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 

Perhaps more than anything...

Since Ramona arrived, I have more than ever been grateful for my close ties to my family. To be honest there wasn't much more room to be grateful--they are such a huge part of my life and, if I am to be successful, it is with them at my side. And while I love each of them for so many reasons in turn, tonight I have to focus on my dad. He is now Papa Robert and loving it. He was in town and we grabbed a quick bite with each other. I told him about Pac-Rim and work and this phenomenal, brutal training I did last week; he told me about his consulting jobs and the memorial service he'd attended for a friend today. Finally he looked me in the eye and said 'Ames, before you started supervising visits, we talked about the PSU-DHS grad school program. I know you were hesitant because you were, well, miserable in your position at that point and due to the agreement between PSU and DHS, you would have to commit three years of service to DHS after you graduated to pay off the tuition break'. I agreed, knowing where he was headed. Then he leaned back and said 'I've never seen you this happy in a job. Sure, there are days that suck. That's the reality of every job. But you grin and you glow and I can hear the passion you have every time we talk. So because of that, have you thought about the program again?' I have. And while I readily admit that it's entirely possible I will need to get my MSW at some point, that point is not here yet. I don't want to be in school right now. The thought of going back kind of makes me want to throw up a little bit...which is just never a strong beginning! More than that, I thought I wanted to be a caseworker. Now I'm not so sure.

This past week I've been in SSA core training. Among the amazing lessons I've learned include the fact that we have the right to be on the parent's side as well as the child's. That we can--and should--be that first person who believes in them at DHS, a person who tells them repeatedly that they are doing a good job, trying their hardest, loving their kids. We have the power to empower them, to include them in the decisions, have a free and open line of communication, and respect them as parents and people. It's been incredible. Brutal, heartbreaking, and incredible. We had a parent panel of women who were involved in the system and are now parent mentors. Above all else, they told us, remember that we are parents who love their children. They are parents who have made mistakes on a grand level, but they love their children. I forgot that along the way. I've learned it again, I think, and I am less inclined to be a caseworker than ever. This is where I get to do the work I love, the face to face, the human connection. This is where I might be, may be, even a tiny bit on one day or two, able to help someone else feel confident and hopeful. Instead of writing court reports, going to hearings, dealing with lawyers, getting parents into treatment, and fighting with family members, I'm working with the parents and kids. Every day. I get to see them, talk to them, and help them. That's what this is about for me, and I don't know that I want to change that.

I told my dad all this. A tiny part of me was afraid that he would say: 'yeah, that's great. But you'll always be limited without an MSW. I want you to be in a job where you have a little more financial security and one that pushes you a little harder.' I didn't think he would. After all, this is a guy who told me he didn't care how long it took me to get a bachelor's degree. All he cared about was that I was happy and successful when I chose to get one. He didn't disappoint today. He said, 'you know, Ames, that makes perfect sense. You're happy. You're helping. You're getting to do exactly what you want to do. And it's ok if you don't want to be a caseworker right now. It's ok if you never want to be a caseworker.' My father looked at me and I could see in his face that he was proud of who I was right now, and that he wouldn't ask me to change ever.

So tonight I'm grateful for my dad. For the compassion he shows me and the patience. Today I sat there and realized again that my father is a loving, smart, honorable man. I hope some of that rubs off on me, and that I can show my clients the compassion he has shown me. That I can offer to them the understanding and tell them in so many ways that I am proud of them, just like he has done for me. This has been quite a week, to be honest. It's not quite over so I'm gonna sign off. But between Pac-Rim and SSA training and time with Anna and Ramona and dinner with Dad, I am realizing that perhaps more than anything, it's the people who are on the race course with you who matter the most.

P-P-P-PacRim!!

Usually I write up my races faster than this. Usually I am more proud than humbled, confident than unsure, empowered than weakened. That is not the case this time. Like everyone has kindly reminded me, I am completely aware that walking for 14 hours and pulling close to 34 miles out is not small feat. It took all of my courage and a lot more help from the people around me than ever before. And I’ve been working for days now to name this pit in my stomach, the reason why I don’t feel the way I want to or the way that my running peers say that I should. I’ve finally been able to get close: disappointment. A little regret. A little shame.

I was both pumped and terrified in the week leading up to PacRim. I knew I was going in less trained than I wanted, but my plan was to ‘go as far as I could’, following the advice of Anna. And on the advice of Rose, I set three goals: 1) do a 100k. 2) Do 50 miles. 3) Do a 50k and then a little farther so that I’d go farther than I’d gone before. It’s taken some doing but I’ve rid myself of any unease about walking during a race. Learning that the race is against myself and no one else has made that possible. So I figured I’d start walking, turn it into a trot if I could, and go until my legs fell off. It started out well. Pretty day—some serious downpours at first but the loop is gorgeous, around a section of the river going through Longview. I did the first loop with Rose and her friends. Then I separated, partly because of the shin splints that hit and partly because I knew that this was somewhat of a solo exercise. Mentally I was rocking it. At one point I texted Anna, ‘oh yeah, I can totally go 47 more miles!’ Even as I thought it I realized that in that moment I was realizing a new--albeit totally crazy!!--level of mental strength, and that made me proud.

Then we hit hour 3. I ignored the hot spots starting to flare up, ignored the pain on the bottom of my feet. ‘I can push through’, I thought. ‘Hell, I stared down a furious client on Wednesday and owned the 32 miles of Autumn Leaves’. So I pushed through. I slowed to walking; I slid up gravel pockets and picked my way down small gravel hills. And the more I pushed through, the worse I blistered. My legs were good. My abs were good. My chest and arms and mind were good. But my feet? My feet were falling apart. Hour 6 I gave in and sat down to take my shoes off. The damage was impressive. My right foot had a blister on the sole that covered about half of it. Blisters around my ankles, on my toes, on my heels, on my ankles. It was actually ridiculous. I remember looking at them and finally laughing. A couple of seasoned runners came over to help me patch them up. Putting my shoes back on made me cry just a little, it hurt so bad. But I did it, and got back out there. The two guys who had helped me continued to encourage me, smile, pat me on the back.

Around hour 7 (I think, although I'm not totally sure, it well could have been longer), Rose succumbed to her raging virus and ended up going home (although how she made it through 7 hours with a fever and aches and all the rest is beyond me—that woman is made of some kind of steel like I’ve never seen). Before she left, Andleeb arrived to get her and did a lap with me too. It was the most I laughed on the whole run! I don’t think I realized just how much Rose having to leave affected me, but around hour 10, Anna texted me to say ‘how you doing?’ and I burst into tears. Never ever have I cried in a race like that. And pretty much all the other times I’ve cried have been from pride and joy and exhaustion—but never desperation and discouragement. I desperately missed Anna, Liz, and Rose—my trifecta of awesome. Each time I came up the hill towards the start/finish and aid station, I thought to myself ‘ok, this is it’. But each time, I didn’t stop. I don’t know why. By that point there was no way I would make 100k, limping along at a blistering 25 mph pace; I also eventually abandoned the 50 miles thanks to stiff knees and cramping calves, due to slowing down, getting cold, and not keeping my salt up like I should’ve. But that 50k and then a little farther…I guess I just couldn’t abandon that. Plus…I really wanted the race pants! Had to do a 50k to get them…a little carrot for me.

