A letter, a dream

 Dear Zada:

         I miss you. I know this is supposed to be about grad school but I can’t write to you without telling you I miss you. I wish you were here. You would love Ramona. She’s amazing…I feel like you’ve met her, somehow. You were just so much of what I see in her. Maybe it’s her eyes. Anyway.

         I’m applying to grad school! For an MFA in creative writing with a focus on poetry. I know. Crazy. A lot of people have asked why? Why this? You’re a social worker, they say. Or they simply look at me with puzzlement in their eyes. They can’t put it together, this life I already have and this life I’m working towards. I’m a social worker because I want to change the world. And I’m a poet because I have to believe that there is something there already worth changing. There will always be people who move the world around on it’s axis—do the day to day, the mundane, the important, all of it—and there have to be those who move it forward. I can’t move the world forward without this degree, Zada. I need poetry to do my social work, and the social work I do informs my poetry. It is an odd and symbiotic relationship. 

         I want to go to grad school—I need to go to grad school—because I feel I’ve reached the limit of what I can do on my own in terms of my writing. I’ve worked hard, sought advice and editing, and am published. But there is a plateau here that I’ve hit, and I think I still have so much more potential. I can be such a better writer and I’m not willing to be mediocre in this area. It is time to get out of my own way and ask for critique and criticism, training and schooling, peer pressure and talented teachers.

         I want to go to grad school because I believe art is worth pursuing. You taught me that, that it is worthy to carve figurines simply for the act of carving, finding the faces in the wood, finding the life. I want to do that with my writing—find new phrases and ideas that no one has touched upon, or visit old themes with a fresh viewpoint. Writers must be deft and knowledgeable in their writing—technically sound and creatively ingenious. One of my favorite poets, Kazim Ali, says that the poet needs to be equally an oracle of unheard sounds, but also an able craftsman and artisan. I have stumbled into my unheard sounds a few times but I don’t have the skill set to find my way back purposefully. I have the voice, but not the ability to make it heard. I am raw and untrained, and I want to write with great skill and artistry.

         I’m not going to lie, I’m a bit scared. Your son tells me that fear isn’t a bad thing, and he’s right. He also always tells me that you have to want grad school, want it with your gut and heart and mind, before you’re ready to apply. It’s not going to be easy hearing criticism and critiques, but it is necessary. I want to publish a book someday. Grad school will be one of the hardest things I've every done--but still I’ve faced tougher challenges than this. I know what it is to fight for something worried you will fail and what it is to fight for something knowing that you will succeed. And I believe that the only true failure is in not trying at all.

         I want to go to grad school because everywhere--in my work, my dodgeball, my running, my life--everywhere I have words and lack the discipline to write them all. The words are everywhere, under my skin and tattooed on the tops of my toes and forming the beads of sweat at the end of each race, and I will be damned if I don't work for a way to get them to paper.

         I want to go to grad school because I think you would be proud of me if I did. I think you would agree that a creative medium that ignites a fire in me, urges me forward at every turn, can be found in a sunset or in washing dishes, is a medium worth pursuing. And I think you would agree that, as a writer yourself, there is value in the writing itself. You wrote with joy, for the sheer pleasure of putting the words on the page. I want to write like that, Zada. I want to find you in my writing.

         I want to go to grad school because I believe that I have something worth sharing with the world. I want to go to grad school because I have a niece, and one day I will have kids of my own, and I want them to know that following your dreams is always worthy. It is always hard. And it is always right.

         Thank you for the fire in my belly. Thank you for teaching me how to be tenacious and how to be kind. Thank you for my father. Thank you for believing in me every step of the way when you were alive; because of that; I know you would believe that I can do this. I miss you every damn day. And I love you every day.

         Your granddaughter,

                           Ames

early morning

Well, it turns out that running at 6:30am in January is crazy cold. News flash! Not. But the early mornings with Ramona have been amazing. If I'm not staying over because her folks are at work, I've started to swing by and grab her so they can go back to bed for an hour. Run for me, nap for them. Win-win.

