One of the things that I really love – like intensely appreciate – about Vancouver is that it rains when the sun is shining. To some, this might be a depressing paradox. To me, it's really remarkable. It looks like liquid sunshine. Like the sky is crying jewels. It's mystical and a little bit fabulous. It forces a natural phenomenon that's typically under-appreciated and generally disliked to be reconsidered as slightly wonderful – even heavenly.
It always make me stop. Just for a moment.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
New Year; New Found Resilience.
Every year, I like to look back. Sometimes I kick myself. Sometimes I revel in great successes and wonderful times. Most times I make myself a lengthy what-not-to-do-next-year list that generally overwhelms and leads me to the Thirty Bench Merlot before 3.
So this year, I'm doing something I never do.
I am giving myself some slack (gasp!).
Well, attempting to, at least.
2011 was a tumultuous year for me. A lot of grief. A lot of loss. A lot of hardship. A lot of tears. A lot of self-doubt. A lot of "poor me." (Hate to admit it, but it's true.)
And for the past month or so, I've been reflecting on those things. The ugly part of 2011. The sticky parts that make me say clichéd things like "good riddance" and "can't leave fast enough."
But a year of trials and steadfast disappointment, is not a year of failures. Turns out, it's a year of hard won lessons.
Thank you, 2011 for these:
- I learned not to count myself out when I'm down.
- I learned that one girl does not have to shoulder all her burdens alone.
- I learned that the people and voices that have held me back are thoroughly misinformed.
- I learned that family really is everything. A great dad, a caring mom, a solid throng of brothers, and a killer combination of friends are great assets.
- I learned that I can do it; even when I think I can't (hello, first condo purchase and big moment of pride.)
- I learned that I don't always have to be in the race; great triumph and clarity can come from the sidelines too (Way to go, Dad!)
- I learned that there is absolutely nothing my dog can do that I do not find utterly adorable and absolutely loveable. Even eating poo. Which is fairly disgusting. But she always has remorseful eyes when I'm brushing her teeth later.
- I learned that no matter how much an old boss told me there's no room for friendship and kindness in business, that he was utterly, completely wrong. (I knew that all along, but now I have bottom line kind of proof).
- I learned that working weekends is detrimental to my mental health.
- I learned that giving feels good. Really good.
- I learned that I really never will appreciate celery. I've tried. It's over. We weren't meant to be.
- I learned that sometimes you can give every bit of you and it's not enough. And that's okay. We all have our own path.
- I learned that a good cry is therapeutic and a deep bathtub is a necessity.
- I learned that I can be nice and strong at the same time.
- I learned that giving feedback isn't the same as giving criticism. I can do both. Well.
- I learned that there is no better hug on the planet than a hug from Gram. It is the warmest. It is the safest.
- I learned that sometimes talking it out is futile; sometimes you have to hug and agree to move on.
- I learned that it's impossible not to fall madly and deeply in love with kids the moment you meet them. Especially my brothers' kids. Madly. Deeply. Utterly drowning in love.
- I learned that money isn't everything. It's nice. But there's so much more.
- I learned that it's not how fast you run or how far, but that I enjoyed each step. Or most steps.
- I learned that there is no way I'm ever going to get it right all of the time. And that's okay.
- I learned that at the end of every failure is a big honkin' opportunity to shine again. So stop sulking about the failure already.
- I learned that asking for help isn't a sign of weakness; it's a sign of strength.
- I learned that kindness comes in all shapes and sizes – and all are gifts.
- I learned that I can eat vegetarian and thrive – and only yearn for the Sakura Roll at Kadoya periodically.
- I learned that I absolutely have no right to be dancing anywhere at any time. But that I will any way. Because it's so damn fun.
- I learned that looking at my BlackBerry before I get out of bed is a prescription for cardiac arrest.
- I learned that I am really good at what I do. And I am proud of that.
- I learned that I am more than just "what I do". There is more to me than being a business owner.
- I learned that I should've hired a bookkeeper a long time ago.
- I learned that when it comes down to it, family is at the core. (I always knew this; but in 2011 I felt it.)
- I learned that I have no business mourning for what could have been.
- I learned that a bad back isn't a death sentence, merely a challenge. And I eat challenges for breakfast.
- I learned that my favourite appliance is definitely my juicer. If there was a fire, I'd save Harley and the juicer.
- I learned that beets, ginger, carrots, apples, grapefruit, and strawberries are a great elixir on hill training days.
- I learned that if it was possible to love a grocery store, that I would marry Whole Foods.
- I learned that breaking up with my financial planner wasn't worth all the worry I had over it. My money is better off.
- I learned that a small group of people can effect incredible change.
- I learned that I really don't like hot yoga that much, but i do I love yoga in principle.
- I learned that I can school the other runners on stairs. I am really good at stairs.
- I learned that leaving my desk at lunch is all kinds of great therapy.
- I learned that the magic is inside. (Thank you, Dolly Parton.)
- I learned that I can listen to Pearl Jam albums on repeat to Squamish and back and not get tired of singing the same songs hours on end.
- I learned that sometimes I just have to accept that I've fallen. No matter how much it burns.
- I learned that no matter what, my family is there.
- I learned that being a cranky old sop really isn't good for any one.
- I learned that dentibones do absolutely nothing for the breath of a dog that eats poo.
- I learned that looking at the mountains every morning is something that never will and never should get old.
- I learned that I am privileged. And I should be grateful. And I am.
- I learned that I am resilient. Like REALLY resilient.
- I learned that I always write way too much – especially when I'm trying to be succinct.
I learned a lot of things in 2011.
So thank you 2011.
You certainly came at me with guns a'blazing.
Sometimes I shot back. Sometimes I quivered in the corner. Sometimes I called in the troops.