Mile 25 started brutal. I was heading over the first bridge, right before the 1/4 mile mark, and a guy caught up with me. I’d seen him going at a steady, fast clip, so I was a little surprised. He asked me if I was ok and through the hysterical tears that had started, I said ‘yeah, I’m ok’. He laughed and said ‘are you sure?’ I laughed, he laughed, and with him by my side I made it through mile 25. After we came through the start/finish, I thanked him and encouraged him to go on ahead. I’ll never forget this. He looked me in the eye and said ‘I’m sticking with you as far as you want to go. If you want that 50k, I’ll be beside you every step from here on out’. The next 8 hurt so badly. I kept cramping up and wondering if everyone who was out there was looking at me thinking ‘Geez, she sure doesn’t belong here. What a rookie.’ That’s what I was thinking. But then there was Tim, keeping me smiling, reciting poems and spouting Jack Handy quotes, telling stories, reminding me that I could, in fact, do this. About mile 29 when we were at the aid station, he put his arms around me and gave me a great big hug. And there were the random runners patting me on the back, commiserating, checking in. There were the lap counting volunteer heroes who were full of cheers, the delightfully crotchety race director who offered me new feet, my friends afar who kept up the text messages, and there were Karen and Sarah, doing my last lap with me and Tim. They stayed a step ahead of us that whole loop, keeping me going. By the end I was walking slower than I’ve ever gone in a race. Every part of me hurt, and to my great chagrin I could still feel my feet but not my fingers. I crossed the start/finish line, and Tim, Sarah, and Karen stopped to let me go the last .2 on my own.

The packing up, changing in the car, long drive home are a blur. Mostly what I remember is getting home and sinking into bed with Max and Ruby draped around me. Oh, and the pants. The race pants are the shiz-nit. Even as I write they are keeping me toasty...and serving as a reminder to sign up for my next two races, not letting this one go to waste, so to speak.

But the more I write, the more I feel the disappointment, the shame, the wistfulness fade just a little. It was hard. And while I’m not thrilled with—or even proud of—how my body handled it, I’m pretty damn satisfied with how I rallied. But this one isn’t about me. It’s about the ultra-running community. When I needed them most, in the middle of the dark and cold night, they were there for me. I don’t know most of their names (although I’m betting I will see many of them at other timed races that I plan on entering), I don’t know where they live or what they do for work or what else they are passionate about. I don’t know how fast their miles are—but I do know that mine are slower—and they don’t seem to care. I find myself coming away from this race a little more solemn than before. I have, until now, been lucky enough to come away from my races feeling like I’ve reached and most times exceeded my goal, which as all of you know is a heady and powerful feeling. It has left me convinced that I can do anything, which in my line of work is an important confidence to have. PacRim reminded me of the necessity of reaching out to the people around me, asking for help and not being too proud or stupid to accept it. Once in a while I’ve been likened to a pony: ‘you’re strong and brave and smart, but sometimes you just have to say eat the damn carrot, pony!!’ This was a good reminder of the reality of setting high and hard goals for yourself: sometimes you need help.

More and more I see the need for strong communities in the world I inhabit. From the kids in foster care who need whole legions of support just to get to doctors’ appointments and graduate from middle school to new parents who need a hand with the laundry and someone to walk the baby for half an hour to grandparents who really need the neighbor to check in and bring groceries…the examples are endless. A term that pops up at work is ‘vicarious trauma’. There is so much that we are hurt by, even without us knowing it, and having strong sweet caring people around us lessens that trauma. I just hadn’t realized how much that need would carry over into my running, and how grateful I would be to find a community even stronger and more supportive than the one I had previously encountered. Tonight I am a little scraped up, a lot blistered, a little sore. I would do it again if had the chance. Hell, I will do it again! But getting back on that horse is going to take more work than I expected. Oh well…we all know I love a challenge!!

Friday in releve position

It's Friday. Friday is a favorite day of mine, not because it's the end of the week--for me it's not--but because of the kids I get to see today. You know, I am fully aware that getting attached only means more risk of problematic issues, oversights, heartbreak. But how can you not love the little girl who busts a move like Michael Jackson or the boy who likes school so much he's actually disappointed when the weekend rolls around? How is it possible to close your heart to the siblings who sing along to every song and the ones who throw themselves onto each other in huge hugs every weekend? I've learned that it's not possible, that in fact I'm going to love many of these kids fiercely, and unexpectedly. With all my kids, I hold out hope that the family will be able to regroup stronger and more stable than ever before. And with all my kids, I keep the reality that that may not happen in the back of my mind. Equal chances for both to occur.

He is little. He looks like a character from a Pixar movie, like a younger version of another one of our kids, like chances. He loves to blow kisses from the backseat and grins widely every time I catch his eye in the rearview mirror. He knows I take him to Daddy and he reaches his arms up to me with all the trust in the world. Daddy hasn't shown for a few weeks now and, unfortunately, today is no exception. I like him. I believe he is doing his best and I really want to give him all the chances in the world. He's on thin ice though. Office policy doesn't always line up with my own philosophies but they are not mine to change. We get to the office and go in to find a tearful message from his father; he can't make it. Little one hangs out with a few coworkers while I call his foster mom; they fall in love with him as fast as I did. Once I've reached foster mom, we head out. He walks on little feet, grinning up at me as I take big steps alongside him just to make him laugh.

On the ride home he is fussy and upset. The foster mom warned me that he was tired and having a hard time napping; the trick for us when kids are inconsolable, especially the under 5 crowd, is to crank the heat way up and play NPR quietly. Works like a charm, every time. I look back to see his head tilted back, mouth slightly open, small fingers clutching the sides of the car seat. Angels have landed on his eyelids, he breathes even and raspy. When we get to his foster home, I slip one arm out of the strap, then the other. I lean my shoulder in and rest his head against it, then move us both awkwardly until we are upright. He hasn't transferred well in the past but today I am able to keep him asleep with a gentle shh, love, it's ok.

