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!