But at this year's end, despite the broken heart, the broken faith, the broken hand, the broken confidence ... I came out on top – heart mended, faith re-instilled, hand gnarly but operational, and confidence on the upswing.
Thank you.
I needed that.
(Well, maybe not all of that. It was excessive at times and I feel, as a year, you might owe me an apology. But I heard you, 2011. Loud and clear.)
For 2012, my intentions are these:
- Eat vegan.
- Believe in myself more
- Bite fewer nails
- Run often – even if it's just a short jaunt. It's my greatest therapy.
- Be still.
- Reassess my relationship with yoga. Try again.
- Be open; ditch fear.
- Don't sweat failure.
- Call family more. Tell them they're the best ('cause they are.)
- Love.
- Travel, dammit.
- Be curious.
Some of these I'll achieve with ease; others will break in due time no doubt. But all I will go after with gusto.
I promise myself that.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
So this year, I'm doing something I never do.
I am giving myself some slack (gasp!).
Well, attempting to, at least.
2011 was a tumultuous year for me. A lot of grief. A lot of loss. A lot of hardship. A lot of tears. A lot of self-doubt. A lot of "poor me." (Hate to admit it, but it's true.)
And for the past month or so, I've been reflecting on those things. The ugly part of 2011. The sticky parts that make me say clichéd things like "good riddance" and "can't leave fast enough."
But a year of trials and steadfast disappointment, is not a year of failures. Turns out, it's a year of hard won lessons.
Thank you, 2011 for these:
- I learned not to count myself out when I'm down.
- I learned that one girl does not have to shoulder all her burdens alone.
- I learned that the people and voices that have held me back are thoroughly misinformed.
- I learned that family really is everything. A great dad, a caring mom, a solid throng of brothers, and a killer combination of friends are great assets.
- I learned that I can do it; even when I think I can't (hello, first condo purchase and big moment of pride.)
- I learned that I don't always have to be in the race; great triumph and clarity can come from the sidelines too (Way to go, Dad!)
- I learned that there is absolutely nothing my dog can do that I do not find utterly adorable and absolutely loveable. Even eating poo. Which is fairly disgusting. But she always has remorseful eyes when I'm brushing her teeth later.
- I learned that no matter how much an old boss told me there's no room for friendship and kindness in business, that he was utterly, completely wrong. (I knew that all along, but now I have bottom line kind of proof).
- I learned that working weekends is detrimental to my mental health.
- I learned that giving feels good. Really good.
- I learned that I really never will appreciate celery. I've tried. It's over. We weren't meant to be.
- I learned that sometimes you can give every bit of you and it's not enough. And that's okay. We all have our own path.
- I learned that a good cry is therapeutic and a deep bathtub is a necessity.
- I learned that I can be nice and strong at the same time.
- I learned that giving feedback isn't the same as giving criticism. I can do both. Well.
- I learned that there is no better hug on the planet than a hug from Gram. It is the warmest. It is the safest.
- I learned that sometimes talking it out is futile; sometimes you have to hug and agree to move on.
- I learned that it's impossible not to fall madly and deeply in love with kids the moment you meet them. Especially my brothers' kids. Madly. Deeply. Utterly drowning in love.
- I learned that money isn't everything. It's nice. But there's so much more.
- I learned that it's not how fast you run or how far, but that I enjoyed each step. Or most steps.
- I learned that there is no way I'm ever going to get it right all of the time. And that's okay.
- I learned that at the end of every failure is a big honkin' opportunity to shine again. So stop sulking about the failure already.
- I learned that asking for help isn't a sign of weakness; it's a sign of strength.
- I learned that kindness comes in all shapes and sizes – and all are gifts.
- I learned that I can eat vegetarian and thrive – and only yearn for the Sakura Roll at Kadoya periodically.
- I learned that I absolutely have no right to be dancing anywhere at any time. But that I will any way. Because it's so damn fun.
- I learned that looking at my BlackBerry before I get out of bed is a prescription for cardiac arrest.
- I learned that I am really good at what I do. And I am proud of that.
- I learned that I am more than just "what I do". There is more to me than being a business owner.
- I learned that I should've hired a bookkeeper a long time ago.
- I learned that when it comes down to it, family is at the core. (I always knew this; but in 2011 I felt it.)
- I learned that I have no business mourning for what could have been.
- I learned that a bad back isn't a death sentence, merely a challenge. And I eat challenges for breakfast.
- I learned that my favourite appliance is definitely my juicer. If there was a fire, I'd save Harley and the juicer.
- I learned that beets, ginger, carrots, apples, grapefruit, and strawberries are a great elixir on hill training days.
- I learned that if it was possible to love a grocery store, that I would marry Whole Foods.
- I learned that breaking up with my financial planner wasn't worth all the worry I had over it. My money is better off.
- I learned that a small group of people can effect incredible change.
- I learned that I really don't like hot yoga that much, but i do I love yoga in principle.
- I learned that I can school the other runners on stairs. I am really good at stairs.
- I learned that leaving my desk at lunch is all kinds of great therapy.
- I learned that the magic is inside. (Thank you, Dolly Parton.)
- I learned that I can listen to Pearl Jam albums on repeat to Squamish and back and not get tired of singing the same songs hours on end.
- I learned that sometimes I just have to accept that I've fallen. No matter how much it burns.
- I learned that no matter what, my family is there.
- I learned that being a cranky old sop really isn't good for any one.
- I learned that dentibones do absolutely nothing for the breath of a dog that eats poo.
- I learned that looking at the mountains every morning is something that never will and never should get old.
- I learned that I am privileged. And I should be grateful. And I am.
- I learned that I am resilient. Like REALLY resilient.
- I learned that I always write way too much – especially when I'm trying to be succinct.
I learned a lot of things in 2011.
So thank you 2011.
You certainly came at me with guns a'blazing.
