The Beauty in Personal Dormancy--or Not

Ugh. 

That about sums up my feelings on what seemed like the longest day ever--a  little alarming, since it's only May and a month away from the summer solstice.  The alarming part has to do with the fact that nothing really out of the ordinary occurred today.  The weather was beautiful.  The boys--now 4 and 2 (YIKES!!)--were their usual boisterous, busy, and all-things-boy selves.  Just another typical middle-of-the-week Wednesday.  With one glaring exception. 

THE INJURY has returned.  For the second time in half a year, I've injured my hip, rendering me unable to run.  This time around my body has put a unique little twist on the injury, however, in that I have also mysteriously pulled my groin as well, thus prohibiting any of my usual cross training.  My primary care doctor told me to--surprise!--take some time off to let it heal.  So that's what I'm doing.  Taking time off.  No running, biking, swimming, step aerobicking, yogaing.  Can't even power walk.  So what's a girl to do but give painfully slow walks to her dog, who coincidentally has a colander around his neck because of his own injury and probably looks even more ridiculous than I do.  What a pair we make.

And although the bulk of my days looks pretty much the same since the majority of my workouts occurred in the morning, the absence of working out is taking it's toll.  Prior to THE INJURY, when I was able to get up before my people, put on my running shoes and head out the door, it was like giving myself a present.  I'd tuck my little gift away as my real day began and wouldn't think about it much throughout the day.  Every now and again, though, when I began losing sight of myself, as the distinction between me and the all-encompassing job of mommy would blur and I'd meld into "Mom: the person who watches the kids all day, sacrificing herself for their growth and development", I'd revisit my little gift and be reminded of my secret, that time I had carved into my day just for myself.  It was reassurance, even if it was false, that I was someone else outside of my kids.

And now I've been robbed of my present, bringing me back to the "ugh" at the beginning of this post. It's been over two weeks now, and I've tried hard not to wallow in the inevitable depression that THE INJURY brings about.  I've tried putting my trust in God, knowing that He has plans for me, plans to prosper me and not harm me, plans for my hope and future (Jer. 29:11), and that somehow THE INJURY might even play into His plans.  I've been forced to rely on Him to supply that which running used to provide--stress relief, weight control, endorphin rushes, sanity.  I know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope (Romans 5:3-4).  But right now I feel like I've been robbed of something that makes me who I am.  I have nothing to claim as my own, and it's certainly taking it's toll.

So I wait.  Not sure what I'm waiting for, I wait on God, who acts on behalf of those who wait on Him (Isaiah 64:4).  Perhaps He's refining me, working on my character, using this time to prepare me for something new, something better that He has for me.  But I hate waiting.  In my convoluted mind, waiting equates to doing nothing.  And in today's world, doing nothing is frowned on.  We are supposed to work in order to produce! produce! produce! 

And so my little devotional today really struck a chord when it brought up Psalm 1:3, reminding me that I am to be "like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields fruit in season."  Huh?  Oh that's right, trees don't constantly produce fruit.  If they did, the trees would have nothing left--no branches, no leaves, no beauty. The writer called on us to embrace the beauty of personal dormancy (doesn't that sound lovely?): "We must allow for it and accept it joyfully...A time of inner strength-gathering for a better bloom later."  Is this what THE INJURY is for me, a time of personal dormancy?  A way of preparing me for better blooms to come?  Sounds a heck of a lot better than sitting on the sidelines getting fat because of my bum hip. 

So I have nothing to do but wait. And pray that I can see THE INJURY as a time of personal dormancy.

Seasons

(Obviously started this a bit before the new year, but it is still fresh. Somewhat.)

2011 is fast approaching, and if you are like me you may be attempting to set goals for yourself, some of which you may even bother to reach. Generally speaking, my workout goals this year are to do a sprint triathlon and run another marathon or two. I may try to fit a half marathon into the mix; we'll see. Following my marathon in November I've wanted little to do with running, my workout BFF. We'd been spending too much time together which has caused some staleness in our relationship. Thus, we've decided to limit the amount of time we hang out to about twice a week. This give us both some time (well, it gives me some time--I can only take this analogy so far) to develop other interests, such as swimming, aerobics, and the like.

