Seven days from today, I leave to go to the windy city to run a half marathon.
I've been writing for days about how anxious, excited, hopeful and at times afraid that I am for the experience.
I'm trying to view it as an adventure and to relish in the moments.
So, as I'm visualizing me in Chicago, and particularly as I run my last 13-mile training run tomorrow...I plan to meditate on the following:
I am strong.
I am trained.
I am powerful.
I am at peace.
I am open.
I will be changed.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Why Can't Americans Enjoy Life?
I read an interesting article the other day sort of nailing the way that we as Americans live.
First, it sited that we're one of the most productive nations on earth.
We work more hours than most, take few vacations, and equate "face time" in the office with a strong sense of work ethic, dedication, commitment, and accomplishment.
Pragmatically though, when we finish our 40, 50, 60 hour work weeks or our 8, 10, 12 hour days, we're often too tired or just plain out of time to cook dinner. So, we grab something on the way home that usually resembles Jimmy Johns or Taco Bell.
Once the weekend hits, we have to "do" all of the things that we didn't get done during the week like the laundry, mowing the lawn, buying groceries (throwing out all of the produce that went unused during the week), and cleaning the house.
By the end of the day or the weekend, we just want to veg out. We don't have energy to engage in something. We want to be entertained. So, we watch garbage cable or movies and binge on crap food. Because, damn it, we've worked hard and we deserve it.
This phenomena or way of life is all our own. The Europeans don't subscribe to it. They may get into the office at 9am, take a siesta from 1-3pm, enjoy a leisurely dinner with family/friends over a bottle of wine, and sleep. And they take a long maternity leave and use their weeks of vacation. Not to say that they don't suffer from challenges like demanding client deadlines and shit that needs to get done around the flat. But, the culture as a whole doesn't promote the need to constantly be "doing" something.
So why do we struggle with enjoying our lives? Why do we equate working an insane number of hours to strength? When we look back, will we feel satisfied, content with our quality of life, and with the experiences we sacrificed to make sure that we were at our desks by 7am?
I'm not sure of the answer. I just know that there's an integral difference between doing and being and that all too often, we're far more productive in shorter stretches of time when we have time to spend with the ones and things we love.
First, it sited that we're one of the most productive nations on earth.
We work more hours than most, take few vacations, and equate "face time" in the office with a strong sense of work ethic, dedication, commitment, and accomplishment.
Pragmatically though, when we finish our 40, 50, 60 hour work weeks or our 8, 10, 12 hour days, we're often too tired or just plain out of time to cook dinner. So, we grab something on the way home that usually resembles Jimmy Johns or Taco Bell.
Once the weekend hits, we have to "do" all of the things that we didn't get done during the week like the laundry, mowing the lawn, buying groceries (throwing out all of the produce that went unused during the week), and cleaning the house.
By the end of the day or the weekend, we just want to veg out. We don't have energy to engage in something. We want to be entertained. So, we watch garbage cable or movies and binge on crap food. Because, damn it, we've worked hard and we deserve it.
This phenomena or way of life is all our own. The Europeans don't subscribe to it. They may get into the office at 9am, take a siesta from 1-3pm, enjoy a leisurely dinner with family/friends over a bottle of wine, and sleep. And they take a long maternity leave and use their weeks of vacation. Not to say that they don't suffer from challenges like demanding client deadlines and shit that needs to get done around the flat. But, the culture as a whole doesn't promote the need to constantly be "doing" something.
So why do we struggle with enjoying our lives? Why do we equate working an insane number of hours to strength? When we look back, will we feel satisfied, content with our quality of life, and with the experiences we sacrificed to make sure that we were at our desks by 7am?
I'm not sure of the answer. I just know that there's an integral difference between doing and being and that all too often, we're far more productive in shorter stretches of time when we have time to spend with the ones and things we love.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
To Work or Not to Work...Outside of My Home
All I can say is ugh.
I've been feeling a general malaise for the past few days.
Maybe it's the start of school for the big kids. Maybe it's anxiety over my upcoming half marathon race in Chicago. Maybe it's that I can't seem to motivate to cross anything off of my to-do list.
Or maybe, it's that I'm reassessing where I'm at, now that I've been an official stay-at-home mama for five years.
The truth is...I hate this damn conversation that I have with myself about every six months.
