running

I have always hated to run. In high school, the worst days of my life were the ones in which we had to run the mile. I was a terrible runner. I was always last. The fat kids were faster than me. When I took a PE class in college, I was horrified to learn that I had to run a mile and a half three times throughout that semester. Running, in a weight training class! It was awful.
I know people now who love to run. These people have always told me that they used to hate running too. They tell me that when they started out it was terrible, but that once they got past the terribleness, they just loved it. I have always thought they were lying.
Well a couple weeks ago I was in Montana and feeling pretty good about things, like about climbing mountains and crossing rivers and just being pretty hard core extreme. I thought, when it came up in conversation, that a triathlon was a sweet idea and that with some training, I could totally do it. So the idea was born and we are really going to do a triathlon (a mini one) in just under two weeks.
Needless to say, I have started to run. The first time, I went with my friend Sarah and I made it further than I thought I would, but I was wishing the whole time that I would twist my ankle so I could stop running and, even better, have a great excuse to back out of the triathlon. The second time we ran I did not have to stop and walk and was feeling pretty proud of myself. The subsequent times just kept getting better and better and tonite, I went on a late nite bridge run with three of my friends. We crossed five different bridges. I did not stop and I did not die. I actually enjoyed myself. We just calculated that we ran 2.66 miles. And for the girl who used to walk behind the running fat kid during the high school PE class mile, I am pretty dang impressed.

writing

Small parts of me fade away sometimes and in those times I am less likely to write. Perhaps lately has been those times. I have had no motivation to place my most inner thoughts on display for anyone else to see.

I have heard it said that writing is hard and that it is painful because when we do it, whether we think we have something to say or have no idea what words will find themselves to a page, the things that come out are often a surprise; words can come from places we did not know were there.

Sometimes I sit down and think I am well and I write and my fears and failures spill out like the glass of water my friend’s child just spilled when she tried to pour from a large pitcher herself. Sometimes I am quite sure that I am falling apart and I find myself writing of hope and promise with a conviction I thought I had lost.

So writing is scary because it requires we let go control. We face blinding white space and we allow the inky mess of ourselves spill all over the page in whatever manner it pleases. We write when we do not know if we have anything to say and when we think we do, we do our best to get out of the way while the words surface on paper.