Sometimes I shot back. Sometimes I quivered in the corner. Sometimes I called in the troops.
But at this year's end, despite the broken heart, the broken faith, the broken hand, the broken confidence ... I came out on top – heart mended, faith re-instilled, hand gnarly but operational, and confidence on the upswing.
Thank you.
I needed that.
(Well, maybe not all of that. It was excessive at times and I feel, as a year, you might owe me an apology. But I heard you, 2011. Loud and clear.)
For 2012, my intentions are these:
- Eat vegan.
- Believe in myself more
- Bite fewer nails
- Run often – even if it's just a short jaunt. It's my greatest therapy.
- Be still.
- Reassess my relationship with yoga. Try again.
- Be open; ditch fear.
- Don't sweat failure.
- Call family more. Tell them they're the best ('cause they are.)
- Love.
- Travel, dammit.
- Be curious.
Some of these I'll achieve with ease; others will break in due time no doubt. But all I will go after with gusto.
I promise myself that.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Snowshoeing on the eve of a New Year.
As the year comes to a close, I've had an intense need/desire for solidarity.
To be alone with my thoughts. To figure myself out. To breathe in some peace.
To organize my head and my heart, so I can lead myself out of the fogginess of 2011 into a brighter, better 2012.
So when a friend texted and said "Let's snowshoe. Meet you on Mt Seymour at 1," I was on the fence.
Then, karma worked its magic.
I heard a thump in the closet, opened the door, picked up the jacket that fell of its hanger inexplicably, and looked up – directly at my snowshoes.
I smirked.
And promptly texted back: "In!"
Long johns, toque, boots, and jacket – I emptied my drawers to find them all and jetted out the door.
The day was mild by winter's standards. A little sunny. A little cloudy. A lot crisp.
There were 7 of us (I knew one) and 2 dogs. Sadly, my 9-year-old arthritic pooch was home in bed with a back leg limp and two very irresistible puppy dog eyes.
The snowshoes crunched as we trod off toward the peak of Dog Mountain (Sorry again, Harley. An unfortunate irony.)
The trail winds up, down, and around. Over creeks and around ridges.
In some of the steep areas, we slid down on our butts over icy slides.
We tripped and giggled over gnarly tree roots frozen and slick.
The weather was mild enough that half-way in we had stripped out of our hats, gloves, and winter jackets, and were trekking in sweaters – and the braver ones in Ts.
An hour or so in, we trudged up a steep embankment and ... arms outstretched, eyes wide, there it was. The most spectacular view of Vancouver and beyond. We could even see Mount Baker in Washington crisply in the distance.
Suddenly, I felt totally, utterly alone. Not in the pathetic way. But in a peaceful way.
I just stopped. Breathed. Looked. Felt goosebumpy.
It was stunning.
The sun was starting to set below the clouds. And a bright orange hue highlighted the vista.
Even the dogs stopped for a moment from their playful romp to be still.
There were 10 or 12 people on the peak when we got there, and the only noise was the wind rustling in trees and the occasional snowshoe crunch.
The world was still.
And I felt a bit weepy about it.
Good weepy.
Grateful weepy.
Sorry for being such a whiney baby kind of weepy.
It was fairly liberating.
And the only thing vacant was the spot beside me where I wish my brothers and their families, my mom, my dad, would all stand and be equally inspired.
Otherwise: totally perfect.
A quick look at my watch and my daze in dreamland was over.
It was a little after 4 and the sun was setting at 4:28.
Only half an hour of daylight and an hour of trail.
We quickly hustled back on to the trail. The evening light turned the snow from bright white to pink-hued to almost blue as we crunched forth. Magical. Psychedelic even.
The sun set quickly, but the snow illuminated the forest from underfoot.
It was half Narnia and half a Tim Burton movie.
Wholeheartedly beautiful.
When we crested the last hill and came upon the Chalet, the city below was aglow with millions of sparkling lights.
And I knew that it was all going to be alright.
There's so much more fun to be had.
To be alone with my thoughts. To figure myself out. To breathe in some peace.
To organize my head and my heart, so I can lead myself out of the fogginess of 2011 into a brighter, better 2012.
So when a friend texted and said "Let's snowshoe. Meet you on Mt Seymour at 1," I was on the fence.
Then, karma worked its magic.
I heard a thump in the closet, opened the door, picked up the jacket that fell of its hanger inexplicably, and looked up – directly at my snowshoes.
I smirked.
And promptly texted back: "In!"
Long johns, toque, boots, and jacket – I emptied my drawers to find them all and jetted out the door.
The day was mild by winter's standards. A little sunny. A little cloudy. A lot crisp.
There were 7 of us (I knew one) and 2 dogs. Sadly, my 9-year-old arthritic pooch was home in bed with a back leg limp and two very irresistible puppy dog eyes.
The snowshoes crunched as we trod off toward the peak of Dog Mountain (Sorry again, Harley. An unfortunate irony.)
The trail winds up, down, and around. Over creeks and around ridges.
In some of the steep areas, we slid down on our butts over icy slides.
We tripped and giggled over gnarly tree roots frozen and slick.
The weather was mild enough that half-way in we had stripped out of our hats, gloves, and winter jackets, and were trekking in sweaters – and the braver ones in Ts.
An hour or so in, we trudged up a steep embankment and ... arms outstretched, eyes wide, there it was. The most spectacular view of Vancouver and beyond. We could even see Mount Baker in Washington crisply in the distance.
Suddenly, I felt totally, utterly alone. Not in the pathetic way. But in a peaceful way.
I just stopped. Breathed. Looked. Felt goosebumpy.
It was stunning.
The sun was starting to set below the clouds. And a bright orange hue highlighted the vista.
Even the dogs stopped for a moment from their playful romp to be still.