I should be making money.
I should get out of the house.
I should use my graduate school degree.
Should I work at Starbucks? Lord knows I could have paid the mortgage off by now with my daily trips.
Should I try to re-enter into the world of mediation and alternative dispute resolution? After mediating fights between little people day in and day out, I think I have some skin in the game.
Should I look for something full-time even though I still have a half day kindergartner and 20 month old toddler at home?
Should I try to grow my home based jewelry business and enjoy the tax write offs and flexible hours?
Or should I just put my head in the sand and keep staying focused on the kiddos and watching the pennies so that we don't have to overhaul our household until all three are in school?
Should I take up a crack habit or sell my body on the side?
My husband facetiously said that I could be a surrogate mother, to which I replied, I admire those women, but the idea of being pregnant makes me want to hurl. I'll eat macaroni and cheese for now.
I know I'm not alone in this dilemma that all women struggle with. The question always seems to be what's the best way to stay focused on the kids, make some money, enjoy some time away, utilize your skill sets, and feel a sense of balance?
Not sure that anyone has cornered the market on it. I guess we all just live with the trade offs.
I've been feeling a general malaise for the past few days.
Maybe it's the start of school for the big kids. Maybe it's anxiety over my upcoming half marathon race in Chicago. Maybe it's that I can't seem to motivate to cross anything off of my to-do list.
Or maybe, it's that I'm reassessing where I'm at, now that I've been an official stay-at-home mama for five years.
The truth is...I hate this damn conversation that I have with myself about every six months.
I should be making money.
I should get out of the house.
I should use my graduate school degree.
Should I work at Starbucks? Lord knows I could have paid the mortgage off by now with my daily trips.
Should I try to re-enter into the world of mediation and alternative dispute resolution? After mediating fights between little people day in and day out, I think I have some skin in the game.
Should I look for something full-time even though I still have a half day kindergartner and 20 month old toddler at home?
Should I try to grow my home based jewelry business and enjoy the tax write offs and flexible hours?
Or should I just put my head in the sand and keep staying focused on the kiddos and watching the pennies so that we don't have to overhaul our household until all three are in school?
Should I take up a crack habit or sell my body on the side?
My husband facetiously said that I could be a surrogate mother, to which I replied, I admire those women, but the idea of being pregnant makes me want to hurl. I'll eat macaroni and cheese for now.
I know I'm not alone in this dilemma that all women struggle with. The question always seems to be what's the best way to stay focused on the kids, make some money, enjoy some time away, utilize your skill sets, and feel a sense of balance?
Not sure that anyone has cornered the market on it. I guess we all just live with the trade offs.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Waiting on God...and a Bone Marrow Transplant
I was going to write about something different.
But I can't stop thinking about it.
My dad sent an email telling us that my 13-year old cousin who is suffering from Acute myeloid leukemia is not doing well.
Some of you may remember that I wrote a post about him back in the spring (see below).
Prayers Needed for My Cousin
At the time, we thought that he was a candidate for a bone marrow transplant and that the University of Nebraska Medical Center Lied Transplant Center would accept his case.
In the span of a few short months, his health became more fragile and so he is now in another state at a larger medical center fighting for a chance to receive a transplant...and each day brings a new twist to the roller coaster ride.
I called him last night. His birthday is Sunday. He's turning 14. He asked for the fifth Harry Potter book and told me that he's doing okay.
"I know that God has a plan and I'm okay with that."
Through tears, I told him that we missed him and that we wished that he wasn't so far away. I told him that he was courageous, an old soul, wise beyond his years, and that his faith was awe inspiring.
And now, I volley between anger and hope. Anger in a God that would take a child. And hope that he may be able to stay with us a little longer.
And a reminder that yet again, tomorrow is guaranteed to no one and that we must hold tight the ones we love.
But I can't stop thinking about it.
My dad sent an email telling us that my 13-year old cousin who is suffering from Acute myeloid leukemia is not doing well.
Some of you may remember that I wrote a post about him back in the spring (see below).
Prayers Needed for My Cousin
At the time, we thought that he was a candidate for a bone marrow transplant and that the University of Nebraska Medical Center Lied Transplant Center would accept his case.
In the span of a few short months, his health became more fragile and so he is now in another state at a larger medical center fighting for a chance to receive a transplant...and each day brings a new twist to the roller coaster ride.
