Namaste

"The divine spark in my soul honors the divine in yours."

Seventeen days into the new year and I can count how many times I've laced up my running shoes to pound the pavement or go round and round on the treadmill.

Sure, sure.

I could blame it on the stomach flu, the arctic fucking tundra that has given us two snow days, the pitch black mornings, the new course I'm teaching, the busyness of my three children...but really, honestly, truly...

I haven't wanted to.

I keep trading my sneakers for my Mala beads and mat and find myself in the yoga studio instead.

I don't know why. 

Frequently, when I arrive, I'm agitated.  I wonder if spending 60 or 90-minutes will be worth it.  I stress when I slip my socks off to share my calloused feet, pull my roomy shirt overhead to expose my winter white grandma arms and secure my Downward-Facing Dog--only to remember that oh yeah--I can't make my heels touch the ground or properly Chaturanga.

But I keep going.  And often, while I'm there, it's not fast enough or hard enough.  Those are reminders that my body does miss the adrenaline, heart pumping, sweat drenching feeling that running gives.  Sometimes, the instructor tells me too much about my body and I can't understand why my sit bones can't just sit wherever they land.  And then, there's often the gorgeous girl who came out of the womb as a California Malibu yogi and I am transported back to my reflection in the mirror...a middle aged, midwestern mama who is soft and often, insecure and yet, here I am.

I feel the strongest when I sweep my arms up and over my head, into prayer position, eyes closed, breath in and out, mind cleared of clutter {for the briefest of brief} moments and I see {not in the mirror} the woman I know myself to be.

Bright, brilliant, beautiful.

And in that moment, it dawns on me that my mantra for this space {certainly, we're far past New Year's resolutions}, but maybe just for the space of today and at least tomorrow, is:

Open
Alive
Free

Because that's what I want...the chance for my heart to be open to the possibility of what can and will be...to feel more alive and vibrant...so that I can be free of all the tricks my mind plays like who I'm not or where I lack.

I'm still resolute to getting my running shoes back where they belong and my playlist revamped, but I'm also committed to lots of Namaste in the new year.  It just feels really good.

Life in the Margins

It rained hard last night.

The kind of pounding against the roof that at 1am, woke me up disoriented, scrambling to close windows, while reassuring my children that everything was okay.

Grabbing a glass of water, I tried to read and then to write and then to turn off the light and finally, acquiesced to change my 4:30am gym alarm to a 6:30am wake the kids up one.

While fighting to go back to sleep, I thought, I hate being alone with my thoughts.  Neurotic and worrisome, I'm constantly thinking about everything I need to get done, questioning how it's going to get done and then second guessing the bigger questions.

Rolling over to turn off the alarm,  I steadied my way down the stairs to the coffee pot and breathed.  "Every moment is a choice and in this one, choose joy," I banged out in my best self-help voice.  The good news was that Claire (5) and I had no where to be, so we donned our rain garb and headed out for an outdoor adventure.

Halfway down the path, she jumped in the biggest puddle known to man, drenched her dress and soaked her socks.  A little ways farther, she spent what felt like an eternity, having an in-depth dialogue with a worm that she was horrified to discover, was deceased.  I told her in different words that last night's storm was a ferocious bitch and then we said a "Hail Mary" for our wayward friend.

Just as I was getting tired of doing nothing, she noticed a man rollerblading holding the leashes of two wiener dogs and she belted out, "That's dangerous.  Where's your helmet?"  I thought for sure, he would glide right past us with his canines, but instead, he stopped and said, "You're right.  It's in my car.  I'll grab it."  And to my amazement, he wasn't put off at all.

She looked at me beaming and said, "Safety first."

Watching her catapult down the slide, wriggle sand between her toes and try to introduce herself to the little people at the park, it made me thankful that I left my phone at home.  I couldn't take a picture of her.  I couldn't check to see if the AC inspection people called back.  I couldn't see if it was going to rain later this afternoon.  I couldn't do anything other than feel the wind, watch her play and soak in the 60 degree May morning.

And I realized that the real life happens in the margins, not in the calendar.

While I pawn off these moments as boring or burdensome as I try to get the real things done...the truth of it is...that this is what it means to literally live in the moment free of the fear of what there is to do and worry for how it won't measure up.