Now that the baby-making machine has been put to rest for a while (I haven't been pregnant in 16 months--woohoo!), I have been able to develop some regularity in my training. Since triathlons generally take place in the summer, and marathons in the fall, my training has taken on a sort of a seasonal feel, which suits me just fine. This way when I begin to burn out on one thing, I can switch gears and follow a new direction for a while.

Seasons are good that way. They provide variety while allowing for a large degree of predictability. But what happens when seasons change--permanently? What happens when my body or my schedule tell me that they are no longer going to put up with the ridiculous amounts of running and time a marathon requires? When my knees scream at the mere thought of a four mile run? What will I do then?

Although I hate to admit it, I know that other important things in my life are ephemeral as well, namely being the center of my children's universe. Although I sometimes (often?) gripe about the time constraints and stresses of raising kids, being a mother has proven to be the most important and rewarding work I've done to date. Reading a book to my kids as they both struggle to fit on my lap, kissing away a boo-boo obtained from a beligerant sidewalk crack, comforting one of them when they awaken from a nightmare, receiving more than my fair share of hugs and kisses throughout the day...the joy I receive from these gifts can not be communicated through writing. What a blessing to me my young children are. A blessing, and a very large part of who I am.

So again, there's the question: what happens when this season passes? When my sweet little boys grow up to become not-so-sweet school kids who are more interested in their little friends than they are me, when they go on to become high school boys who find another woman (okay, girl) that takes that coveted position in the center of their world, when they (and this seems too surreal to even imagine, but I know it is the goal) leave my house to venture out into the world at large? What will they do without their mom to help them get dressed in the morning or make them lunch or wipe their tears when they are disappointed? Or the better question: What will I do?

Here's when I have to look reality--and its real, frightening facts that some day I will be too old to run and that some day my boys won't need me any more--in the eye and tell it that although I may be afraid now, I know that when the time comes I will meet it head on--with confidence--and get through it. How do I know this? Because I believe that these real blessings in my life--my passion for fitness and my fierce love for my babies--are from a God who loves me and blesses me with all good things. He gives and takes away, and when the time for these things is up He will fill the void with something new. It certainly won't look the same and it may take a while to adjust to, but the new season He sends will be uniquely wrapped with love and care, for He knows me intimately and thus meets my needs. Blessed be his name. Thank you, Lord, for seasons.

Confessional, part II

Forgive me, reader, for I have sinned.

By blogger standards, anyways. Continue.

It has been, let's see, over a month since my last post.

OVER A MONTH? What kind of blogger are you? And you want forgiveness.

I know, I know. That's a long time. But I have my reasons.

(Wry, unimpressed look.)

I know you don't care about excuses but I think mine are valid.

Really. Let's here them.

Well, for starters, it's December, which--in our consumer-driven society--means I've been busy shopping and baking and decorating and whatnot.

Aren't Christians supposed to be above all that? Whatever. And???

Well, I was training hard for a marathon.

"Was?"

Well, I ran it already. About a month ago.

You did what? And you didn't write about it? Isn't this supposed to be a running blog? And isn't a marathon like, well, the big daddy of runs?

Well, technically yes. I wanted to write about it, about how excruciatingly difficult it was while at the same time being exhilarating; I just never got around to it. But guess what! I set a PR! Granted this is only the second marathon I've run, but still, that's pretty good, right?

(Another wry, unimpressed look.)

Okay, well, since you're already mad at me, I have another confession to make: I've only run three times since the marathon.

Seriously? Okay, I don't know how much more of this I can take.

I know, I know, I'm a terribly uncommitted runner! But you know how it is: you can barely walk the week following the race, I have been sick, and then we went to Wisconsin for a week, where it was, like, 20 degrees and freeeezing! Have you run in those conditions? Yes? Well, I have too.