I called him last night. His birthday is Sunday. He's turning 14. He asked for the fifth Harry Potter book and told me that he's doing okay.
"I know that God has a plan and I'm okay with that."
Through tears, I told him that we missed him and that we wished that he wasn't so far away. I told him that he was courageous, an old soul, wise beyond his years, and that his faith was awe inspiring.
And now, I volley between anger and hope. Anger in a God that would take a child. And hope that he may be able to stay with us a little longer.
And a reminder that yet again, tomorrow is guaranteed to no one and that we must hold tight the ones we love.
Monday, August 27, 2012
The Joy of the First Day of School
I was that kid.
You know the one who had her clothes laid out neatly the night before with matching shoes, socks, and hair barrette.
The one who always made sure all of the number two pencils were sharpened and that a good breakfast was had before heading out for the big day.
Meeting my teachers, touching my text books, finding my desk, and diving into the task at hand was glorious.
You never had to remind me to do my homework. I wouldn't let myself go outside and 'play' until every last bit of it was done.
I nagged my mom to leave our friends' houses early on nights before tests and took academics seriously, always.
And so, this morning over a hot breakfast, my second grader and kindergartner prepared for their first days of school. Sam (7) said, "Mama, how did you feel when you were a little kid on your first day?" To which I replied, "So, so, so excited!" And he said, "I feel a little sick in my stomach. I guess I'm nervous."
Insanely focused on making sure that we had enough time to take pictures at home and at school, I didn't pay much attention to his concern. But my husband did. He patiently talked to him about how normal it is to feel a little anxious about the unknown and that sooner rather than later, he would have everything down pat.
I sat back and watched. These are the first steps. The first moments of asserting independence and of letting go. These are the times for reassurance, but also for saying, it's okay, you can do it. These are the memories that we'll reflect back on and think, they're not so little anymore. They're finding their way in the world without us.
I'll leave in an hour to pick him up and with a semi-progress report in hand (my husband volunteered to help serve lunch today) feel somewhat assured that all went well. But even knowing that, I recognize that it's okay to be nervous, anxious, worried. The most important part is stepping out in faith, even when you are apprehensive...for both children and parents...especially, this mama.
You know the one who had her clothes laid out neatly the night before with matching shoes, socks, and hair barrette.
The one who always made sure all of the number two pencils were sharpened and that a good breakfast was had before heading out for the big day.
Meeting my teachers, touching my text books, finding my desk, and diving into the task at hand was glorious.
You never had to remind me to do my homework. I wouldn't let myself go outside and 'play' until every last bit of it was done.
I nagged my mom to leave our friends' houses early on nights before tests and took academics seriously, always.
And so, this morning over a hot breakfast, my second grader and kindergartner prepared for their first days of school. Sam (7) said, "Mama, how did you feel when you were a little kid on your first day?" To which I replied, "So, so, so excited!" And he said, "I feel a little sick in my stomach. I guess I'm nervous."
Insanely focused on making sure that we had enough time to take pictures at home and at school, I didn't pay much attention to his concern. But my husband did. He patiently talked to him about how normal it is to feel a little anxious about the unknown and that sooner rather than later, he would have everything down pat.
I sat back and watched. These are the first steps. The first moments of asserting independence and of letting go. These are the times for reassurance, but also for saying, it's okay, you can do it. These are the memories that we'll reflect back on and think, they're not so little anymore. They're finding their way in the world without us.
I'll leave in an hour to pick him up and with a semi-progress report in hand (my husband volunteered to help serve lunch today) feel somewhat assured that all went well. But even knowing that, I recognize that it's okay to be nervous, anxious, worried. The most important part is stepping out in faith, even when you are apprehensive...for both children and parents...especially, this mama.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
They Call Her Love
I've had love on the brain lately.
Mostly, because everywhere I turn, I see ugliness.
Political digs. Facebook commentary. Billboard signage. Commercials. Protests. Sidebar conversations.
So the other day, when I was driving, this song came on. It's an old one. You've probably heard it before. Not paid it any attention. That's cool.
But it grabbed me because the band Parachute personifies love as a woman...a person...an entity...someone who saves.