The foster mom opens the door quietly; her small son has been watching from the front window and smiles shyly at me. I whisper I managed to keep him out for you and she smiles. We lean our bodies close together, two women who are not his mother or his aunt or or his sister, but for the time being are playing those parts. Not a replacement, but a substitution. We make the move slowly and smoothly, his head tipping back a bit in her embrace and one arm hanging loose and dangling. I'm sure it has been said many times over that to move a small child from one loving adult to another is to transfer the most important of currencies, is to perform a most sacred of rituals. Today we are this small child's village, his foster mom and I, and it's my honor to be one of those people.

I'm not a parent, not yet. There are days when I don't know that I want to be one. There is so much hurting in this world, raw and bruised skin and souls and earth; seeing what people are capable of doing to each other makes me want to run away. How could I bring a kid into this? Perhaps it's not for me. But then there are so many moments like this one, minute and impressive, making me joyous and optimistic; I would love to see what little soul comes into my life. But those are questions for another day, for future me. I am not a parent. But I have parented. I have dried tears and set down limits and gotten excited over the perfect spelling test. I have zipped up jackets, sung along with songs, made up stories, bandaged owies, changed diapers, carried backpacks, talked about grades, and signed kids in and out of the principal's office. I have been a stable presence week in and week out. I have worried and hoped, chosen my words carefully, and stood in front of them when others came at them upset or angry. I can't help but think that this is my answer to it takes a village to raise a child. This is my truth. They will be my salvation and my destruction, they have wrecked me and rebuilt me. I will never do for them as much as they do for me; perhaps, though, from some corner of their subconscious, on days when they don't know if anyone cares, they will pull forward the knowledge that I will be there. And they will be comforted and sustained, if only for moment.

It's Friday. It's stormy and wet, the world shaking off the beginning of February. There's always tomorrow, always another chance, always another kid to coax a smile out of, always room for hope. It's Friday, he is beautiful as ever and I fall into the loving with realizing that I have tumbled. Perhaps that is the best way to do so, without fear or hesitation. In the end, I have to believe that they will be ok, and, for a second, I releve to demi-pointe where I can see tomorrow.

Autumn Leaves and a letter

Dear Starfish,

You’re more than half cooked!! Last Saturday you did a half marathon and I guess you were dancing and twirlin the whole time. Good think you seem to like running because I would guess you’re going to be doing a whole lot of it. I volunteered to be ‘race buddy’ for you any time your folks want to do the same run; we’ll see if they take me up on it. I expect so. Your mama has popped! You’re making your presence known and she’s very gracious about letting me say hi and hello to you every time I see you guys. During the 31.75 miles I said hello to you several times; you were my lucky starfish. I hope you don’t mind. I promise I’ll return the favor one day.

I haven’t been able to write much—this race report just hasn’t been coming, except when I think about writing to you. I suppose it’s odd, but your mom and dad don’t mind how unbelievably excited I am about getting to be a part of your life, so I guess its ok. Liz and I drove down the night before and stayed in a little hotel; I adore spending time with her and we operate very similarly before a race: laying out gear, yummy dinner, distracting ourselves with tv, bouncing off the walls with nervous energy. I’m not the best at making girlfriends; I’ve always found it easier to buddy up with the guys, but Liz and I have found a strong bond. We’ve pushed ourselves father than we ever thought we could, and we’ve done it together. We got to Champoeg Park at 6:15, the fog sinking in deep among my bones and the parking lot filled with ghostly lights of the headlamps perched on each runner’s head. We trek up a little hill to find your mama and dad with their gear for the aid station they’re running. I get hugs from both of them, then we stand around and chat. They walked us through where they would be set up and then headed over to the start with us. Standing by the fire pit, your dad wraps his arms around me from behind. You’re going to be great, he says softly. I am so proud of you and everything you’re doing, you have everything it takes to kill this thing. He squeezes extra hard, smacks a kiss on top of my head, and says I love you, Ames. And I remember him walking me home my first week of middle after I was bullied; he pushed my bike fore me and told me it would be ok. I believe him; he hasn’t lied to me once. I remember strolling up to a store with him the first time I went to visit him at college. We got pepper jack cheese and crackers and Coke, and headed back down through the trees. Sitting in his massive dorm room, we watched Evolution and then the snow started to fall—you’ll find it’s a rarity around here, and like children we stood at the window watching the flakes come down. I turned on his music and Hallelujah came on; first time I’d ever heard that song. I remember him picking me up in Los Angeles, flying down, packing up my car, driving back with me, making me laugh for the first time in weeks. Why am I telling you this, little Starfish? Well, first off I want you to know that your dad is a good man. And I hope that when you have a little brother or sister, you are as close to him or her as I am to your dad. You don’t get to choose your family, my little aquatic neicephew, but yours is a good one. And most of all I want you to know that you are coming in to a world where you can do anything you set your mind to. Never forget that. If you do, it’s ok—we’ll all remind you.

The race starts and almost immediately I picked up a buddy. She is new to town and we pace each other for the first lap; now she is a member of the Chicks. Do you know how easy it can be to make buddies? Smile, say hi, keep stride, share war stories. As we come back through the aid station and hit mile 5 I realize quickly that this will be my hardest mile, and my favorite. We are past the out and back where I can smile at my fellow ultra marathoners, here it is the woods and the river and me. But I love the woods; I go to the woods because there I am known without cause or agenda, I go to the river because that is the best way to find my way home.

After lap 2 I pull into our family’s aid station and your mom waves me on. I grab an Ensure and pull a slug, then head up the hill to do my second turn through the start/finish. Coming back down the hill your mama has saddled up to join me for my third lap; I’m more grateful than she knows. Or perhaps she does, I pit crewed for her first ultra and man oh man, was it a bitch. Your mama is made of some kind of steel like I’ve never seen. We hit the aid station first time around and get cheers, pass Lynn and her buddies, pass Liz and Aleta and Chris, pass my newfound race buddies too—we cheer and joke and wave each other on. It’s incredible to find a community in place that was just a path; it’s phenomenal to find a family where 3 hours earlier there were just people. Your mama and I chatted about the world and back again. Living with them I got perfectly timed pep talks from your mom; I knew I would miss her but I didn’t realize just how much. We talked about a work problem I’d been having and about you, about the next day and the next race and the negotiations happening at their work. Running with her I found a quiet courage and immense joy. I didn’t have a sister, you know. Not before your mom came along. We did the fourth lap together too, walking most of it because we were hurting! Heading through the turnaround at the top of a barely brutal yet all too sadistic hill, we talked to the volunteers at the top, thanked them—when we got back to the aid station she told me to drop her and push to make it back before we hit the two hour mark for the lap. I got back in time to beat it and your dad was waiting for me. Up the hill, Ames, go go go! I’ll be ready when you get back.