There were 10 or 12 people on the peak when we got there, and the only noise was the wind rustling in trees and the occasional snowshoe crunch.
The world was still.
And I felt a bit weepy about it.
Good weepy.
Grateful weepy.
Sorry for being such a whiney baby kind of weepy.
It was fairly liberating.
And the only thing vacant was the spot beside me where I wish my brothers and their families, my mom, my dad, would all stand and be equally inspired.
Otherwise: totally perfect.
A quick look at my watch and my daze in dreamland was over.
It was a little after 4 and the sun was setting at 4:28.
Only half an hour of daylight and an hour of trail.
We quickly hustled back on to the trail. The evening light turned the snow from bright white to pink-hued to almost blue as we crunched forth. Magical. Psychedelic even.
The sun set quickly, but the snow illuminated the forest from underfoot.
It was half Narnia and half a Tim Burton movie.
Wholeheartedly beautiful.
When we crested the last hill and came upon the Chalet, the city below was aglow with millions of sparkling lights.
And I knew that it was all going to be alright.
There's so much more fun to be had.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
When Mother Nature broods
Mother Nature is brooding. It's that time of year.
She sulks. She's overcast. She drizzles rain 24/7 until about March 31st – sometimes April – when the sun reappears and we all get reacquainted.
At this time of year, Vancouver seemingly forgets about 6 months of utter weather bliss and gets cranky, self-righteous, and generally whiny.
Personally, I don't mind the brooding.
Maybe because I, too, am brooding.
Stewing over an emotionally charged year of great triumph and utter failure.
Sulking for what could have been.
Mourning for what wasn't.
Sure, there are clouds. So thick that my mountain view now seems like a view into a depressing abyss of nothingness.
Things are grey and murky.
But the great thing about brooding time is that it's the bottom. And from the bottom comes the light.
And hope. And excitement. And an opportunity to do it all again.
To learn from mistakes.
To try to choose the right path.
To go left when every one else is going right just because it feels right.
And to give it another go with renewed enthusiasm. It's like take II or III or IV in a big ol' play of life.
And I appreciate the opportunity to sit back, take a look, reflect, and prepare to give it another go when the sun shines again.
Still, Mother Nature is pouring it on thick.
The clouds are hanging low over the city making landmarks dissipate into the sky.
The ocean is grey.
The sun is hibernating.
Most people are seeking shelter in coffee shops, book stores, and movie theatres.
Sometimes, I am one of them.
But most times, I'm beating my own drum.
After all, brooding time is the perfect time to test what we're made of.
When you couple brooding with best intentions, it's easy to see all the good things between the rain drops.
Like the way that drizzling rain feels on your face half-way through a long run. When you look up and the drops explode on your cheeks and eyelids. It's refreshing. Invigorating.
Like the way that every sunless day inevitably ends with a moody blue and pink sunset under the veil of clouds.
Like the way that even 30 minutes in the rain yields no wetness. It's like you're dancing between the drops the whole time.
Like the way that rain and puddles in the city mean fluffy white snow and fun times in the mountains.
Like the way that muddy pants and soaking wet shoes show resilience and toughness and make you feel just a little bit kick ass.
Like the way that a 9-year-old mutt who spends all day snoozing finds her inner puppy when she's drenched to the bone, covered in mud, and sniffing 200-year-old Douglas Firs.
Brooding.
It's not so bad.
My cleats after training in the park on wet and woolly morning.
My workout pants after a morning trail run.
Harls and me at Lighthouse Park on a drizzly afternoon.
The grey yet gorgeous Pacific Ocean.
She sulks. She's overcast. She drizzles rain 24/7 until about March 31st – sometimes April – when the sun reappears and we all get reacquainted.
At this time of year, Vancouver seemingly forgets about 6 months of utter weather bliss and gets cranky, self-righteous, and generally whiny.
Personally, I don't mind the brooding.
Maybe because I, too, am brooding.
Stewing over an emotionally charged year of great triumph and utter failure.
Sulking for what could have been.
Mourning for what wasn't.
Sure, there are clouds. So thick that my mountain view now seems like a view into a depressing abyss of nothingness.
Things are grey and murky.
But the great thing about brooding time is that it's the bottom. And from the bottom comes the light.
And hope. And excitement. And an opportunity to do it all again.
To learn from mistakes.
To try to choose the right path.
To go left when every one else is going right just because it feels right.
And to give it another go with renewed enthusiasm. It's like take II or III or IV in a big ol' play of life.
And I appreciate the opportunity to sit back, take a look, reflect, and prepare to give it another go when the sun shines again.
Still, Mother Nature is pouring it on thick.
The clouds are hanging low over the city making landmarks dissipate into the sky.
The ocean is grey.
The sun is hibernating.
Most people are seeking shelter in coffee shops, book stores, and movie theatres.
Sometimes, I am one of them.
But most times, I'm beating my own drum.
After all, brooding time is the perfect time to test what we're made of.
When you couple brooding with best intentions, it's easy to see all the good things between the rain drops.
Like the way that drizzling rain feels on your face half-way through a long run. When you look up and the drops explode on your cheeks and eyelids. It's refreshing. Invigorating.
Like the way that every sunless day inevitably ends with a moody blue and pink sunset under the veil of clouds.
Like the way that even 30 minutes in the rain yields no wetness. It's like you're dancing between the drops the whole time.
Like the way that rain and puddles in the city mean fluffy white snow and fun times in the mountains.
Like the way that muddy pants and soaking wet shoes show resilience and toughness and make you feel just a little bit kick ass.
Like the way that a 9-year-old mutt who spends all day snoozing finds her inner puppy when she's drenched to the bone, covered in mud, and sniffing 200-year-old Douglas Firs.
Brooding.
It's not so bad.
My cleats after training in the park on wet and woolly morning.
