were not sure what to expect. Judging by the emails leading up to the event the ground would be covered with athletes and we would be lucky if we even found a spot to pitch a tent. Overflow athletes would sleep on the gym floor ¾ of a mile from the start. Not wanting to hog camp real-estate, we packed light. Too light.

We felt a little stupid when we showed up with a backpacking rig while the rest of the crews seemed to be glamping. Turned out we would have had plenty of space, which we could have utilized heavily during the race. But unlike many other athletes, we had no crew or pacers, no pit station or awning to rest under, no big tent to stand and change clothes in. It was just the 2 of us and our tiny little set-up.

We found a spot at the end of the line toward the middle of a meadow. It was never too early for us to stake our claim to the back of the pack. We set up camp within minutes and made our way to registration for packet pick-up and a dinner plate. We stood anxiously in the registration line with all the other runners. (The 200- and 150-mile racers had started the day prior.)  No one spoke to each other as we watch the tired racers pass sporadically through the shoot.

There was a woman my age coming through the shoot, she was covered in mud and had a hallow expression on her face. We spotted her again later in the back of a SUV - crying. I made eye contact by accident but turned away quickly. She deserved to feel shame and defeat privately. As she cried, she spoke to her support team about dropping out of the race. I hoped she would bounce back, but it felt unlikely.  No judgment from me. My tears would find me tomorrow - I was more than certain.

We ate our spaghetti on the ground and headed back to camp where I sketched to calm my nerves until it got dark, then unpacked and repacked my running gear. Turns out we were the first tent the muddy zombie like athletes would see as they lapped their way around during the evening and into the night.

My mat had a hole in it, so I spent my rest hours shivering on the ground, trying not to give a stronghold to fear, which circled around in my mind. This was one of the biggest physical challenges we had ever been brave enough to line up for, and I knew I would again meet the end of myself on the course tomorrow. I was not frightened of that moment; rather, I was fearful of how soon it might happen.

I lay in bed and watched the lights shine in, wondering if I would have the strength to run past the end of myself, and hoping I would not have many miles ahead of me when my body and my mind stopped.

A Path Far from Home

I’m sitting alone in the airport awaiting my flight home, eager yet exhausted from my 12 days in Germany. It was my second trip this year to study hyperrealism with the legendary Dirk Dzimirsky. There were 13 students in our class this trip—students from Germany, Mexico, UK, the Netherlands, India, Australia, South Africa, Ireland, and the US. The talent in the room was intimidating, to say the least.

I packed an obnoxiously big bag (which we later nicked named, ‘Bertha’) because it seemed easier at the time, to be prepared rather than check the weather. I regretted the decision as soon as I stepped off the plane and realized I would have to lug the bag with me up and down several flights of stairs, through crowded train stations, and on a three-hour train ride. Spring clothes, highly unnecessary, but hey, at least I packed my running shoes. Sadly, Bertha held little gear for rain, which as it turned out was my greatest wardrobe need.

As fate would have it Regina (from Ireland) and I were able to coordinate our flights, we were scheduled to land within 15 minutes of each other in Dusseldorf. However, my plane landed early, and I waited for over an hour for Regina. My mind began to chase ‘what if’ thoughts… and I became increasingly worried she would not make the meet. When I finally saw her rolling her much smaller bag around the corner, I wanted to leap for joy into the air. Together, we found our way to the train station where I lugged Bertha up another flight of stairs before settling into the last leg of our journey.

Our course was in rural Germany, and I have yet to meet anyone (who does not live there), who knows of the place. We were staying several miles outside of a little town called Petershagen, which is about a thirty-minute cab ride from a slightly larger town called Minden. For the most part, we were in the country, which was just the way I liked it. Our hotel was quaint and felt iconic Germany with its clay-tiled, steep-pitched roof. Since this was our second visit, we instantly felt at home.

Regina was also a runner, and we wasted no time coordinating a plan for our workouts. The very next morning we were awake before the sun to explore the roads and paths surrounding our hotel. Neither of us wanted to run on the highway, and fortunately, we quickly came across a charming narrow footpath which parted the bright green fields of the countryside with a wall of trees.