He swings into stride behind me and as we head out the gate, your mama comes over the hill at the end. Go on, Ames, I’ll catch up. He jogs over to say hello to you two, and then catches back up with me. The fifth lap is a bit fuzzy to be honest. We talked the whole time—first half I tell him about work stuff, then he starts telling me about all of the projects he wants to do around the house. He’s become a handy guy and I’m not sure when that happened. Your mama says of course she loved him before he became adept with tools, but that it’s a nice addition. He says he used to be ‘epically unhandy’. It’s true, once he built a chicken coop where the legs were four different heights. Apparently, even the chickens mocked him. We come around the turnaround one more time—walk up it—but after we turn to head down, he looks at me. Well? Well, what? Well, are we gonna walk or is this a Sunday stroll? It’s Saturday, Garth. Well it won’t be if you keep on walking!! I bust out laughing and pick up my pace as he shoots me a diabolical little smile. My kids are gonna hate me, he grins. We talk about running and where we are headed in our next years, talk about your grandparents—you’re gonna love em but hoo boy are they nuts!!—sorry, kid, you’re coming into a family full of sweet, smart, dorky, passionate, loving nutballs. Better get used to it now! We roll into the aid station one last time and the guy who was holding onto half my Ensure looks at me and pulls it out like John Wayne taking down an outlaw. BAM! Here ya go missy. A guy sitting behind him winks at me. Don’t thank him! But of course I do. You weren’t supposed to thank him! He’s not actually nice.

Your dad falls into step behind me as we head onto the trail back into the woods; we alternate following each other and for the last mile and change he talks nonstop to me. Talks about calls he’s run, explains how to start IVs and do RSIs and all sorts of things—your mom can do this stuff too, by the way. Every once in a while I’ll damage myself in a truly spectacular and stupid way, and have to use dial-a-medic. I apologize profusely when I do, but then again I’ve walked your dad through child welfare procedure when it’s needed. It’s fun, ya know, backing each other? Anyway, he talks me through the mile. I hear Esther’s voice in my head: put your head down, follow his feet, don’t stop for anything, you can do this. Then he asks, is that the final hill? Yup, I say and he drops back to my side. Ok, here’s how it’s gonna go. And we’re coming up over the rise. You’re coming into the stadium and you look up to see yourself on the jumbo screen. Now heading down it. You’re about to break the world record, the crowd is on it’s feet cheering and screaming but you’re cool and we step off the curb into the parking lot and people ARE clapping. You don’t acknowledge more than a nod of the head, you are going to kill this record here you go!! Passing the aid station and your mama and Liz and Lynn are clapping and cheering. Ok, kiddo, when we hit the gravel you’re going to give it all you’ve got left!! That’s heading up the hill. I say, I can’t, he says, you can and then we’re at the bottom. Let’s go!! He hollers at me and we lengthen our strides. Passing the row of portapotties and we’re heading towards the ambulance stationed there. Ok, he whispers, now as we pass the ambulance they’re going to release the dogs and I go WHAT!? as we’re passing and he shoves me gently go go go GO!! I come in screaming steam, full throttle going like nothing else matters, because nothing else matters. Everyone is cheering as I stumble to a halt, grinning, and get my medal. Your dad comes up as I head back down the hill and I fall into his side. He puts his arm around me and lets me lean on him the whole way down in a mirror image of his first marathon. He ran so hard that he finished in under three hours, he’s a cheetah. And like we all do he pushed in the last few meters so that when he came across the finish he literally fell on top of me. I was ready to hold him up then just like he was ready today. It’s what family does.

While it might not seem like it, this isn’t quite as detailed as some of my reports, Starfish, because honestly it’s a huge blur of joy. There were about 2 miles during that second lap where I hit the wall; otherwise I couldn’t stop smiling. There are so few firsts when you grow up, Starfish, and I plan to enjoy every first that I get. This ultra lit me up from the inside out. Having your mom and dad there, finishing with friends and family, made it absolutely the best thing I’ve ever done in my life—even though it was the hardest. I know I’ll suffer in the next few days but it’s a worthy pain. It’s a pain built on gut wrenching hard work and pride. I find there are moments when you change completely, when you shed the skin you were wearing to find a new one. Just as the caterpillar thinks the world is ending…he turns into a butterfly.

I love you, little Starfish. My aunt skills have gotten a little rusty in the past few years, so I’m practicing the lullabies I used to sing to Tessa when I would snuggle her for naptime as a tiny baby, and I’m doing pushups so I can give you the big bear hugs that Jackson loves so much, and I’m digging out the books Hannah and Stella loved the best so I can read them to you. They taught me what it was to lose your heart to someone entirely. There seems to be nothing wrong with loving the people around you as hard as you can, nothing wrong with wending your way through days and each hard-won footfall with a smile, nothing wrong with finding your heart and the way home over and over and over. So what does this have to do with my running victory? Nothing, and then again, everything. As Rose said, see what happens when you do ultra? Anything else is suddenly within your reach. Anything is doable from here on out.

I’m super excited to meet you, kid. Get cooked but good and then get on out here!! There is a boatload of people waiting to love you. As for me, I’m giving in to the residual exhaustion of my 31 miles and heading to bed with mad Max and dubious Ruby as snuggle buddies. But here's a little secret, darlin: you’re gonna love this life. It’s a good one. Night, little Starfish.

Love you tons,

Auntie Amy

October and a goodbye

I love October. I do. I've been waiting for it, for the rainswept days and those seconds when the wind blows your hair back just long enough for you to know you're really alive. I've been waiting for the challenges and the triumphs that this October in particular will bring, Portland Marathon with one of my best friends by my side and then Autumn Leaves with my sister and all of my dearest Portland friends by my side. So many months I am left waiting for the sunset or the downpour or the mist to rise, so many months I am left wanting for the joy that Oregon fall, true Oregon fall, brings me. And so you can imagine with great certainty that I have been relishing this moment, when I finally get to sit down and write out my October, spell the victories and memorize the hardships. It is a month of forgiveness. It is a month of beginnings and promises and the clean slate of each morning after a hard rainfall. This post was intended to be a celebration of October and a cataloging (doesn't that sound interesting?! :)) of each goal and achievement I have set forth for myself--and there are several. This is the time when I return to who I am. And that is joyful. But to be truthful, Chicks, I am a little heartsick tonight.

Many, if not all of you, know that before I worked with kids I was a professional stage manager. Now as you can imagine that never paid the bills, so alongside that work I did a variety of other things. But for many many years, that passion which I have funneled into my running, my writing, and my day to day work, was housed in theaters. Like so many people I found myself hitting dead ends in high school, especially during my junior and senior years, and so I began to volunteer at the one professional theater company in Eugene--the Willamette Repertory Theater--headed by two of the kindest and hardworking men I've ever had the opportunity and honor to work for, and the joy to work with. The Cap'n, artistic director, and the First Mate, the general direction. They are to this day two of my favorite people, and as I grow older I find myself wanting them to be proud of the work I'm doing. Anyway, when I first started working with them, the theater was housed in a converted garage behind a bakery. The floor was Jackson Pollock'ed, the costume shop in one corner and the finance department in another corner, the rehearsal hall and props room and bathroom and kitchen all sharing one big, frigid, concrete floored room. It was, in a word, heaven. They gave me a home, you see, gave me chances and responsibilities and knowledge and hugs and words and brutal lessons of the truths of working backstage. With them I assistant stage managed my first show, then stage managed my first show, and then my last. All in all I worked on about 15 productions for them in a space of about 4-5 years. Some of that was simply putting together programs, some of it was calling the show itself. All of it was hard and amazing.