My workout pants after a morning trail run.
Harls and me at Lighthouse Park on a drizzly afternoon.
The grey yet gorgeous Pacific Ocean.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Sunshine + Sweat
This morning – after an evening of beer, french fries, and general poor nutrition-related decisions – I laced up for a brisk run with my Sunday run buddy. As far as run buddies go, this one is exceptional - far superior in athleticism (her pipes are like Madonna's) and humble all the same. Never complains that I am slowing her down (I am) and always help me push further (5 10-flight stair sets post-run today had me dry-heaving all the way home.)
I arrived at our meeting place half blissed out and eager (the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and I didn't need mittens) and half hoping she'd bail so I could go back to bed. My chest and arms were stiff and sore from my first upper body workout since September's hand-breaking incident. The push-ups still haunt me - two days later.
Alas, she arrived.
Spunky.
Ready.
Hilarious.
Ready to zip and push my limits.
We had a 5k in mind. And hit the sea wall with gusto.
The great thing about these Sunday runs isn't just that I'm running again after a long and arduous uphill battle back from back pain and lethargy, but it's that I'm finally loving it again. I'm back in that happy spot where running isn't a chore, it's a therapy.
I've missed this.
I've yearned for it actually.
I grieved for the feeling when it slipped away too year ago.
And today, while we ran, talked, huffed, puffed, and sweated around corners, up hills, on the ocean front, I didn't feel it or loathe it or wish it to be over. It just was. And I just ran.
I was in my element.
And I didn't know it until it was over and I had nothing but pleasure and satisfaction and beaming smiles inside about it.
Sure – I'm a minute off my old per/km rate – and probably will be for some time. My stride is gnarlier than usual. And my bum bounces more than it used to (or than it should).
But, man, did it feel good out there this morning.
I didn't notice my aching quads, my stiff calves, or my tight hips.
Instead I noticed how the misty sea breeze felt on my face.
I noticed the smell of salty seaweed on sea wall's edge.
I noticed how warm the sun felt on my face.
I noticed how nice it was to spend time with a friend and feel nourished in soul.
It's good to be back.
I arrived at our meeting place half blissed out and eager (the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and I didn't need mittens) and half hoping she'd bail so I could go back to bed. My chest and arms were stiff and sore from my first upper body workout since September's hand-breaking incident. The push-ups still haunt me - two days later.
Alas, she arrived.
Spunky.
Ready.
Hilarious.
Ready to zip and push my limits.
We had a 5k in mind. And hit the sea wall with gusto.
The great thing about these Sunday runs isn't just that I'm running again after a long and arduous uphill battle back from back pain and lethargy, but it's that I'm finally loving it again. I'm back in that happy spot where running isn't a chore, it's a therapy.
I've missed this.
I've yearned for it actually.
I grieved for the feeling when it slipped away too year ago.
And today, while we ran, talked, huffed, puffed, and sweated around corners, up hills, on the ocean front, I didn't feel it or loathe it or wish it to be over. It just was. And I just ran.
I was in my element.
And I didn't know it until it was over and I had nothing but pleasure and satisfaction and beaming smiles inside about it.
Sure – I'm a minute off my old per/km rate – and probably will be for some time. My stride is gnarlier than usual. And my bum bounces more than it used to (or than it should).
But, man, did it feel good out there this morning.
I didn't notice my aching quads, my stiff calves, or my tight hips.
Instead I noticed how the misty sea breeze felt on my face.
I noticed the smell of salty seaweed on sea wall's edge.
I noticed how warm the sun felt on my face.
I noticed how nice it was to spend time with a friend and feel nourished in soul.
It's good to be back.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
new snow = trail running glow
It's been a long year.
I've been holed up inside for months. The better part of a year, it seems.
For this reason. And that. All trite and lame, now that I think of it.
So when I woke up one morning to blue skies and snow dusting the North Shore mountains, I felt compelled.
Come on, my body said.
It's time, my heart said.
We must! my brain said.
Oh please? my dog begged.
So I packed a bag.
Juiced some beets, oranges, and cucumbers.
Filled the water bottles.
Grabbed the dog and headed Northeast.
We drove into Squamish, and pulled off at Alice Lake – the road in was snowcovered and unplowed. The trees looked like crystals. The mountains like magic.
We parked in an icy knoll and walked (slipped, jumped, laughed) down to Alice Lake.
The icy snow cracked beneath my feet and Harley's paws, like it was on Surround Sound.
Everything was still.
The sun shone bright.
My cheeks were rosy.
My heart was happy.
We began to trudge up the 4 Lakes trail – a little off the beaten path.
It's a 6km route that hits – you guessed it – four lakes in the interior.
We were about a kilometre into the trail, when I soon realized that equipment-wise, I was way under-prepared for this hike. The trail was well-marked, but as we ascended, the snow deepened and ground beneath the snow fall was slippery.
We stopped. Listened. Nothing but creaking tree branches.
I decided to turn back then risk a fall high-up with a sweet pup who surely does not have the wherewithal to get help if needed. If I fell, I thought, she'd definitely stick by. I have treats in my pocket. I'm screwed.
So we headed back down, slipping but laughing the whole way. Out loud laughter in a silent winter wonderland is the BEST sound. The best. I threw snowballs at Harley. She jumped up and ate them and played spryly like a puppy rather than the 9-year-old dog that the vet calls "senior" with bad knees and arthritis.
Something about the first snowfall.
Magic, no doubt.
I've been holed up inside for months. The better part of a year, it seems.
For this reason. And that. All trite and lame, now that I think of it.
So when I woke up one morning to blue skies and snow dusting the North Shore mountains, I felt compelled.
Come on, my body said.
It's time, my heart said.
We must! my brain said.
Oh please? my dog begged.
So I packed a bag.