She gets a full body fleece suit, then zipped up in a sleeping bag and bundled in a hat, in her stroller, while I wear shorts and a tshirt and, if I'm smart, gloves. We start in the dark, go 2 or 3 miles out, and come back. She sings. I sweat and swear and hurt. I watch her watching the world as it wakes up, notice the cars going by, see the birds flying.

When we get back to the intersection of Rosa Parks and Interstate, the sky has lightened and the sunrise has begun. We stare in awe, my tiny neice and I. Her cheeks are as cold as my legs, and when I bend to kiss her she smiles. We go half a mile farther than planned. It's colder than anything, yes. But it's totally worth it.

running away from it all

I forget how much living with an active mental illness is like running a marathon. It is about endurance, and perseverance. You need to have good supportive people to 'pit crew' for you. It takes preparation to get through the hardest miles, and you need to have good healthy snacks and lots of water along the way. Parts of you will most likely bleed. You will cry. You will want to quit and you will want to sing. Good music makes it easier. There are definitely times when you will need to slow down and walk, and don't be surprised if people stare every once in a while. At the end of the marathon, you'll be a completely different person than the one who started--stronger, braver, in a whole new skin.

When I say 'active', I mean what mental health professionals call 'crisis'. I live with a mental illness every day, yes, but there are days and weeks that are sooo much harder--where it is so much more noticeable--than others. This happens to be one of those weeks. It's actually week 5. Or 6. I've lost count, and that's ok. I have a hard time sleeping. I have a hard time balancing emotions, and an even harder time controlling them. Some days I can't feel anything, and some days I can feel everything so hard that I want it to just be over. Sometimes I hear things that aren't there, and sometimes I have overwhelming urges to hurt myself or others. In a word, it can be terrifying.

It's hard to find the balance on days like this--hard to look up and see that maybe, just maybe, I've hit the half-marathon mark, or the quarter marathon mark. It's hard to look up because I don't want to see if I'm only at mile 2. There are things I can do--keep getting up, taking meds, going to work, talking to people, eating right--but something that I've just recently rediscovered is running.

Running hurts. When I can't feel anything, I can at least feel the burn in my arches and the sweat down my back. I can feel the wind streaking my face and the cold tensing my fingers. It keeps me focused. Hear something that's not real? It's ok, just keep running. Want to cry, or shout? You can, but keep running while you do. Want to bleed, want to die? Nope. Just keep running. So I run. I run everyday, just a little bit, just a lot. I run til my toes are bleeding, til I can't hear anything but the pulse of my own heart, til the ache that rests right below my sternum has subsided. Days when I can't think of any other reason to do so, I run for my family, for hugs and baseball games and summer dinners by the firepit. I run for my grandfather who knits me scarves and my uncle who makes me salmon cream cheese. For my parents, who love me despite it all. For my siblings, who are there when no one else is, who give dinners and hugs and compassion like the sun. On the worst days, I run for my neice, for her first birthday and park playdates and choir concerts and graduations, for all the things I don't want to miss.

I run until I know that I've turned into a new version of myself, into a person who can survive the next 24 hours until I get to run again. Right now, every day, I outrun my demons. I cross that finish line and am ok until the next day.

Sometimes people ask me why I run. There's no answer I could give that would truly say it all, so usually I just answer 'I run because I like it.' That's true. I run to be healthy, to feel good about myself for a little while, to be happy again. But most of the time, at least these days, I run because I don't know how not to. I run to get ahead of the terror and the shame and the unknown, and I run to get home one more time.

Starting Over

Today was a good day to start over. It's easy for me to give other second chances; harder with myself. But today, with Rose at my side (thank goodness!), I started over. First steps are easier the second time around. Who knew?