The thing about working with this company was the speed with which productions came together. Pre-production work certainly started 2-3 months ahead, but rehearsals to tech week to opening night to closing matinee was a standard and solid 6 weeks. 6 weeks! 6 weeks to put together a play, create a family, negotiate working arrangements, find problems, fix problems, laugh and cry and tell a story. Both the Cap'n and First Mate had worked at Oregon Shakes, so in each production we had at least one talented, strong, experienced Equity actor, which made a difference to be sure--but never were they the lynch pin, no, it was always a team effort. Which made it all the sweeter when the shows opened to success and all the sadder when they closed. I have learned in the theater world that really you never say goodbye. In fact, what we say is always see you later. Because the beauty of it is, you will. Someday you will cross paths with these people again, sooner or later, and it will be just as wonderful (or sometimes not, let's be honest) working with them the second, fourth, or nineteenth time around as it was the first. This world requires a great deal of heart.

The first two shows I asm'ed for the Rep were small affairs--3 cast members each. A great start to my career, especially since the guys (yep, both casts were all men, as were the director and stage manager..sometimes I think they kept me around just to add a little balance to the room!) were sweet and professional and oh my goodness unbelievable. The second show was a drama and it will remain the best and most favorite show I ever worked on. Put it this way--we moved into a Union theater (all the stagehands and workers were part of the Stagehands Union, IATSE Local 675), and the stagehand we had running SR, a notoriously kind but cantankerous fellow, was spellbound. Every night, every show, I would catch him sitting across from me, head in his hands, watching the story unfold. The Cap'n said it best: when you can get the Union stagehand, every night, when you can get him to watch and engage and love the show, well then that's how you know that this time, you've done it right.

Anyway (I know, you're thinking good lord, will this end?!), the third show I did with them was huge: You Can't Take It With You. A cast of 15 and we had everything: pyrotechnics, drunk Russians, love scenes, xylophones, crazy servants, multiple arrests, and props galore. It was a blast! But it could easily get out of control, but for three people: the Cap'n, our fearless director, the Helmsman, our experienced stage manager, and Sir, our veteran actor playing the role of Grandpa. And oh, how he shone. I got to see him play Scrooge once too, just as phenomenal in that as he was in this. More than that he was a class act, a gentleman. No wardrobe fitting was too annoying, no prop too painful to work with, no line worth forgetting. I have had the pleasure of working with many actors and actresses who fit that description, by the way, and he was not the first or the last. But Sir stands out. I can't quite put my finger on why. But he had a heart that cracked his chest cavity right open and a mischievous joyful small boy air to him, lighting around the corners of his mouth. His persistent devotion to his craft was equaled by his patience for the people he was working with, and equaled by his joy in people in general. I think maybe one of the reasons I remember him so clearly is that he was one of the first actors I met who just loved unconditionally. He once told me I was beautiful; he once told me I was a good asm. Praise from on high, for Sir knows his way around a theater. I haven't seen him in 3 or 4 years but every once in a while he crosses my mind, as several of them do, my theater ghosts, reminding me of a life I loved so dearly. I do know that the last time I had the chance to see him, he hugged me hello and told me to come visit, squeezing my hand briefly before we had the chance to say see you later as befit our joined world.

Perhaps--or maybe for sure--you've seen where this is going: I got an email today from the Cap'n, who told me that Sir passed away a week or two ago. He was 70, fighting cancer, well lived and well loved. The Cap'n said he'd been down to Ashland for a celebration o f life: it was fun, if a bit sad. In this world we are good at saying so long to each other, that farewell we have down to a science. And we are good at celebrating a person's life instead of mourning their death. In between the musty fly rail ropes and the shabbily marked prop tables, between the vending machine dinners and endless tech rehearsals, between that one cue you really fucked up and the line that the actress just nailed so that you know that the people whose faces you can't even see are lined with tears, in between all that lies a certain whimsical, dare I say Puck-ish, absolute and perfect joy in this life and the people who make up each day.

Fall is here and with it a earth stained and quiet resolve to once again make each day something different than the one before it. With it comes the chance to say hello, send the email, write the letter, make the phone call; with fall comes forgiveness. I can't bring myself to say goodbye. So instead I'll just say this: see you later, old friend. You were one in a million and I am honored to this day to have worked with you, been by your side even for just a few moments, and to have gotten to hug you one more time. Remember, no whistling in a theater and don't say the name of the Scottish play, and for heaven's sake whatever you do, don't wish us good luck. Tell me break a leg and then I'll go safely. Break a leg, Sir. I'll see you after the next opening.

It's An Ultra, Not A 5K

SPOILER: NOT ABOUT RUNNING!!!

