The truth is heavy.

I have to find some things.

Some words, some routines, some peace.  Some momentum and strength. Courage.  Some increased sense of self.

The truth hides under blankets and it is oh so heavy.  Some days I can't even pick up a plastic bag off the floor, much less haul the truth out of its depth.

I have perpetually just awakened from a long sleep and I am looking for myself among the objects I have gathered around me.  Am I in the crocheting, the Christmas tree, the running gear, the TV?  Am I on facebook or in the long-neglected guitar in my room?  The books that I hang onto but can barely read?  Am I in the candles or the paintings or the cookbooks in the kitchen?  Am I in my work as a teacher?

I am thinking but there is too much.

A few years ago, I woke up one morning to snow.  I hadn't snow danced.  I hadn't even expected it.  It was amazing, already several inches deep and still coming down.

It snowed all day.  Kym and Justin came down and Ty and I spent the day outside with them.  We made a snow woman and dressed her in a bikini.  We called her Snowanna.  We broke leaves off of the azalea to adorn her head.

At one point I stopped and looked out down the street and across the yard.  The snow was still falling and everything was so.beautiful.  And I told Kym, "Days like today make me feel like everything will always be ok."  It really did.  I remember that feeling, that sudden promise from the universe that somehow, if we could have a day like that, everything would be ok.

I don't know what made me think of that moment.  I guess needing to feel like everything is going to be ok. 

Earlier I was looking for the source of something I read in the past.  I couldn't find it, but what I did find was Joan Didion's "On Self Respect": "To have that sense of one's intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent."

I need to go running in the dark--running towards the answers.  I know they aren't at the end, but along the way, and the truths are heavy and hard to hold on to.

UPDATE!
I finally found what I was looking for earlier.  It comes from a piece by Nancy Mairs called "On Being a Cripple."  In it she talks about her MS diagnosis, her life, and why she chooses the word "cripple" to identify herself.  For a while she was told she had a brain tumor before finally being diagnosed with MS.  She says, "Every day for the past nearly ten years, then, has been a kind of gift. I accept all gifts."  I had forgotten where that came from but I think it so often.  I accept all gifts.  The universe has sent me many gifts over the years and last few months--in the midst of a difficult time, and I am grateful for them all.  For comfort, for a text or an email, for a song suggestion or the time it takes to express appreciation for friendship and caring.  I accept all gifts.

St. Jude's Marathon Race Report

Favorite signs on course:
If this race were easy, it would be your mom.
You'll never beat Paul Ryan's time.
Any idiot can run.  It takes a special kind of idiot to run 26.2 miles.

Favorite part:
Running through the St. Jude hospital campus.
Oh my God.  My throat hurt from trying not to cry.  There were people on either side of the streets all the way through.  Some had pictures of children who were patients.  They waved signs, rang bells, cheered.  What hit me about it was that that place is a way of life for so many people and children.  A reality.  I'm so glad it's there and that any kid who needs it can be treated regardless of their family's means.  I definitely want to run the race again next year and raise money as a St. Jude's Hero.  People who were part of the race raised over $5 million.  Amazing.

Second favorite part: a group of little girls with Downe Syndrome, all wearing matching pink fleeces, cheering, smiling, having fun being part of the race.

Third favorite part: running down Beale Street at the beginning of the race.  Tons of people lined both sides.  The atmosphere was celebratory and festive.

Fourth favorite part: Gumby/Sumo wrestler.

Fifth favorite part: incredible view of the Mississippi River.

Least favorite part: the whole 2nd half of the race.  Seriously, all the good stuff is at the beginning.  The rest was comparatively dull.  I did get some good refreshment at the end.

The whole thing was made special by having my sister there with me.  We went to a pizza place for dinner just because it was close to where the expo was, but the pizza was amazing.  Roasted garlic, fresh basil, tomato, banana peppers, and goat cheese.

Post race, we tried to go to the Melting Pot but it wasn't open yet.  We had to go to Joe's Crab Shack instead.  We were pretty ok with that.  We got some specially personalized bibs.

My plan for this race was to take it easy and have fun.  But I didn't.  I ran it in 4:41, which is slowish for me, but not bad considering it was number 3 in a month.  But it wasn't easy.  It was pretty tough.  I thought, though, while I was running, that it is not about the medal or trying to impress people or needing people to think I'm something.  It's not.  It's about doing something hard.  Even when it hurts.  Even when it hurts, God sometimes it hurts, but I know, I know, somewhere very solid, that if I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, that I will get through.  I'll finish, I'll cross the line.

I'm bad about needing to know things.  It's true.  I would like to know some things for sure.  And I like knowing I can do this thing and that I can do it a lot.  Because at the beginning of every race, (even for the days leading up to it), I'm not sure I can do it.  And for the first 5 miles, the first 10 miles, I'm still not sure.  But at mile 18, 19, 20, 22, 24, when I'm hurting and my legs and feet are screaming, then I know.  It's a really good kind of knowing.  That's what keeps me wanting to do it again and again, I think.  The little bit of fear, the mountain I have to climb, and the knowing in the midst of the pain.  It's a tenuous--yet firm--kind of solidity.