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.

Eventually you will reach the sun.

Said Savanna.

This morning I sat with the music loud in my car. It was too loud but I felt it. I felt it hurt a little like the emotions dimpling my torso. For a minute the vibrations in the seat and under my feet filled the pit in my belly. I stared in front of me at the ridged gray clouds highlighted in morning. I tucked my fingers under my thighs. I waited. I'm waiting.

I need some fierceness. To touch something solid. To climb the tallest pine tree, see the white heron, and keep it to myself.

Spring is making a cameo today. The light is tender but unsure and will melt away too early. No matter. I need to feel it on my arms and legs. Breathing.
I need to run until I reach the sun.

White River Marathon!

I'm never really sure if I will be able to do it.  Seriously.  It's insane.

It was cold at the start, around 32 degrees, and foggy. We got a photo with a few other maniacs before we started running.

The first 8 miles or so are terrible because there are so many miles left.  At 9 miles, Carrie said, "Only 17 miles to go!"  I said something about not liking the sound of that, but in my head I thought, What the Fuck?  Seventeen More Miles? And I've Done This Before, You Say?  Seventeen?

I always mean to cover the spots on my feet and toes that blister, but half the time I forget.

I really like talking to strangers on the course.  It's the only time I will strike up a conversation with a stranger and be ok with some random guy admitting to checking out my belly.

I like new facebook friends after races.  More crazy runners, especially maniacs.

Everyone kind of hobbles around afterward.  Except that Conway girl who flits and sprints around.  What is UP with her?

Post-race homemade chili is awesome.


At the finish, some guy yelled out, "You only have one more lap!"  I flipped him off.  He and his friends thought it was hilarious that I did.  I'm glad.

My favorite thing to do right after the finish is fall in the grass and take off my shoes.  I felt hot when we finished and pulled off my shirts so I could be in short sleeves, but then almost immediately put my sweatshirt on.

We met a guy who had driven all night to get to the White River Marathon and was headed to Tulsa right after for today's marathon there. He is doing 52 marathons in 26 weeks or something like that.  Two a week. Makes me seem less crazy.

Corona is good with chips and salsa after a race.

Running with someone makes a huge difference.  Someone to talk to, someone to say fuck with, someone to push and be pushed by.  Thanks, Carrie!

Road kill on a course is not fun.  Cows by the side of the road are nice, especially when they bunch up by the fence to watch the race.  They wouldn't talk to me though.

The next race is in 2 weeks.  I wonder if I can do it? ;-)

Life is dotted with sadness and hope.

I was just looking at the past.

Quite a bit.
Here are some of the things I saw:

The bits and pieces of a poster making kit that I bought back in the spring so J and Ty could make signs for the Little Rock Marathon.

I thought, life is dotted with sadness and hope.

I found a picture of my sister and Ethan when E was a round-faced baby.  When his little mouth wrapped around my mom's dog's name: "Bo Bo."  Beauregard Manny has been gone for a few years now.  He loved my mom the most.  When I watched him, and she was gone, his tail would uncurl and he would lie by the door waiting for her to come home.

I thought, I need to put this picture out again.  So I found a spot.

I found a picture of the group that went to the Southwest in 2004.  I looked at myself, at my smile.  I thought of who I was then, what I wanted, who I was, where I was.  Who I thought I was.  Who those people were and who they are now. 

And I thought, hope and sadness.  Without hope there is no future.  But there is no sadness, either.  Hope.

I pulled out my mixer and that reminded me of mixing cookie dough with Kym several years ago while it snowed outside. 

There is a pile of stuff in the middle of my kitchen that I pulled out of a cabinet because my dad is coming tomorrow to start taking out that cabinet and installing a dishwasher.  I've been throwing away things that I kept because I thought I might need them.  I don't.

I found a flat piece of wood and a tiny clock kit.  J was with me at Hobby Lobby when I bought that, probably 5 years ago.  I was going to make a mosaic clock.  I'm going to add it to the pile I'm giving away. 

I've looked at the past with wistfulness, with anger, with disbelief. 
I've looked for something that I know.