Oh really, when?

Well, just today, actually. Here in good old supposed-to-be-fifty-this-time-of-the-year Virginia. That doesn't exactly help when you are trying to get back on your feet, so to speak.

Okay, stop right there. This blog is also about embracing the place where you are at. No complaining.

Oh yeah. I forgot.

So, is there anything else?

Well, I could talk about all the other things I've failed to keep up: relationships with old friends, being consistently in the Word following the completion of my Bible study, resolutions to eat healthier...it seems like the longer you put off doing something the more difficult it is to get back into it.

Girl, you're a mess!

I know! But what can I do about it?

Well, for starters, you need to set some goals. What are your plans for this blog?

I don't know. I mean, I really want to keep writing! It's something that I actually like and am surprisingly okay at. But I'm so busy...

Busy selling out to consumerism...

You aren't helping. But yes, with holiday preparations and what not. I guess a reasonable goal would be to shoot for one post every two weeks.

Okay, sounds fair. And your running?

Well, I'm definitely going to tweak my workout schedule a bit. I need to change things up from time to time so as not to fall into a rut. I guess I'll cut back to running twice a week and devote more attention to swimming.

You're still doing that? Aren't you still getting passed by the senior citizens at that dirty pool you swim at?

Yes, but I still enjoy i!. Something I've learned over the years is that I don't have to be the best at everything I do, so back off!

Okay, okay. Your penance is to perform two hail marys, runner-style.

What does that mean?

I don't know! Wake up earlier than usual to jog or run in this freezing weather. You figure it out!

Fine. Anything else?

Nope. Just be sure to follow through on your goals. I'll check back in with you.

When?

About two weeks.

Smile for the camera!

If you've ever run a race of any distance, you've seen them: the photographers. These professional picture-takers of the anonymous amateur runner sit at various intervals of the race route and snap what I'd imagine to be an endless number of pictures portraying the "runner in action". This is their job, and they don't care that you've been running for the last two hours and your hair has escaped the bondage of its ponytail hold miles ago, your face is contorted into a perpetual grimace of pain, and thanks be to God that pictures can't pick up on your scent. They are bound to see you looking--and feeling--far less than your best.

I've noticed several different approaches people take when dealing with these photographic vultures. Some choose to simply ignore them. They pick a point in the distance and pretend to be studying it with the seriousness of someone studying for the bar exam, paying no attention to the person who is clicking away at their feet. Others fully acknowledge the camera. Upon spotting it, they immediately straighten up their posture, pick up the pace, and greet the camera like an old friend by flashing a toothy grin and a thumbs up or a wave.

I fall somewhere in between these two approaches. Unless the cameraman happened to snap my picture in the first mile, chances are that he is taking my picture at a time when I am not exactly enjoying myself, and it shows. If you observed me during a run, you'd most likely see a girl wearing mismatched clothes with a taut, pained-looking expression on her face, mouth agape, spit flying or perching contentedly from the corners of her mouth, and hair a mess. Generally when I approach a cameraman I have more important things to worry about than how I look, like whether I am actually going to finish this race without dying or where I can pee in private without losing a lot of time waiting in a line. At the same time, I'd rather not have my image posted on some website looking like I just escaped from prison and have been on the run for days. So when I see one of these nuisances, I generally try to pull myself together enough to replace my grimace with a more neutral, less frightening look and--in the case of the one and only marathon I ran--to not be seen crying.

Which, I'll be the first to admit, is silly. Most people realize that you don't run marathons for the fun of it. It goes to reason, then, that you shouldn't be expected to look like you are having fun, or even to look good. If ever you have an excuse to look bad, it's during this ridiculous distance event in which you run for four hours straight all the while constantly battling your mind to convince yourself (and your legs) that you are, in fact, going to make it and that quitting would render the last four months of training a large waste of time. Why, then, do we feel the need to constantly look like we have it all together?