Juiced some beets, oranges, and cucumbers.
Filled the water bottles.
Grabbed the dog and headed Northeast.
We drove into Squamish, and pulled off at Alice Lake – the road in was snowcovered and unplowed. The trees looked like crystals. The mountains like magic.
We parked in an icy knoll and walked (slipped, jumped, laughed) down to Alice Lake.
The icy snow cracked beneath my feet and Harley's paws, like it was on Surround Sound.
Everything was still.
The sun shone bright.
My cheeks were rosy.
My heart was happy.
We began to trudge up the 4 Lakes trail – a little off the beaten path.
It's a 6km route that hits – you guessed it – four lakes in the interior.
We were about a kilometre into the trail, when I soon realized that equipment-wise, I was way under-prepared for this hike. The trail was well-marked, but as we ascended, the snow deepened and ground beneath the snow fall was slippery.
We stopped. Listened. Nothing but creaking tree branches.
I decided to turn back then risk a fall high-up with a sweet pup who surely does not have the wherewithal to get help if needed. If I fell, I thought, she'd definitely stick by. I have treats in my pocket. I'm screwed.
So we headed back down, slipping but laughing the whole way. Out loud laughter in a silent winter wonderland is the BEST sound. The best. I threw snowballs at Harley. She jumped up and ate them and played spryly like a puppy rather than the 9-year-old dog that the vet calls "senior" with bad knees and arthritis.
Something about the first snowfall.
Magic, no doubt.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Go Dad Go!!
I flew to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina this week for two reasons: (1) to see my Gram – whom I haven't seen in 4+ years and whom I love to itty bitty bits, and (2) to run a half marathon with my Dad.
There was on glitch though: I wasn't ready to race. I'm still recovering from a back injury that has plagued my desire to be active for almost two years. And I was (and am) in no condition (yet) to run a half marathon. (Bummer. Big time.)
Though that one fact weighed on me hugely, I was happy to be a spectator for the first time ever and to show Dad from the sidelines that I'm his number one fan, that I am uber-proud of him, and that I think he's the raddest dad around.
So on Saturday Feb 19 at 5:15 in the morning, we snuck out of Gram's house and hit the road.
Dad had a sore thigh that was a bit worrisome but was otherwise full of beans.
HE worked it out with some stretching and walking before the start.
With the official start only a few minutes away, dad was feeling – and looking – super fine.
It was still pitch black when the gun (cannon, actually) went off. And the full moon had yet to set.
"Go get 'em, Dad!" I yelled as he walked powerfully off from the start line.
Early in the week, Dad said to me: "I'm aiming for a 2:40".
But he was looking strong and I had a strong feeling that if ever he was going to "wow" on the race course, it would be today.
Sure enough, as the clock struck 2:30, there was Dad! Looking strong, coming through the finish line chute, hands up stretched, smile wider than his face.
"Holy shit!" I yelled as I jumped up on the barrier to take pictures.
"what?" asked the woman beside me.
"He's 10 minutes faster than he thought!" I said excitedly. "10 minutes!"
"Well, holy shit." she said with her southern twang and smiled.
"Go Dad Go!" I screamed.
Pumping fists. Taking photos. Being proud.
His official time has yet to be posted, but I'm pretty sure it was a Personal Best for him.
For me, it was a lesson in humility.
When I first lined up at the finish line and watched the runners start to come in, I had a few moments of self-pity.
I wanted to be IN the race; not watching the race.
Then I watched the faces of each finisher and realized that they were all succeeding at a personal challenge.
Right now, my challenge is to heal so I can lace up my runners and get back in the game.
In the meantime, watching my Dad – a former chubby smoker (sorry pops) – tear up the race course at 61 years old and ousting runners half his age. Well, a prouder daughter there can never be.
Congratulations on a killer race, Dad!
There was on glitch though: I wasn't ready to race. I'm still recovering from a back injury that has plagued my desire to be active for almost two years. And I was (and am) in no condition (yet) to run a half marathon. (Bummer. Big time.)
Though that one fact weighed on me hugely, I was happy to be a spectator for the first time ever and to show Dad from the sidelines that I'm his number one fan, that I am uber-proud of him, and that I think he's the raddest dad around.
So on Saturday Feb 19 at 5:15 in the morning, we snuck out of Gram's house and hit the road.
Dad had a sore thigh that was a bit worrisome but was otherwise full of beans.
HE worked it out with some stretching and walking before the start.
With the official start only a few minutes away, dad was feeling – and looking – super fine.
It was still pitch black when the gun (cannon, actually) went off. And the full moon had yet to set.
"Go get 'em, Dad!" I yelled as he walked powerfully off from the start line.
Early in the week, Dad said to me: "I'm aiming for a 2:40".
But he was looking strong and I had a strong feeling that if ever he was going to "wow" on the race course, it would be today.
Sure enough, as the clock struck 2:30, there was Dad! Looking strong, coming through the finish line chute, hands up stretched, smile wider than his face.
"Holy shit!" I yelled as I jumped up on the barrier to take pictures.
"what?" asked the woman beside me.
"He's 10 minutes faster than he thought!" I said excitedly. "10 minutes!"
"Well, holy shit." she said with her southern twang and smiled.
"Go Dad Go!" I screamed.
Pumping fists. Taking photos. Being proud.
His official time has yet to be posted, but I'm pretty sure it was a Personal Best for him.
For me, it was a lesson in humility.
When I first lined up at the finish line and watched the runners start to come in, I had a few moments of self-pity.
I wanted to be IN the race; not watching the race.
Then I watched the faces of each finisher and realized that they were all succeeding at a personal challenge.
Right now, my challenge is to heal so I can lace up my runners and get back in the game.
In the meantime, watching my Dad – a former chubby smoker (sorry pops) – tear up the race course at 61 years old and ousting runners half his age. Well, a prouder daughter there can never be.