And the truth is, we're spending lots of time, energy, resources, and space hating on each other. I know it's not that simple. I know, in our minds, we find all kinds of justifications, rationalizations, and reasons for our behavior. We've got to create a better governmental system. We need to save our children's future. What about the environment? The machine is broken.
But at the end of the day, what I'm finding is less people engaged motivated by hope and more people apathetic to change of any kind. It's not true for everyone, but it's certainly palpable.
I told a friend the other day that I was sorry. Sorry for not being there for her. Sorry for the place that she'd found herself in. Sorry that our connection wasn't stronger. And I ended with, I love you.
They call her love, love, love. They call her love, love, love. She is all I need.
Mostly, because everywhere I turn, I see ugliness.
Political digs. Facebook commentary. Billboard signage. Commercials. Protests. Sidebar conversations.
So the other day, when I was driving, this song came on. It's an old one. You've probably heard it before. Not paid it any attention. That's cool.
But it grabbed me because the band Parachute personifies love as a woman...a person...an entity...someone who saves.
And the truth is, we're spending lots of time, energy, resources, and space hating on each other. I know it's not that simple. I know, in our minds, we find all kinds of justifications, rationalizations, and reasons for our behavior. We've got to create a better governmental system. We need to save our children's future. What about the environment? The machine is broken.
But at the end of the day, what I'm finding is less people engaged motivated by hope and more people apathetic to change of any kind. It's not true for everyone, but it's certainly palpable.
I told a friend the other day that I was sorry. Sorry for not being there for her. Sorry for the place that she'd found herself in. Sorry that our connection wasn't stronger. And I ended with, I love you.
They call her love, love, love. They call her love, love, love. She is all I need.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Just Listen to Me...I Love You
This morning, I ran 12 miles.
The evolution of the run was pretty typical. My first two miles are always the hardest. The music starts to pump, my feet hit the pavement, my breath is choppy, and I spend what seems to be an inordinate amount of time trying to find my groove.
I start to fuel and hydrate. I exhale and then it happens, I get lost. I know my training course so well that I could probably run it blindfolded and this morning it served me well.
I was able to really think and clear my head.
It's been a long week. An intense week with my husband out of town and all of the last minute summer festivities unfolding before school starts on Monday.
So, it was with a big smile on my face that I remembered Kate, my little girl getting ready to start Kindergarten. It was the night of her Open House and for some reason, I was distracted and not paying attention to her. All of a sudden, she grabbed the sides of my face and said, "Just listen to me, I love you."
It caught me completely off guard and captured all of me immediately.
With all of the hoopla and anxiety surrounding my trip to Chicago to run a half marathon race, I've been clinging to my faith. Praying that the logistics will take care of themselves. Hoping that the weather will hold out on race day. Trusting that my legs, heart, and spirit will get me through. Believing that I'll feel connected to the friends that I haven't seen in years. And feeling secure that the time, the energy, and the agony will have been worth it.
And strangely in those moments, I hear God saying, "Just listen to me, I love you." I'm with you...each step...each moment...each memory. This is a gift. Enjoy it.
The evolution of the run was pretty typical. My first two miles are always the hardest. The music starts to pump, my feet hit the pavement, my breath is choppy, and I spend what seems to be an inordinate amount of time trying to find my groove.
I start to fuel and hydrate. I exhale and then it happens, I get lost. I know my training course so well that I could probably run it blindfolded and this morning it served me well.
I was able to really think and clear my head.
It's been a long week. An intense week with my husband out of town and all of the last minute summer festivities unfolding before school starts on Monday.
So, it was with a big smile on my face that I remembered Kate, my little girl getting ready to start Kindergarten. It was the night of her Open House and for some reason, I was distracted and not paying attention to her. All of a sudden, she grabbed the sides of my face and said, "Just listen to me, I love you."
It caught me completely off guard and captured all of me immediately.
With all of the hoopla and anxiety surrounding my trip to Chicago to run a half marathon race, I've been clinging to my faith. Praying that the logistics will take care of themselves. Hoping that the weather will hold out on race day. Trusting that my legs, heart, and spirit will get me through. Believing that I'll feel connected to the friends that I haven't seen in years. And feeling secure that the time, the energy, and the agony will have been worth it.
And strangely in those moments, I hear God saying, "Just listen to me, I love you." I'm with you...each step...each moment...each memory. This is a gift. Enjoy it.
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