Shedding my skin hurts. Sometimes it takes a day or two, sometimes two or three weeks, and I never quite know where I’m going to end up. Say, raise your hand if you’ve ever known someone with a mental illness. Is everyone’s hand up? Whether you know it or not, your friend, coworker, neighbor, running buddy, teacher, cousin, barista, mail carrier—someone you know lives with a mental illness. It’s a has, not an is. He’s not obsessive-compulsive…he has it. She’s not schizophrenic…she has it. It’s not the most important of distinctions, but it makes a difference. When you feel like all you are is one big label, it’s amazing to remember that you are not the thing itself, but just a carrier.
If you are uncomfortable or upset at all by this topic, please please feel free to stop reading. I don’t want to force knowledge on anyone, and mental illness (I haven’t found a better term yet so if you have a suggestion I’m all ears) can be a touchy and painful topic. But I’m coming clean. One of my good friends reminded me once that although it’s scary as hell, telling 5 people means that you usually get at least 1 more on your team. This has been a long, hard 2 and a half weeks. There have been all nighters when I can’t seem to stop my mind from reeling and sometimes it seemed that my grasp on the world around was slipping. That’s a terrifying feeling, to look around and see that everything that was once familiar has become foreign. It scares me down to my bones thinking about the years ahead. And it makes me shudder to think of the people I could inadvertently bring this down on. The mornings are amazingly still, not peaceful but that calm in the eye of a storm, when I am unaware if I will be furious by 9am, in tears by 2. You know, someday I want to have a kid. While that is a ways off, I have to be considerate of that desire. And for a number of reasons, each more important than the last, right now the level of responsibility I feel that I have to keep myself even increases exponentially, daily, weekly, sometimes hourly. So I work to the bones trying to find the best ways to steady myself, relying on the meds as a safety net but not a fix all or a cure. It may be a chemical imbalance at its core but how I react to it is what makes me human. I run and I write, I breathe in and out, I get up everyday and go through the motions. Sometimes you have to fake it till you make it! My family and friends have been affected and that more than anything makes me sad. Makes me angry. It’s the old pattern, you see, where the ones who you love the most are the ones who inevitably end up hurting the most. Sometimes I cannot help but apologize, for nothing at all but for everything, for yesterday, and today, and tomorrow.
I have an amazing family. I have an amazing group of friends and coworkers who have formed a protective circle whenever I need one. There are 12 of them who I can call or email or text when there’s flare-up. That’s what we call it, a flare-up. We call them docs and talk-docs, swings, rough patches, taking care of yourself. We normalize it and joke about it; yup, it’s a we. They never look at me differently and they don’t seem to mind even when I call them at 2 in the morning. They don’t mind when I ask for an extra hug or show up for dinner or stand outside on a break and cry out of the sheer exhaustion of keeping my feet on the ground and my head up. They remind me to run for solace, eat even when I’m not hungry, and know to ask all the right questions. I don’t think I ever realized that I would get to this place, but tonight I look around up at the stars, and the clouds blowing in, and realize that once again I am home through no fault of my own. I realize that my hands were held and I didn’t feel when they let me go. The Warrior this last time reminded me that this is an ultra, not a 5k, and I am in it for the long haul. When the skin has been shed and the finish line crossed, raw and blistered, I get to return again to a better version of myself. And don’t we all do that, from time to time? She looked at me tonight and observed that you seem more like yourself again. The Worker noticed that I was smiling again. There you are. They don’t forget who I really am, even when I can’t remember, and I am flowingly fortunate to have them all.
So why am I writing this? Well, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure. There’s not much to be gained and a lot to lose. I’ve had friends walk away, scared or fed up, and I can’t blame them. Well. Maybe I can but I don’t, at least not anymore. I have all the tools I need and every time I hit a new rough patch I learn another way to even out, how to return to myself faster than the last time. At least that’s the hope and the goal. Like I said, I have the people and the tools and the safety nets. But I am lucky, and everyday I work with people who do not have those things. I watch so many of our clients self-medicate and leave their families in the wake of the spirals, the frustrations, the incontrollable inconsolable days, the nights when they too feel that they have left themselves behind. They live in a world that is next to normal but not quite, and I know that feeling. I can’t help but believe that they are indestructibly good. I can’t explain why, but I’m not ready to give up that faith just yet. So I guess I’m writing it for some of them, in a way. I’m not always good at looking at them with a tempered and compassionate eye, but I’m working on it. Maybe it’s an apology, maybe it’s asking for some patience. Maybe it’s just a quiet reminder to my own heart that some of these parents are not so different from myself. And if I can do it, so can they.
So thanks for reading. Thanks for your kindnesses, your patience, your shoulders and kicks in the rear. I can feel a wind fostering in the north. The rains are coming back and with them one more way to step beyond the bad days. There aren’t enough ways to tell you how I love the rain so much, and why the gray skies wrap a blanket around my shoulders. You know that smell right after a storm has passed, when the world smells sweet and earthy? Or the sound of a pounding deluge on the rood, when the thunder drowns out everything but the echoing thud of your heart? It is a promise of tomorrow. And I can’t help but dance along, hearing music of my own, profane and sacred and joyful. On the rainy days when I’m nowhere to be found, know that I am wrestling with the angels and the demons, and that once more I will emerge sweaty and breathless and stained with light.

Stealing Home

In 1947, Jackie Robinson changed the game of baseball with 80 feet and 7 seconds. He was 28 years old. When my dad told me the story of Jackie Robinson stealing home, his voice turned cobalt blue, rich, tinged sun yellow with excitement. Here was a player worth following! Here was a player who was a man first, and an adventurer second, and a baseball player third—he had heart. Which is really all you need, was the message he wanted us to hear, me and the Cheetah.

Picture us for a second, if you would: my brother was a skinny spit with a floptop of brown hair and unfortunate glasses (not of his own choosing to be sure); I was a round little smudge with a bowl cut to rival his and an aversion to girly clothes. Basically I wanted to be his body double, a tomboy to the max, which meant that by the time I was five I could name most of the Star Wars ships and the Vulcan peace sign was no big thing. There is a picture of the two of us in Starfleet uniforms, I am 6 or 7, he is 9 or 10, our fingers carefully arranged to mimic Spock. It is an accurate portrayal of the best moments of my childhood. We were not the most athletic of kids; sure we played tball and soccer, much later he ran track and I played rugby, but as kids we had other interests. Our parents didn’t care what we were passionate about, as long as we were passionate about something. And my father told us stories of afternoons he spent in Yankee Stadium, watching Mantle, DiMaggio, Maris, and the rest. Mixed in were stories of the towering fleet-footed Shoeless Joe and the Great Bambino and Mr. Robinson the lion-hearted man.

He changed the game because he did something that people said could never be done. The course of history changed, his history and the game and 1947 and the world around, changed because now something new was again possible. And with the achievement of another victory, another stride of greatness, came the promise that one day another player would achieve something even more remarkable. Change eases open the present day door, yes, but I think it does more than that; I think it pushes the boulders away from the entrance of the tunnel so we can see the mountaintops beyond. So that far off the beginning of shrouded years, imbued with silence, peek over the horizon. From where I lie tonight on my living room floor I can see through the screen to the stars overhead, and while I have not felt hopeful about much the past few weeks, I cannot help but sigh as a little grace sneaks into my hearts, much needed and familiar. From where I lie tonight on my floor, Max stretched out on the bench and Ruby stretched out beside, I am bolstered by last weekend.

The Inspiration did a 12 hour run last weekend up in Olympia. She and Doughnut and Boston were all there. I needed to get in a 20 and when she invited me up to join her, I jumped at the chance. I love running and walking with this woman. She is someone I aspire to be like, strong and determined, someone who can get back up after life deals those inevitable hard blows. We can go in silence, companionable, matching stride for stride, each keeping our legs and elbows and shoulders in time to the other. And we can chatter away, about plans and work and stories and men, and how much we are hurting at this very moment, and what we want to eat RIGHT NOW. There are very few people I can run or walk with for that amount of time and not feel an internal pressure to go quicker so that I don’t slow them down, but with the Inspiration I never feel that. And it was a privilege to speed walk 21.5 miles with her, a privilege to join her on this journey. It wasn’t her first of timed races and I can see why she likes them. There’s no expectation of a certain number of miles—if it takes you an hour a time to get around the 1.5 mile loop, then that’s how long it takes you. And if you can do an ultra in 5 hours like Boston (shout out, Speedy Gonzales!) then that’s how long it takes you. The Inspiration mentioned at one point that she was thrilled I came up; yet she did more for me than I did for her, the pleasure was mine. And no one was having their best day, so I didn’t exactly fill the role of peppy pacer terribly well, but the Inspiration didn’t seem to mind.