I asked myself this question yesterday after a particularly painful experience at the library. Although the library technically constitutes as being a public place, I consider it more of a quasi-public place. By this I mean that I don't feel guilty if I'm not looking my best. The place is two miles from my house and the only people we see there are other snotty-nosed kids and moms who are in the same boat as me. Simply put, I am not aiming to impress anyone. And I feel like most moms adhere to this mentality.

There is one mom, however, who clearly does not. She is the quintessential perfect mom. For starters, she always looks flawless. I have never seen this lady in anything less than khakis, her hair and makeup are always impeccable, and she even wears lipstick, something I would consider doing only if I were going to, oh, I don't know, a ball. She always wears cute shoes. With heels. The other day I was reading the newspaper and saw her posing in an ad. No wonder she looks like a model. She is a model. Her two girls are following suit and appear to be perfect too. Just slightly older than my own kids, they always are dressed to the nine, with cute hairstyles and stainless outfits. They have never acted up, as far as I have seen. In short, this Supermom and her kids always put me on edge because of the aura of perfection they give off.

Imagine then, if you will, the seen that unfolded yesterday: feeling a little sick and run down, I put off taking a shower and doing the whole hair and makeup thing, and opted instead for a more natural look (read: I looked like death). I was wearing a sweat suit of sorts, not of the "I am about to go to/am returning from the gym" variety, but the "I intend to do as little as possible today and these are the closest things to pajamas that I can get away with in public" variety. We had just finished taking the dog for a walk and it had been raining; hence, my boys' clothes were muddy and had the usual breakfast remnants splattered on them. Our looks alone would give one reason to pause. But we were at the library, for heaven sakes! Anything goes!

Anything, that is, except for what happened next. Jack, upon realizing that I was unable to retrieve his favorite books (Amazing Airplanes and Tough Trucks which, by the way, are riveting reads if you are currently searching for a good novel), decided to throw one of his infamous tantrums. I have dealt with these tantrums far more times than I care to relate, both at home and in public, so the tantrum in itself was nothing new. Nor was the hysterical screaming, or the feet stomping or the head banging on the floor. What set this particular tantrum apart from the others was that Jack, who had decided from the get go that this was going to be a tantrum of the long and drawn out variety, would not leave. Which didn't leave me with a whole lot of options. I had a purse, a stack of books, a 14 month old who isn't exactly the definition of a good listener, and an almost three year old who was screaming bloody murder and none of these things was going to get to the car on their own.

Trying desperately to ignore the stares, I opted to grab Ben and the books and my purse with one hand (thank God Ben is little), put forty-pound Jack under my arm like a football, and somehow made my way to the elevator. I endured the world's longest elevator ride down to the first floor (seriously, there are only two floors. How can it take that thing five minutes?!) where I tried to get Jack to stop screaming so that I could check out my books. He responded by screaming louder and banging his head on the floor. Naturally, Supermom was right there with her two girls, who weren't making a sound. It was beyond obvious at this point that Jack was not about to cease with his antics, so I threw the books on a counter and again grabbed my boys and made our way to the car.

Fortunately, a lady from my church happened to have parked right next to us (a God-thing for sure) and offered to help. I asked if she would stand by and watch the boys who were screaming in the car as I ran back into the library to check out the books and she willingly agreed. As I ran into the library, I passed Supermom who I am sure thought that I had either left my children unattended out in the car or, even worse, left them out in the car with a complete stranger. Mortified, I checked out the books as fast as I could (again, it is a marvel that anything gets done in that place with the speed at which everything occurs) and managed to leave the parking lot before I, too, burst into tears.

Needless to say, it was a rough day. Any previous attempts on my part to look and act the role of a good mom, a mom who has it all together, had been obliterated by this one event. Which goes to show that looking and acting the part of a good mom is a complete waste of time. Anyone with kids--heck, anyone with a pulse--knows that when it comes to most anything in this life, especially kids, we don't have a clue. At best we arm ourselves with knowledge, throw up a prayer, make a decision and hope that by it we aren't going to ruin any body's life. At worst we end up on the kitchen floor, crying right along with our two kids after dragging them out of a public place under our arms.