Here's to a year where I lose the 40 extra pounds. Here's to a year where I do many 5ks, 8ks, 10ks, 15ks, and half marathons. Here's to a year where I do at least one marathon and at least one ultra marathon. Here's to a year where I rediscover my running community, and a year where I run for the friends who no longer can. Here's to a year where my toenails fall off, my thighs are chafed, my face is sunburned, my fingers are cold, and my heart is full. Here's to a year where I again find faith in the trails and the pavement. Here's to a year where I find faith in the women around me, and in my own self. Here's to a year of running!

Holding On For Dear Life

-->13 days ago, The Boy’s grandpa, Papa Ron, died. It was a short battle with a vicious disease, and a sudden end in the course of it all. He left an amazing wife, 11 children—biological, surrrogate, in-law, and 18 grandchildren of the same variety. He left us devastated. To me he was the head of a family that saved my life and gave me a home where I was safe when no one else could, an uncle, a quiet and gentle man who literally never locked his front door. To this day I remember my first Thanksgiving with them—Tiny threw up down my back and Ron came over to play with her and sit with me. He cradled her compact body in one arm and distracted her by dancing his fingers above her eyes; a trick I still use with Paws today. His booming smile, the warmth that emanated from him, the security that I felt in his presence, will be missed every day. The holidays are encroaching and it is impossible to imagine Christmas morning brunch without him. Whatever will we do without Ron?

All this week I have been longing for home; not the home my own parents created but a community where I found a place without restriction, where I could be whatever kind of person I was at that moment. All this week I have been grieving alone, isolated from the people who were mourning his loss, my sadness a fraction of their own. I am very close to Ron and Kathy’s oldest son, Josh, and his wife Kristin. When I followed them home, a little lost and a little lonely, they made me part of their family. And I am lucky. Josh and Kristin have 3 children who I love dearly: Sprout, The Boy, and Tiny. Now they are 10, 8, and 6—when I met them they were 2 1/2, about 10 months, and not even a glimmer in her parents’ eye. Coming home to them this weekend was a revelation, an affirmation that I do indeed belong there and that no matter how far I roam, they will always be my family.

After the graveside service, and then the tailgate party that Ron had requested, Kristin and Josh asked me to take the kids home so that they could stay and help clean Kathy’s house. After hugging Kathy—ah, my Amy, I love you—she whispered to me, and all I could say was I love you back but what I meant to say was that and then thank you for everything, Kristin and I loaded the kids into the car. She mouthed are you ok to me and we gave each other one more hug. Thank you so much she said and it was right that I was there to do that, there is no where else I’d have been. After a half hour drive, they were all tired and far away. Grief is unbearable at best but seeing it settle in children who you would do anything for, lie down in traffic for, is crushing. All their lives I have existed to give hugs, bump noses, carry on my back, and sing songs with; all their lives I have lived for their smiles back at me. We got into pjs and curled up on the couch to watch Stargate: Sprout, lithe and ascending into teenagerhood all too soon, put her head on my shoulder and her feet under my own. Tiny, graceful and wise, snuggled up with her head on my stomach; the Boy kissed the tip of my nose with a smile and put his hand lightly in mine. After the movie we moved towards bed—each of them sending a text to their mom and settling in. Sprout, confident and brave, went calmly; Tiny cried over little things until we band-aided a superficial scrape and gave each other bear hugs. The Boy, stuck on pause in the hallway, said to me I miss Papa. Tears lit in his eyes and suddenly I was on my knees, his skinny arms around me and head on my shoulder. We stayed there holding on to each other; again he whispered I miss Papa and I tell him that I’m sorry, that I do too. We talk about what he missed, and over and over I remind him that his Papa loved him more than anything. He says I know and several times almost lets go only to renew his hold on me. Right then and there I am stunned, grateful for the thousands upon thousands of hours I have spent with him so that in this moment I can be the person he needs, so that I can hold him tight and whisper I love you, baby. The Boy rolls me astounded, the word, breathless: he is a fearless kicker for his football team and at 8 is wise enough to know that playing football doesn’t mean you can’t do ballet too; he is lean and long and compassionate, open with how he feels and more than willing to hug me in public. When I am with him, with them, that is home. Last night I wanted to march into the host of heaven and pull Ron back to earth if only to see The Boy’s smile return. And of course there is nothing more helpless than that, isn’t there?