Congratulations on a killer race, Dad!
Saturday, January 8, 2011
2011: the year of Kim
Later 2010 (Don't let the door hit you on the way out)
2010 dealt me a number of blows.
It started with a back injury that not only literally forced me off my feet and into an instant state of idleness but also threw me into a spiralling hole of depression, weight gain, and financial ruin.
2010 was a rollercoaster of a year. So many great things happened – M Biked and Hiked to raise money for my Spinal Decompression. He did it; I got the treatment; it worked (for the most part). We enjoyed the Olympics – every possible way. We road scooters on Salt Spring Island and danced our faces off at friends weddings. We saw family. I hugged nephews. There were moments of bliss, absolutely.
But the year had an undercurrent of disappointment.
I struggled all year to be able to be active. And every time I started up, another ache showed up. Another pain. Another reason to have to stop.
I struggled to feel confident.
I struggled to face people.
I felt like such a failure.
I spent $12,000 on therapies – acupuncture, chiropractor, physio, orthotics, active-release-therapy.
All worked to certain degrees.
But all health practitioners said (and still say) the same thing:
"You have to have patience. Back injuries take a long time to heal."
I've heard this so much over the course of 18 months (18 months!!!!) that I've started to get snappy.
"I have been patient. What does patience mean? How long? Give me a number? How long until I get my life back?"
A girl can stand idly by only for so long.
I was losing my cool.
And I don't lose my cool.
That's not me.
That's not Kim.
I worried about money incessantly.
Having chronic pain sucks.
Having chronic pain without a medical plan is a knife in your back.
So I played less, worked harder, sometimes sweating out 18 hours days.
Every time I got paid, I paid the doctors, chiropractors, acupuncturists, government, visa, etc.
I paid bill after bill after bill religiously.
"You have to have time for you," M would say. "You're working too hard."
"I don't want to be in debt," I'd shoot back. "I wasn't raised to be in debt. I know better."
I was HUGELY disappointed in every aspect of my life.
And it shocked me.
I always thought I'd be one of those people who when faced with adversity would hit the ground running and triumph over it with a positive attitude. But I didn't.
The truth is:
I wallowed.
I cried.
I felt sorry for myself.
I became hugely self-critical.
I stopped hanging out with friends.
I was snappy.
I wanted to curl under a rock and stay there.
I just wanted my 2009 life back.
The one where I hiked and biked and ran races.
Where I crossed rivers, and trails and finish lines with my arms raised and my face smiling.
Where I played squash and tennis and high-fived M at every turn.
Where I wore a bikini on the beach and skinny jeans with a belt.
I longed for it so much.
Which is not something to be proud of.
In 2010, I did not act with integrity.
I wasn't strong.
I wasn't nice.
And I wasn't positive.
I was "opposite Kim".
I was scared, emotional, and frustrated.
The irony is: I pride myself in being none of those things.
And yet I was all of them – often.
Hello 2011!
So moving into this glorious new year, I am keen and dedicated to getting "Regular Kim" back.
Regardless of my back pain.
Regardless of financial concerns.
Regardless of the hand I am dealt.
I am getting back to me.
Its not going to be easy.
But I like a good challenge.
And there will be set backs, no doubt.
But I am going to learn to take them as they come.
And to shove feelings of discouragement in the trash.
I am going to smile.
I am going to try.
I am going to run as far as I can as fast as I can and be okay with whatever that time and distance is.
I am going to lean on my friends.
I am going to be a good friend back.
I am going to be less self-critical.
I am going to stop saying "gross" every time I look in the mirror.
I am going to step confidently forward and grab life by the balls.
I am going to play with dog and relish in the joy that she gives me.
I am going to go with the flow.
I am going to take care of me.
I am going to cry only if it's worth a cry.
I am going to stand tall
I am going to stop pushing away help and accept it openly when I need it.
I am going to climb Grouse Mountain again in under an hour.
I am going to propel my business forward.
I am going to believe in me.
I am going to be a better partner – stronger, smarter, nicer, sweeter.
I am going to stop wishing for what I don't have.
I am going to go out a get what I want.
I am going to be ok with who I am and what I am doing and how I am doing it.
I am so grateful to every single person who put up with me, support me, helped me, lifted me up, and cheered me on in 2010.
I could not have survived that year without you all.
Now, it's time to fly.
2010 dealt me a number of blows.
It started with a back injury that not only literally forced me off my feet and into an instant state of idleness but also threw me into a spiralling hole of depression, weight gain, and financial ruin.
2010 was a rollercoaster of a year. So many great things happened – M Biked and Hiked to raise money for my Spinal Decompression. He did it; I got the treatment; it worked (for the most part). We enjoyed the Olympics – every possible way. We road scooters on Salt Spring Island and danced our faces off at friends weddings. We saw family. I hugged nephews. There were moments of bliss, absolutely.
But the year had an undercurrent of disappointment.
I struggled all year to be able to be active. And every time I started up, another ache showed up. Another pain. Another reason to have to stop.
I struggled to feel confident.
I struggled to face people.
I felt like such a failure.
I spent $12,000 on therapies – acupuncture, chiropractor, physio, orthotics, active-release-therapy.
All worked to certain degrees.
But all health practitioners said (and still say) the same thing:
"You have to have patience. Back injuries take a long time to heal."
I've heard this so much over the course of 18 months (18 months!!!!) that I've started to get snappy.
"I have been patient. What does patience mean? How long? Give me a number? How long until I get my life back?"
A girl can stand idly by only for so long.
I was losing my cool.
And I don't lose my cool.
That's not me.
That's not Kim.
I worried about money incessantly.
Having chronic pain sucks.
Having chronic pain without a medical plan is a knife in your back.