Blessedly, we don't need to act like we have it all together when we don't. We don't have to smile when we don't feel like smiling, or pretend we know the answers when we don't have a clue. We don't have to do these things because we have someone who really does have it all together, who does have the answers, and who wants us to bring him our tears when we are having a rough day. Our God will supply all our needs according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:19). Not only that, but through Christ we can do all things through the strength he gives us! (Philippians 4:13). When life brings us down, as it surely will, all we have to do is run to Jesus and he will accept us, regardless of what we look like, or what our child just did, or how we just reacted to what our child just did. Not only does he accept us, but he loves us. so. much. I don't know about you, but I would much rather have the very real love of an all-powerful and all-knowing Lord of Hosts to rely on than a supermom-like facade.

Although it would be really great to be able to look even a little like Supermom. And whether I'm feeling up to it or not, next week while running I will probably check to make sure that I don't have any snot on my face when I pass by those photographers.

There's no WE in RUNNING

Lately I've been thinking about how different people are. Not in the "man, she's really strange" different; rather, in the "he likes this and she prefers that" different. Just in personality and preferences alone, the range of diversity among people is staggering. Consider, for example, the vast contrasts between my husband and me: He loves all things meat (I'm convinced he'd order the beef-flavored ice cream if Ben and Jerry's happened to come out with one); I tend to stick with the green, leafy stuff. He thinks that merging into the lane of exiting traffic just prior to the lane's end helps with flow; I tend to be a bit more conservative and politely merge well ahead of time. He never takes things at face value and will question things to death until he understands; I accept things as they are without asking why.

And then there is the matter of sports. Kevin loves organized sports. Ultimate Frisbee, soccer, basketball, you name it: if it involves running with others and focusing your collective attention on a round, inanimate object, he'll play it. And, indeed, I can see why: the man is good. Quick, agile, and coordinated, he takes what could be considered a primitive, sweat-filled group activity and turns it into an art form. Okay, so the sweat is still there, and the sports he plays technically qualify as group activity, but you get the idea: he has a natural inclination and talent for team sports.

I, on the other hand, am not quite so gifted when it comes to throwing, kicking, or catching. Add a team full of people into the equation and you get a nervous, uncoordinated, relieved-to-sit-the-bench non-athlete. My saving grace is that running happens to be a solitudinous sport in which I am free to be as reclusive as I choose. The fact that I run on a one-person team (Go, Team Sara!) frees me to run whenever I want, wherever I want, as fast as I want, and as long as I want. Which is what running is about. Or so I thought.

Apparently there are other ideas about running. Last week I was talking to my sister-in-law, who made the outrageous claim that she prefers to run in (gasp!) GROUPS OF PEOPLE. I know! If you are anything like me, your first thought landed on one of two w's: either you thought weirdo! or you asked yourself why? Why on earth would anyone want to inconvenience themselves by planning their run around someone else's schedule, running faster or slower than they would ordinarily go, and forcing conversation during what should be a sacred time of silence, interrupted only by one's own exhalations and inhalations that mark a steady run? Does she not realize how much talking throws off your breathing?

Once I recovered enough from my shock to reflect on the reasons she might prefer running with others, I realized that my sister-in-law has got it right: she runs with people in order to experience community. Community can be defined as: a unified body of individuals; a group of people with a common characteristic or interest; a body of persons having a common goal; fellowship; relationships..also a pretty good TV show on NBC Thursday nights. Whatever definition you choose, the Bible is brimming with passages that command us to live in community with one another and encourage each other. This is our calling: to build relationships with those around us.

For some, the task of building relationships--of living in community--may be more difficult than it is for others. This is especially true if you are introverted, and thus prefer the company of yourself to the company of others. If you are anything like me, a perfect evening is one in which the kids are in bed, the hubby is off playing basketball, and you are curled up on the couch accompanied only by a cup of coffee and a book. And the dog. He doesn't talk, so he's okay. Just the thought of getting together with a large group of people causes you to break out in a sweat.