I enjoyed Regina’s voice almost as much as the sunrise. I never grew tired of her strong Irish accent with its harsh inflection on the beginning of every word and the slight lift at the end. The most everyday language turned magical as it danced from her voice. I tried to keep her talking as we explored the path. We supposed the trail might lead us to the heart of town if we had the time to keep going. Something to keep in mind for the rest of the group as surviving two weeks in the country without public transportation or a car among us would undoubtedly present a challenge.

As it turns out, we were right about the path. Deter, our bed and breakfast owner, pulled out a map when we returned which honestly proved impossible for me to understand. I had heard enough, the path lead to town if we did not turn off it. In the days to follow our crew would hike it morning and evening as we trekked the four miles into Petershagen for dinner and a grocery store.

We were an unlikely set of friends. Men and women from diverse socioeconomic levels, faiths (or rejection of such), and political views… people from all over the globe were converging upon this one setting because we share the same desire to create. Artists exploring realism possess an inherent and almost compulsive sense about them which seeks to understand everything… it manifested in all of us in different ways, but as evidenced by our conversations, none of us were immune. The topics we explored verbally are typically off limits in social settings, yet we set about long-winded and analytical breakdowns of each taboo subject right from the start. With our interlaced perspectives, it felt as if one could see all the way around the mountain.

Despite our diversity, we were committed to being in relationship with each other. Our work required us to be the kind of vulnerable and respectful which allowed us to work side by side in a studio for 9-10 hours a day, for ten days. In addition to our studio time, many of us would share lodging.

The group of five who camped at our hotel shared a breakfast table and a communal kitchen with our rooms all aligning one hallway. Our group included a woman from Australia, who had spent the last two years studying drawing in Thailand. She is a joy to know, with wisdom and a worldview one can only glean from the gentle abrasion of time and suffering. She is quite possibly the most beautiful and graceful woman I have ever met. Also among us, was a man my age from India, whose call to create (much like my own) led him down a path of cultural defiance in his home country… he is a rebel and someone whom I feel strongly history will remember as he definitely peruses his art in the years to come. The other male in our group was from the Netherlands, he is a mathematician, a philosopher, and a talented artist. His complex mind examined every issue from all sides, and he entertained, challenged, and uplifted us all with his internal intellectual battles. His journal was filled with detailed pictures and notes the likes of which I am not sure the world has ever seen. On our final night, we passed his book down the table and 13 gifted students and the world’s leading hyperrealist all bowed to this man’s notes. He was embarrassed, but we began to slowly clap or hands in unison for him until we saw a smile quietly creep across his face. Then there was my Regina, a strong Irish woman whose life seemed to strike an elegant balance between the roles of wife, mother, career woman, and artist. And finally, there was me…

We took turns cooking meals from our own countries and dividing chores while we orally broke down and rebuilt the most sensitive of issues. I wondered how many of the world’s problems we might be able to solve around our table. By the end of 12 days, we were family. I felt I had finally found my tribe.

Each morning started with a run on the path and Regina’s voice to lift my spirits. The path held joys for each of us—for me the sheep in the fields grazing with all their little lambs leaping about, for Regina—the whitebark trees she had heard about but never seen. It rained steadily during much of our trip, but we were unphased. Through the gentle rain and puddles, we discussed at length the balance of womanhood in the 21st century. Regina’s Irish accent unexplainably elevating every conversation… I worried my Texas slang might bring down the mood and attempted to filter out any y’alls and fixins’ which might have otherwise found their way into my speech.

As our time together drew to a close, we said our goodbyes with tear stained eyes and heavy hearts. With a new found hope and understanding of where I might fit into the ecosystem of humanity, Regina and I loaded Bertha into the cab which would take us to the train, which would take me to the plane, which would take me across the ocean to another plane, which would finally put me back into the arms of the other family I had waiting for me.

We drove by the entrance to little trail one final time. Someday, somewhere in the world, I hope to again walk the path alongside my new tribe. Until then, I will eagerly await hearing Regina’s voice once more sing the word beautiful.

But for now, one foot in front of the other. It is time to board the plane and look forward not back.