I remember when I first read something by Dorothy Allison, and then something else.  I got a small book filled with pictures and just a line or two on each page.  It is called Two or Three Things I Know For Sure.  Her aunt would say that, and each time she knew one thing for sure.

I remember the hope that I found when I first started reading lesbian literature.  Hope.  From voices.  Stories.  Lives.  Pictures.  A population for my blank state of mind.

Joan Didion talks about needing to stay familiar with your past selves, even the ones you don't like or want to remember, because, if you don't, those selves may come knocking on your door when you least want them to.  Who is knocking on my door? 

I know for sure that throwing a ball for a dog is a hopeful thing.  That taking care of someone you love is a blessing.  That the sound of the voices in the songs I am hearing are bittersweet.

That I have some cabinets in my heart that I need to clean out.

Last week I went for a run in the dark.  Aside from Tupelo mornings, that was my first dark run.  It was different.  I was much more alone with myself.  I did not dislike it.  I need a better flashlight.

I have a marathon on Saturday.  Marathons are hopeful things, and optimistic things.

Midsouth Marathon.

Yesterday was marathon #7 in Wynne, Arkansas, the MidSouth Marathon.  It was great.

In the days leading up to the race, the whole idea of it seemed a little sketchy and negotiable.  I had missed quite a few weekday runs.  I told myself that as long as I had gotten all the long runs in that I would be fine, but I also just felt blase about the idea of running a marathon.  Kind of, oh yeah, whatever, guess I'll go do that.

But I got up there and we got started.  It was clear from the beginning that it would be a hot one--it was in the 50's at the start but would soon work up to at least 80, and there was lots of direct sunlight.  I have a nice little sunburn to show for it now.  

It was a really pretty course--trees and changing leaves and lots of views of open fields just post harvest, furrowed ground with baled cotton at the sides.  Even though there weren't many spectators, I really appreciated the aid stations at every mile.

I had to pick up the pace at one point to get away from an alarmingly stupid political discussion and caught up with a group of women.  That's when I started running with Kristin from Philadelphia.  She was a normally sub 4 marathoner nursing a hamstring injury.  Quite a few middle-miles went by quickly as we talked about favorite races, not-favorite races, running history, jobs, and the like.  She decided to drop back a little to take care of the leg, so I went on alone for a bit.

Just after the 19-20 mile point or so I caught up to Carrie from Cabot.  I knew she had said previously that her best time was a bit over five hours, and we were on pace to run around 4:30, so I asked.  Sure enough, Carrie was about to shatter her old PR.  We ran the rest of the race together with lots of talking and some laughing and the last 6 miles flew by.  I'm so glad, because it was hot and windy and I had felt myself falling into that place where it all starts to suck.

I said lots of prayers and sent lots of thoughts out to Reesey, my friend's baby who has just had surgery.  I sent my feelings of strength to her, gathered the beauty of the sunlight filtered through the leaves and the sound of the wind in the trees and willed it to her family because I think there is power in beauty and in appreciating it.  I lifted her up in my heart as I ran--the best time for me to pray, very much in touch with the strongest parts of me that are blessings to me, the times when I most feel the presence of God in my heart and soul and bones and muscles.

I realized while driving home after the race that this was the first time I have gone to a race without someone with me.  I was ok with it.  It was nice to hang out after the race ended, eat and talk to people and watch the awards.  (Very cool to see that Carrie placed in her age group to go along with the new PR).

And...marathon number 8 in 2 weeks...

Let's bring back overalls.

This afternoon I almost didn't go out because I felt pressed for time. With a little encouragement, though, I went, and I was rewarded with a pretty amazing sunset. Take this picture and imagine the glowing intensity.

I only went three miles but I felt solid. Ready for Saturday's marathon? I'm more concerned about getting up early than I am about running 26.2 miles .

I have some wants right now. Some big ones and some simpler ones, and the simple ones I'd like to share. I want to keep cleaning the clutter out of my cabinets and closets. I want to paint the wall in my living room. I want to bring back overalls. I want to put other things on the walls and be more industrious. I want to light more candles.

After my run I put on thick sweats and felt the nice used feeling in my legs.

I laughed some tonight and loved some. Those are good things.