This describes me to a tee. While I've gotten better at socializing (at least in my mind's eye; perhaps I should check in with those I've been in contact recently), my preference still lies on being alone. Fortunately, for all our differences, my husband has similar preferences, although he is certainly less introverted than myself. Despite this, we both realize that as Christians we are called to be in fellowship with others. Thus, we've gone so far as to join a church community group (there's that word again).

We've been with this group for about three years now, and I will say that our community group has easily been one of our live's biggest blessings. The four families of which our group is comprised all live in approximately the same area and are in similar stages of life. That is to say, we all have young kids which pretty much dominate our lives at this point. Between the four couples, there are ten kids under the age of six, five of which were born close to within a year of one another. In fact, I think this is the first time in a while that one of the ladies is not pregnant or lactating (or both). Suffice to say, we don't have much trouble relating to one another.

A few weeks ago we decided to take the idea of community a step farther than the usual Sunday night get-togethers and rented a lake house for the weekend. You wanna talk about community? How about eighteen people--that's eight adults and ten kids--living under the same roof, sharing the responsibilities of cooking and cleaning, and dealing with each other's kids as though they were our own (sort of). The kid noise alone--the screams of delight, the endless giggling, the intermittent whining, the crying of the overly-tired, the bickering--was constant, save for the few precious hours of nap/quiet time and the blessed bedtime hour, (and even that didn't guarantee a child free period). Additionally, the workload required to prepare food for and clean up after that many people somehow grows exponentially when compared to the work required to feed one's own family. Add to that the fact that, unless you were born with the gift of being able to sleep through anything, if one of the other children deemed it necessary to wake up at 6:15, everyone else woke up at 6:15 as well. Which, as we all can agree upon, is a dreadful time to be up on a Saturday. Although I enjoyed myself, it took me a few days to recover from our weekend "getaway".

Despite the (many) trials that accompanied this particular living situation, however, the weekend was host to many precious highlights, most of which would not have come about independently of a weekend such as this one. Throughout that weekend we witnessed trust develop between our kids and other adults in the group, to the point where some were willing to leap off a dock into the water with them, hug certain fathers every time they saw them, and eagerly wait for the awakening of certain parents in order that they begin their next adventure together. Relationships among the children progressed as well, as some of the less socially inclined kids began preferring people to inanimate objects. The moms had huge chunks of time to engage in deep conversations about seldom discussed issues. And the dads did whatever dads do to deepen their relationships with one another (Foosball? ping pong? PlayStation?). It was a precious weekend that helped form and crystallize relationships.

So what does this mean? Given that we are called to live in community with one another, are we all to sell our houses and move into one large estate together, commune style? Maybe I should start running with other people, or better yet, join an athletic team. It might take a while, but I suppose I could learn how to catch--and throw--a Frisbee. Or to talk while I run.

Fortunately for me (and for the relieved ultimate Frisbee players out there) God knows that I am an introvert. He knows because He created me to be this way. He doesn't want me to sell my house and move in with a group of other people (yet) and He allows me my solitary runs because He knows that those runs are my way of filling myself back up. Look at how many times Jesus (who I believe was secretly introverted as well) stole away from the crowds to be by himself, to talk to his Father and thereby get refueled. Jesus needed this time away precisely so that he could deal with the crowds and their heavy demands on his time, patience, and healing powers. I don't have the power to heal (although don't tell this to my son, who still thinks that I can make all hurt vanish just by a kiss), but I do have two needy children and a husband to whom I must pour out my time. I have a community group that expects me to contribute, and I have neighbors with whom I must socialize. The very reason I am able to do what is difficult for me and purposefully build relationships with others is because I take that time for myself--I pray, I read, and I run. In no particular order.

And as for those people with preferences that differ from my own--the meat-eaters, those folks who are able to strike up a non-awkward conversation with anyone, or even those fine folks that have the capability to run and talk at the same time--carry on. I will celebrate our differences, even as I put on my headphones, bite into my tofu power bar, and proceed to run in the direction opposite your running group.