After 21.5 miles and massive blisters (my last long one in dying shoes), I tapped out and watched keep on going. Her stride was long, determined, powerful, and I began to understand that I was watching someone do a truly magnificent feat. Most people can’t imagine doing a 12 hour race. Most people are in awe when I tell them that I got to be a part of part of one. That because of her, I am planning my first 12 hour race. That because of her, something new is possible in my life. I have changed because of what I saw her do, and now I can see another goal waiting to be achieved. It’s not about speed or slow. It’s not about running or walking or crawling or skipping, it’s simply about heart. And of course there is nothing simple about having the heart to do a 12 hour race. For that matter, there’s nothing simple about having the heart to do a 5k. No matter the length, if it is a step beyond what you ever thought you’d do, then you are for a single avalanching moment stealing home. You are sliding in under the tag to the roar of a crowd who has witnessed the impossible, and is just now realizing it as you pop to your feet and shake the dust off your shoes. I learned in steps last weekend what my father aimed to teach us for years. Speed and strength and distance are not the tools necessary to complete a goal; no, they are the by-products of courage, determination, and a heart like Jackie’s. If you come believing you will start, and you will finish, then you will. Dead fucking last is greater than did not finish, which is of course greater than did not start.

Thank you, Inspiration, for letting me join you for a few laps last weekend. Any time you want a buddy for any amount of miles, you know where to find me. And thanks for introducing me to Jackie Robinson. I never thought I’d get to meet him, but watching you stride away I learned that you don’t have to be the first one in to change the world. You just have to keep going, put one foot in front of the other, and know that the finish line is yours. You just have to know that your sliding toes will touch home plate before the catcher can tag you out. I learned that from you. So once again, thank you. Have fun this weekend!

Celestial Navigation

I am not a runner. Not now, anyways.

I have been, in my days. In my short time here, I have been a stage manager and a nanny, a technician, a marathoner, and a student. I have been a girlfriend and a hand to hold, and a dodgeball sniper, a fighter, a thief and a wanderer, a poet, a social worker and I am still Tessa's "favorite Amy". I am fortunate, for I am and will remain a daughter, a sister, a friend, a granddaughter, and an aunt-to-be (I'm especially excited about that last one, by the way. Starfish!! Keep on growing!!).

But I am not a runner. I ran my last 1/2 marathon of the year in June. It was the last of four and after that I stopped. No taper, no maybes, it was a cold-turkey completely done and unexpected to boot. The Vancouver half was the third weekend in June and since then I haven't had a weekend where I was in town or not house-sitting. To give myself a little leeway, I'm still working full-time and then some (um, thank goodness for that), and there have been various weddings, trips, and fun to be had. It's been a good summer. Except for that my legs stopped missing the sidewalk and my lungs stopped missing the burn and my face stopped missing the drops of sweat, and my heart turned away from this part of my life that has brought me to who I am now. As Muddy would say, "my mojo just won't work on you". The spell of long distance had been broken. I spent a lot of time beating myself up. I sought out wonderful runner chicks who walked and ran with me, and in the Rockstar's case, put up a whole WALL of awesome motivation on her blog. It helped. It did. I made plans to do a 15 with the Fanatic, then an 18 with the Inspiration 1, finally a 20 with Snortbuddy. I am indebted to their support and hope to return the favor soon!

Still. I kept wondering when I would come home. As the Warrior has reminded me time and again, it is your heart that keeps you going when the feet want to give up, and my heart just wasn't in it. But then I remembered going up the St. John's Bridge with the Warrior during my first marathon, to be joined by the Cheetah, the Comeback, and the Newbie on the other side, and decided that it was worth it to try. Just one more time. I have fought harder battles than this and won with smiles. There were people I could go to, if I wanted--endless hordes of supporters and friends--but it was time to make it happen on my own. So for the first time ever, this week I bought a new pair of running shoes on my own (this might not seem like a big deal, but let's face it, every month gets ridiculously tight, so having saved up this money was a HUGE, GINORMOUS deal. Until now I have relied on the love of my family to keep me in shoes and they haven't failed me once. They are the best a girl could ever hope for. Amazing.). The pair I have been running in are 8 months old and have taken me about 350 miles. It was time. So I got myself to FitRight, got the new shoes--oh, they are beautiful--and came home on Saturday to a giant wall. The Inspiration was running in CLR over on the coast. Shit. I was super happy that she was doing it, don't get me wrong!! She's a force of nature and I know that any relay team is pure gold when she's with them. So this one had to be on my own.

I got up Sunday morning and fumbled around for a bit, running little errands, and doing everything I could to get out of it. But time came and I mapped out my loops. Put on the kicks, got the Camelbak, and just went for it. I forced myself into a rhythm--run 2 blocks, walk 1, repeat--and decided that instead of just running to my halfway mark, what I really wanted to see was the water. Needed to see the water. So I went 5 and change to halfway out on the St Johns Bridge. This bridge is something else, it's absolutely my favorite place to run, and as soon as I reached it I felt a shift. It's not something to be described, but you all know it. It's that moment when the tumbler clicks and the safe pops open, when the puzzle of the White Album cover (damn you, John Lennon!) is finally done, when you first tied your shoes by yourself all those years ago--it is the completion of a task that has awakened endless possibilities. It was hard. It was hot, I was heckled by three different cars of young men (dear boys, go run 18 and then come back to mock my pace thank you very much) and when I made it back home (11 and change in) to get the pup (I couldn't make her do 18 with me, I just couldn't, so I went for it Autumn Leaves style and challenged myself to pass the finish line and keep going for another lap), it took quite a lot of willpower to go back out. But you know, I did. The Runner had a lot to do with it, she was dancing on two paws and kept herding me towards the door, I couldn't deny her longings. By the end she was cursing me with every fiber of her dog heart (it is SO hard to be little and black and run in 75 degree weather! i am SO put upon you know) but we did it.

Finally. I started without a doubt I would finish. What power! It was hardly of my own accord, my Chicks were the wind at my back and when I put my face up to feel the sun I knew I wasn't doing this alone. 18.5 miles and I fell in love with running again.