Lights out time. Kisses for Sprout, kisses for Tiny, the realization that I spent more time today holding on to a kiddo than not. Realizing that here my arms are never empty. I stand on the lower part of The Boy's loft bed and entwine my hands with his own. He lays his head on the railing and tells me again I miss Papa. His eyes shine tearful once again and I kiss his forehead, willing his sadness into my own heart and out of his. 3 minutes later the girls are asleep; 10 minutes after that he is out too, mercifully for both of us. In his sleep one arm settles over the side of the bed, reaching out towards the door for a beloved grandpa who will never again come through it; in my sleep I too will cry. 

Moves Like Jagger

To tell you the truth, I hate this song. Moves Like Jagger kind of makes me want to gouge my eardrums so I don't have to hear it. Hyperbole? Well, duh. But still. It is the one song that makes me override the 'kids choose the station' rule in my car. It is the song that makes me wish Maroon 5 had never gotten together. It is the pop equivalent of 'The Song That Never Ends'.  So when that song made me burst out crying the other day, no one was more disgusted than me. This song? Really?!

But there is a good reason: my friend, Dan. Dan was a coworker--a good friend at work--who figured out early on that that song drove me crazy. So he did everything he could to drive me nuts with it: he sang it when I walked by, he dropped it in to conversation, he wrote that he has moves like Jagger on his whiteboard. Maybe it should have infuriated me! But in good-natured fun, it was Dan's way of welcoming me in to the new unit. It was his way of telling me that he liked me, that I was a person he wanted in his unit. As I got more and more comfortable, our conversations branched out from work to family (he had several nieces and nephews) to trains to sports, to politics and philosophy. Dan was the coworker who had bottles of water, advil, and snacks at his desk; he kept the conversation going during unit meetings; he belonged to us. Of course he had his flaws, as we all do, but he was effervescent and passionate and kind. Dan died very suddenly at the end of May. I miss him more than I thought I would, and since the initial shock wore off and that lining of sadness settled around our desks at work, I have been searching for a way to honor Dan's memory. His desk is directly across from mine and each day is a vaguely slightly less abrasive reminder that we have lost a good one. 

It has come to me in the last few days that, although he never would have done it himself, Dan both understood and respected my need and drive to run marathons and ultra-marathons. As in most conversations with him, there was always some gentle teasing and back-and-forth, but he always seemed to get it. Dan was an example of the ability to understand a person's passion without necessarily sharing that passion. Dan never would have done it himself; nonetheless I believe that we must run for those who no longer have the chance to do so. So in Dan's honor, I am going to mark my miles and days to the Autumn Leaves 50k with him in mind. Here's to my friend Dan, a guy who didn't know the meaning of the phrase 'giving up', a guy who helped endless young men play football fairly and honestly, a guy who made kids in foster care forget they were there, and a guy who always went the extra mile to look out for our parents. I guess it's my turn to go the extra mile! I know I can do it on foot; I only hope that I can do it in my work as well.

Day 1: 1.5 miles (slow but steady!)
Day 2: 1.5 miles

Dear Bean

I'm not running right now, so instead I'm writing. To you.

Dear Bean:

       I’m more and more convinced that that is my nickname for you. Your papa calls you Paws, your mama calls you Chicken. I’ve been looking but none have quite fit: Rawr, Potpie. But Bean, something almost fits. One evening I whispered it to you and it feels right. Still I will whisper to you how much I love you.

       There is a shift in the world since you arrived. It’s been 3 months to the day today, and I know it’s been felt by many people. For me, the day-to-day has evolved to see you each afternoon—time that I would not trade for anything. Your mama and I spend a lot of time passing you back and forth. The other night you were on her lap and I leaned in to kiss you. You bobbed your head and then smiled at me—the greatest smile I’ve ever seen. Your mama grinned: that’s quite a special smile there, Chicken. You’re quite a special girl.