Death while distance running

My stomach took a roller coaster-like plunge this morning as I read the headline of today's paper: "Fitness and Fatalities", an article that looked to address the question: Is running safe? Ironically, I saw this article right as I was finishing up a grueling four-miler that combined speed with hills. While I felt as though I might die at the time, I was fairly confident that I would stick it out...until I saw the article.
Due to the recent death of a 27-year-old runner at this year's Rock 'n Roll Half Marathon, thereby raising the death toll of this race to three runners in five years, the paper felt the need to "investigate" the suspect activity of running, to find out if it is really the healthy activity everyone claims it to be, or if it is a murderer in disguise. "Surely, with a headline like Fitness and Fatalities, running must be wrought with danger! Too risky," I declared, as I hurried to the garbage to throw out my running shoes. Minutes later, though, having actually read the article, I sheepishly retrieved the discarded shoes from the trash, brushed them off and apologized. "I'm so sorry, old friends," I soothingly whispered. "It's just that the article looked so scary! And if they made it a headline, well, then, I thought it must be true! Can't you see how I might have been misled?"
While my shoes didn't want to hear it at the time, even they would admit that the media in general can be a bit misleading, both by its headlines and by what it considers to be "news". I mean, in light of this country's obesity problems, does the writer of this article really think it prudent to link running with death, even if she sort of (in a very nebulous, round-about way) clears it up toward the end? I can not think of a better way to motivate people to start working out than by hinting around that in doing so they may just be asking for an early demise. Oh, and don't think you can avoid the big D (death, not divorce) by biking or swimming: the death rate for triathletes is actually HIGHER than it is for marathoners--1.5 people per 100,000 as opposed to 0.8 per every 100,000. Hmm, you cautiously think, that really doesn't sound like too big of a risk. Well, it isn't, as the INSIDE headline (page 9) lets the good reader know: "Rate of deaths quite small".
Seriously, folks, is this news? I think we can all agree on the fact that running, in fact, is not harmful in the "it will kill you" way. If you are sensible in your approach to running (i.e. if you do not one day decide to get off your couch, put on your old 1984 hiking boots and attempt to run 26.2 miles), it can be a very safe, rewarding, and healthy activity. We hear about unexpected deaths in every faucet of life--the accountant who doubles over dead at his desk, the soccer mom who suddenly dies on the sidelines, and yes, the runner whose as-yet-undetected heart abnormality causes him to perish during a highly visible race. These things are tragic, but they happen. We should not let chance events like these prevent us from going to work, attending our son's soccer game, or running a race for which we've been training for months.
While I think this article is silly and I shake my head at the Pilot not only for running it, but for putting it on the front page, I think it is indicative of the issue I have with media today. Whether due to declining readership, owner interest, or their own creative needs, newspapers and TV stations seem interested in something other than reporting the news. In an effort to snag readers and watchers, they feel the need to make up news stories that have the most appeal to their audience--human interest stories that make us feel good, shock and awe stories that scare us into inactivity. They do not report, they create.
Is this what we want--to be entertained by these media outlets? Shouldn't we want to be informed? As a citizen with voting rights, I want to be educated so that I can make decisions on things that matter to me and to my friends and family. I can read books if I want to be entertained, and I can listen to talk shows if I want a spin put on things. When it comes to the news, however, just give me the facts, please. And for the sake of my running shoes, no more articles on the dangers of running, okay?

Il bel far niente

Let me preface this by saying that I feel slightly silly beginning a post entitled "the beauty of doing nothing" by writing about this weekend's 15 mile run. Obviously, 15 miles is something--a long ways, more miles than we have fingers on which to count (my two-year-old would have problems getting to this number), a lot of work--but if you stick with me on this you will see where I am going.

This Labor Day weekend found us in Nebo, NC visiting some great friends--fantastic people who've chosen an alternate lifestyle of sorts. It would take too long to relate what it is they do, so I'll just say that they are serving as foster parents on top of a mountain in western NC and are living amongst the hills, mountains, valleys, lakes and streams that the state offers. They were gracious enough to allow us to visit them, providing us with meals, entertainment, and our own living quarters.