What's the point of this post? A little pride, for sure--or a lot to be honest. This was big, maybe even bigger than my first marathon. A rejoicing in the miles won, in the miles regained. A thank you, again and again and again, to the women who bring me home every time to the pavement and the air and the steps, back to where I am supposed to be. And a gentle reminder: we all lose our mojo. It'll happen, from time to time. Not just in running; we all have those days or weeks or months when who we are is so far away from the person we want to be, 50 miles of terrain and a lifetime in the distance. And that's ok. It really is. Tell your friends--tell your parents--tell your kids: to be fallible is to be human. Humanity's inherent grace seems to lie in that ingrained ability we all have to pick ourselves up--dust ourselves off--and start all over again.

My grandfather's favorite saying was one he made up himself, living in a one room apartment in the Bronx at the height of Depression summer heat and pining for a girl he loved teaching at a summer camp in upstate New York: i am not lost. i am right here. So when the day comes that you find yourself a bit off your way, I urge you to stop. Take a beat, take a breath. Orient yourself by the stars and the sun, and you will find your way home again.

I did.

I am once again a runner.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

out here it's all cheatgrass
purple pitted sunset sweating
and swearing down the sidestreets
empty little alleyways
graveled arbors

out here it's amber and hellish
auspicious hours passing in reckless joy
wasting down the riverside and
flogged till each memory is gone
till there's nothing but eternities

out here there is a sadness, in these parts
feet torn to shreds and calves burning
shrinking trees flightless birds
the sky's magnitude and her devotions
outshouting all the rest

out here it's nothing but headlines
blisters bursting red
swallowed to drowning in desire for the finish
made with the joy/lost
in the rhythm

back to Wildwood the runner goes
if there are rabbits they are gone back into the underbrush
if there are squirrels they have fled
if there is faith it has ascended, hanging from the branches--
undercutting the air

out here she's unaware beyond the next
step each footfall tracing an outline
shadowed by dusk ripped through
with grace
the rest, is unimportant.

Helvetia!

The night before a race never fails to astound me. I put my bags together, then take it all out and put it back one more time, just to make sure I have everything. Walking down my stairs to pull one last thing out of my car, I feel my shoulders relax and fall back, my legs work their muscles just to be sure they are there. My mind clears and there is just the road in front of me.

I have a hard job. It is one I chose and fought for, and I make NO pretense that it is by any means the hardest job of the group. Beyond that, hard is something we all face. Everyone’s job is hard. Everyone has bad days. This week I cried 5 times. Once was because we are going to the union on my boss, once because the State still wants to cut my salary by 20% and we will be without a contract as of July 1st. Once was because a parent called me a bitch, once because a grandparent—the foster mom to her four month old granddaughter—thanked me for my hard work. And once was for a kid we lost. Sometimes I find myself brought to me knees without realizing I am there. Yet this is not something I want to walk away from. For all the fights and weights, the endless uphill, there is a great—an immense and joyous—amount of success, laughter, and love. Still I am humbled tonight, a little sore at heart, perhaps a little worse for the wear. Why am I telling you this? Not, as you may think, to complain—and I hope it doesn’t come off that way. Not to gain support. But so that you will understand my full weight when I say that tonight, on the eve of a race I have worked so hard to get to, when I say that tonight, the rest is unimportant.

So before I start, to my Chicks—with extra great love for the Loping Fanatic and the Doughnut Fiend, for the Warrior and her Buddy, for the Inspirations One and Two—thank you for tonight. Whether you know it or not, whether we have ever met in person, you are part of the reason that I can sit here tonight and forget my week. With your help I am inching towards tomorrow, towards the start line and the finish line, and while I am not fast, or graceful, I can do this. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart—and what’s more, from the soles of my feet!

It hurt. This one hurt, guys, like hell, more than any half has since my first. We started the morning with doughnuts and hugs, a buoying of spirits, a trundle to the start line. The DM, LF, and I stick together out of the gate and for the hours toe come. Honestly I don’t remember that much. I remember that the chafing started around mile 3 and that the mile markers came much faster then they usually do. We had great fun! We talked about chafing and sports bras and toenail losses and kids and jobs and changes ahead. We talked about Autumn Leaves and how we have no problem being the “runner version of crazy” versus any other kind of crazy. And wow, was it beautiful out there, with overhanging trees and horses, old houses and fields of flowers just waiting to bloom. It was a fantastic course with a crazy impressive amount of aid stations. Man. Did we have fun!!! We walked the uphills and ran the downs, airplaned and windmilled and on one memorable occasion, pranced like horses and loped like llamas. It was absolutely the most fun I’ve had during a half, ever ever ever. And holy sh*t, did it hurt. My blisters picked up steam about mile 6 and throbbed until the shoes came off at the end, on the insides of my heels, the big toes, the pads. I was allergic and wheezy so each breath burned. Uphill, downhill, the calves and quads and abs, they hurt. The Doughnut Maniac and the Loping Fanatic checked in with me periodically, at times pacing ahead, at times flocking each side, making sure I didn’t forget that I could do this. With them I made it to the gravel half mile, which hurt all of us. Damn gravel. I turned to the LF as we neared the road. “Ok, when you pass the DM, tell her to go ahead too.” She peered at me. “Really?” “Um, sure”. She grins, the joy I have come to treasure during our runs and says “nope. We have it all worked out.” We get to mile 11 and she takes off. The DM says “do you have headphones?” “Yup.” “Put em on. Stay by my shoulder, don’t stop, zone out. Follow my lead.” “Yup.” We put our headphones on and I pick up the walk to a slow shuffle, partly to stay at her shoulder and partly to relive the pressure off my blisters. “Want me to slow down?” “No, please don’t, I like this pace.” The sun gets hotter and we reach the overpass. Halfway to 12 and we push up the hill to find the smokin’ hot ODOT guys waiting to cheer us on. Back down the other side to the aid station and she reminds me to get what I need but just keep moving. So I do. On the other side of the aid station we pick up to a shuffle again and suddenly we are mile 12. “Here we go!” The last mile is by far the hardest. Holy crap. My calves cramp and my face flushes, and I have to walk. Yet there is no defeat. About .2 miles out I catch up to the Doughnut Maniac and she matches to the 13, then says “GO!” And I do, take off sprinting like the world is on fire and here it is, my finish. I stumble into the waiting arms of the Loping Fanatic. We take pictures of her, the DM, and me, we suck down water and grab smoothies and head up to find the LF’s mother in law with our bags and my sign and the burgers. Somewhere between collapsing on the lawn with my food and taking off the shoes to find bloody socks, between taking endless pictures with that Half Fanatic sign and my girls, between beginnings and endings, I remember that I finished. That we finished. Then I remember that more importantly, I started. It hurt. It was hilarious, and fun, and silly, and gorgeous. I had a fantastic time with my partners in lunacy. We started, and we finished, and in between we lived a thousand little lifetimes, and you know what? Today, nothing else matters.