       Tonight we had a surprise party for your dad. He turned 30 yesterday (I turned 27) and your mom and Gretchen slung together a sweet little party for him, with the people here who love him the most. You got a little over-stimulated and your mama passed you to me while she got the ergo on to walk you around. I slung you on my forearm, superman-sloth style, and started bouncing deep and slow, patting your back. You calmed almost immediately and I could feel your little head, so like your papa’s, bobbing on my arm. This is a new trick I’ve learned with you, the bouncing, and it was thrilling to have you respond so quickly. Your mama grinned a huge smile and said to our friends, see, this is why we keep her around. Truth is, they couldn’t get rid of me if they tried, and they know it. In my birthday card this year, your dad said we’re an old-fashioned family and we love it that way. It’s true. I am grateful for them, and you; they are grateful for me—not just in the larger sense but in the everyday. On good days and bad we are each other’s lifelines and little graces, the hugs and smiles and long conversations where we remember what family is for.

       You know, I’ve been a surrogate aunt since Miss Mae was 2. That’s 8 years of hugs and babysitting, driving the Boy and Muffin to and from school, spending the night on Christmas Eve. They taught me quite a lot about loving, and I figured that with you, it wouldn’t be that much different. I was wrong. When you smile at me, when you fall asleep in my arms, I look at you and see your dad’s noggin and your mom’s face. In the way you snuggle with her and how you smile at my brother, the look on my dad’s face when he holds you, in all of those I see nothing short of promise. More than that, I see possibilities, hope, grace that stretches to fill the sky and eclipse the sun. You will be more than I could ever imagine. 

       I don’t aim to put any pressure on you. You be whoever you want to be, let that big personality and sharp brain spill out and shine. As your Mimo and your mama like to say, you is kind, you is smart, you is important. It’s true. I thought I knew the feel of unconditional love. Again, I was wrong. Or maybe not so much wrong. I can sincerely say that I would give a kidney to anyone of my family, drop everything if they needed me, stand behind and beside them. That’s what family does. With you, though—well, you are the only person who can throw up on me or poop on me, drool on me, gum my arm, cry at me until I think my ears might bleed just a little (you’ve never actually done that last one). You’re the only one who can do that and find me happy when you do. Happy might not be the right word…you can do all those things and still find me patient and loving and even laughing. When I told you I’d love you without question or agenda, I meant it. But before I met you, I didn’t know exactly how much I meant it. Your mama said to you the other day I would run into traffic for you, Chicken. She would. You have so many people who love you so unbelievably much, you are lucky but you are also light and grace and hope. And we are lucky. And if you needed it, I too would run into traffic for you. You know I am your aunt. You know I love you. And when you settle on my arm, droop your legs and chubby arms over mine, let your head sink heavy to rest and close your eyes, I am grateful. More than that I am home.

       We moved a lot, in the last few years. And those times I found again and again that it’s the people you love who are your home. A house can soak that up, that ease of being, that comfort that comes from the people in it sticking together no matter what. Foundations and fences and walls and windows, they’re built from family. It’s funny, Bean. You are not mine. You have two parents who love you and you belong to them. As it should be, as is right. But as they are yours, so too am I. Take that as you will, peanut. When you need a hand mine will be outstretched. And if you choose to take it, the privilege is mine.

       I never thought I’d end up here. At 27 I am healthy. I have run marathons and weathered change and helped other families. I have a job that I love. I have two cats who snuggle up when I am sad and play with me when I am happy. On days when it rains, my soul settles. And when it is sunny, I can soar. You’ll learn how to fly, Bean. You’ll cruise and then when it’s right you’ll walk, finding your legs beneath you. You’ll stretch out your arms and find the stars waiting to settle in your palms.

       You know I love you. But I’ll tell you anyway, every time I see you. Goodnight sweet girl. I hope you get some rest and let your parents get some snoozes in too.

Kisses,

 Auntie Ames