With a setup like this, the weekend promised to be a relaxing one. The only thing I HAD to do was the 15 mile run--no small chunk of change but something I was looking forward to. The great Hurricane Earl, with it's mighty winds and torrential rains, had prevented me from getting a run in earlier this week (although, given that Earl was more reminiscent of one of those pissy cartoon clouds that follows one person around and rains on them, the lack of a run probably had more to do with the fact that I would have had to get up at 5 in the morning to do it). I was actually looking forward to running in NC, for it would give me the opportunity to see some of the sights the area offers.

And it certainly did not disappoint. Like I said, our friends live on top of a mountain, so on my run down I saw horses and cows who observed me with looks of boredom while they grazed on their food, I heard brooks babbling like it was their job, and I witnessed the waters and cliffs of Lake James, a mighty lake residing in the valley of the surrounding hills and mountains. Going back up the mountain I took in lush forests dense with undergrowth and the distant mountains, which in the crisp early morning light looked like they had been just recently painted there with God's own brushstrokes. It was glorious, refreshing, and gave me clearance to do whatever it was I wanted for the the rest of the weekend.

And we certainly packed it in: swimming, hiking, picnicking, canoeing, and marshmallow-roasting were some of the featured highlights. My favorite part of the weekend, however, was completed unexpected. It came during the boys' nap time. Kevin was away playing basketball so I was keeping watch at the apartment in which we were staying. After my own thirty minute nap (and might I just say, naps might be one of my favorite things in this life. I think I look forward to them waaay more than I should), I grabbed some coffee and a book and sat myself down outside. The weather was gorgeous: low 80s, no humidity, and lots of sunshine. My chair was placed in a Monet-like landscape, and featured splashes of light which danced off the leaves of the trees, sending a glittering cascade of light down on the surfaces below.

I had intended to read, and for a while I did. But then something hit me: the realization that I didn't have to immediately get up and start dinner, or clean the kitchen, or rake the yard, or fold laundry. I could just sit there and do...nothing. And I did. Or, more precisely, I thought. And I napped. And then read some more, thought some more, and dozed some more.

I can not tell you how therapeutic this was for me. Or how revitalizing it was. Or how rare. My schedule at home simply does not allow for me to sit and relax. Perhaps because of the length of my to-do list or my own self-inflicted pressure, I rarely take time to simply do nothing. Maybe I feel like it's something I'm not entitled to. Whatever the case, I'm certainly not alone. A recent poll reported that one-third of its respondents take five or fewer vacation days per year. Of those who are vacationing, one in three stay connected with work during their "time away" via phone or computer. And psychologists are reporting on a new type of disorder, that of PVSD: post-vacation stress disorder.

I refuse to believe that this is the life we are called to live: one in which we squeeze in so much work that time for anything else--family, enjoyment, and downtime included--gets squeezed out. Aside from obvious health benefits, both physical and mental, it can't bode well for one's relationships.

Now, I am a realist. I know that this life here on earth takes a lot of effort. And in today's economic climate, if you are lucky enough to have a job you will probably do everything that you need to do in order to keep it, including working around the clock. But no matter how much money is in your pocket, what type of job you work, or what your family responsibilities look like, I urge you to take some time for yourself and simply do nothing. Just sit and practice the art of being. Concentrate on the air around you, the way your lungs pull it in when you breath, the sound it makes when you exhale. Put your thought processes on pause and focus instead on your senses. Notice the smells of the upcoming season, the differences between morning and afternoon bird calls, the patterns of the clouds. Just sit. And be.

I know this sounds cheesy. I am not big into yoga or meditation, and maybe I felt entitled because I had run 15 miles on what was supposed to be my vacation weekend, but I was so moved by the 90 minutes in which I did this that I can not help but urge you to do the same. Allow yourself the pleasure. Do it not only for yourself, but for those around you. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.