This weekend, I'm headed by myself to write...all. weekend. long.  And already, I've thought about canceling the trip a million times.  What if they need me?  What if it rains?  What if I'm by myself and I can't stop thinking?

I think if that happens, I'm going to find a dead worm and have a conversation with it.  I feel like that's a good place to start...

Guilty No More

Not long ago, I wrote a creative non-fiction essay focused on my love affair with guilt.

The opening lines went something like this...

"Other than my mother, nothing has loved me more than guilt.  Its stuck by me in all seasons. The very moment that I try to let it go even for a brief sabbatical is the instant that it calls me home, reminding me that we are partners for life."

I continued the essay trying to get my bearings, hell-bent on determining the origin of my obsession. Was it my Catholic upbringing, my parents' divorce, my need to please others, who knows?

And then, in traditional Kelly form, I went for a run and this song came blaring through my headphones:

And it struck me, to live ones' life under the guise of guilt is not to live at all.  It is to be frozen in the past or to reel forward to an unknown future, fearing that you'll mess something up there as well.  It is to constantly question, to doubt, to play it safe, to wonder, to worry and to not walk on the cracks in the sidewalk. And it is exhausting.

The greatest source of guilt I contend with is whether or not I'm fucking up my children.  I think most mothers walk around with this daily source of concern.  We worry that we're not around enough or that we're hovering too closely.  We caution that we're being too hard on them or that they're becoming entitled, spoiled brats who will be living in our basement at 30.  We are quick to anger and judgement and slow to patience and grace.  We also know that this day will not come again and sometimes, you just can't take back what you said or didn't say when you should.  And God damn it, the stakes are high.  I can't think of anything I care about more.

But today, on my run, I decided that it's better for me to fuck them up and get really good at apologizing over and over again than to live in a constant state of paralysis.  Every meaningful relationship is based on saying "I'm sorry" again and again and again.  So, modeling that I'm human and that I'm trying to do the best in the moment, seems better than trying to feign perfection, falling short, digging myself into a deeper hole daily.

I'm not sure that I'll ever be completely free of guilt...it just seems to be in my blood.  But knowing what I know about the human condition, it's better to operate from a place of recognition as opposed to a permanent residence.  It's better to be alive, free of the bars of guilt.

You Only Live When You Feel Like You're Dying

I read once or maybe heard in a song, or maybe remembered in a dream, or maybe all three...the phrase...

You only live when you feel like you're dying.

And this has stuck with me.

I don't take the concept literally as when you're given a terminal diagnosis or the plane is going down, although, many people have shared those sentiments when they've been inches away from their own mortality.

No, for me, the words feel real when I think about the times that I'm most uncomfortable, hurting, unsure of how to get out from the rock...that unknown place where its raw, fragile, brittle, incomplete.

At least for me, that's when I've grown the most, carried the experiences with me viscerally to the point that I can recall the way something tasted, and felt with every fiber of my being that I was alive.

Last weekend, I went for a 9-mile run.  It was one of the first sunshiny days in January and I felt compelled to bundle up and soak it in.  Three miles into the journey, I hit a patch of black ice crossing a major thorough fare and watched myself go down.  Bracing for the impact, I threw my hands in front of my body, twisted, and landed my weight on my right hand and right foot...all within an instant.  It hurt and all I could think was...fuck.

I decided that if this was my last training run due to injury that I would run until I couldn't anymore hoping to complete the 9-miles.  Ridiculous, I know.  But in the grand scheme of wanting something, I didn't want black ice to stand in my way.

I ran the remainder feeling a sore foot, a bruised ego, and a fearful heart.

Over the course of my run, I gave pause and time to a few friends I've been praying for who are going through surreal, unbelievable, and painful times.  And when the miles got hard, my breathing labored and I wanted to stop, I kept thinking of them, hoping for them, believing that through the pain, life would undoubtedly emerge....and with each mile, it all seemed to feel more hopeful.

And the fall and the phrase that I once heard or made up or something...helped to harness both the rawness and the richness of life that finds me frequently when I think I can't give anymore.  And just when it felt like I couldn't make another lap around the bend, my heart took me where my feet didn't want to go and suddenly, a cold, sunshiny January day reminded me that I am alive and all is well.