So I played less, worked harder, sometimes sweating out 18 hours days.
Every time I got paid, I paid the doctors, chiropractors, acupuncturists, government, visa, etc.
I paid bill after bill after bill religiously.
"You have to have time for you," M would say. "You're working too hard."
"I don't want to be in debt," I'd shoot back. "I wasn't raised to be in debt. I know better."
I was HUGELY disappointed in every aspect of my life.
And it shocked me.
I always thought I'd be one of those people who when faced with adversity would hit the ground running and triumph over it with a positive attitude. But I didn't.
The truth is:
I wallowed.
I cried.
I felt sorry for myself.
I became hugely self-critical.
I stopped hanging out with friends.
I was snappy.
I wanted to curl under a rock and stay there.
I just wanted my 2009 life back.
The one where I hiked and biked and ran races.
Where I crossed rivers, and trails and finish lines with my arms raised and my face smiling.
Where I played squash and tennis and high-fived M at every turn.
Where I wore a bikini on the beach and skinny jeans with a belt.
I longed for it so much.
Which is not something to be proud of.
In 2010, I did not act with integrity.
I wasn't strong.
I wasn't nice.
And I wasn't positive.
I was "opposite Kim".
I was scared, emotional, and frustrated.
The irony is: I pride myself in being none of those things.
And yet I was all of them – often.
Hello 2011!
So moving into this glorious new year, I am keen and dedicated to getting "Regular Kim" back.
Regardless of my back pain.
Regardless of financial concerns.
Regardless of the hand I am dealt.
I am getting back to me.
Its not going to be easy.
But I like a good challenge.
And there will be set backs, no doubt.
But I am going to learn to take them as they come.
And to shove feelings of discouragement in the trash.
I am going to smile.
I am going to try.
I am going to run as far as I can as fast as I can and be okay with whatever that time and distance is.
I am going to lean on my friends.
I am going to be a good friend back.
I am going to be less self-critical.
I am going to stop saying "gross" every time I look in the mirror.
I am going to step confidently forward and grab life by the balls.
I am going to play with dog and relish in the joy that she gives me.
I am going to go with the flow.
I am going to take care of me.
I am going to cry only if it's worth a cry.
I am going to stand tall
I am going to stop pushing away help and accept it openly when I need it.
I am going to climb Grouse Mountain again in under an hour.
I am going to propel my business forward.
I am going to believe in me.
I am going to be a better partner – stronger, smarter, nicer, sweeter.
I am going to stop wishing for what I don't have.
I am going to go out a get what I want.
I am going to be ok with who I am and what I am doing and how I am doing it.
I am so grateful to every single person who put up with me, support me, helped me, lifted me up, and cheered me on in 2010.
I could not have survived that year without you all.
Now, it's time to fly.
Great Sandwich Make 2010 - Update 2
Sandwich Making Day
On December 23rd, the Mann family – Ruby, Roman, Pinky, and Jaz – showed up at our little apartment with smiles and sandwich-making enthusiasm. Together, over the course of three+ hours, the six of us made 210 sandwiches and 210 care packages.
The sandwiches were stacked to the nines with awesomeness! Each had mustard, mayo, salt and pepper, tomato slices, lettuce, mozzarella cheese, and a thick chunk of either roast beef or smoke turkey – all in between the top and bottom of a freshly baked kaiser courtesy of the amazingly generous people at Fratelli Bakery.
If there was a Miss Sandwich pageant, ours would be a contender. Though it would probably spill out the sides of its bikini. I digress...
While Ruby, Pinky, and I manned the sandwich station, Roman, Jaz, and Mike worked on the care packages. We set up a system around the living room – cookies on the couch, oranges on the chairs, toothpaste and floss on the side tables, juiceboxes, granola bars, and other treats on the coffee table, chips stacked in boxes in the corner. It was mad!
Each kit received: 3 cookies (baked fresh from Marie Antoinette Bakery and Fratelli Bakery), a tube of toothpaste, dental floss, two oranges, a granola bar, a bag of chips, a juice box, and – of course – a sandwich!
We wrapped the sandwiches separately and stored them in our fridge for the night.
210 sandwiches need a LOT of fridge space!
We felt like we were doing one of those brain teaser puzzles – and eventually were able to fit all the sandwiches in the fridge ... three layers deep, three layers high, on the door, in the veggie crisper. Everywhere!
We high-fived!! A job well done!
Delivery Day
The following day, we packed two cars to the brim with care packages. In the trunk. On the back seats. In our laps. Everywhere.
We met up with three generous volunteers near the corner of Main and Hastings, a bullseye for poverty and drug abuse on Vancouver's East Side.
Together, the five of us lugged bags and boxes of care packages to the corner.
We asked one gentleman: "Would you like a sandwich?"
And the onslaught began.
One man said "May I shake your hand? Please?" and continued to give all five of us a long, solid handshake. The most genuine handshake I've ever received.
One woman was bowled over: "You've got to be kidding! You've got to be kidding! Man, this is great!"
"A junkie's dream come true," smiled one man wryly as he instantly dove into a bag of salt and vinegar chips.
"Can I have one?" asked a girl who couldn't look me in the eye and looked too be alone on a cold, rainy Christmas Eve.
Some people said thank you. Some stopped to chat a little. Some grabbed the bags and ran. Some took one, put it in their coat, turned around, and asked for another. Some were shy. Some were bold. All were grateful, in their own ways, and showed us truly the spirit of Christmas.
I wondered later if I would have been the same in their shoes. What if I was hungry, high, and cold? Would I have the decency to say Thank You?
In less than five minutes, our 210 care packages were gone. And people were still coming in droves.
"Any more sandwiches?"
"Am I too late?"
"Do you have any more?"
"Thanks anyway"
"I wasn't prepared for that," said one of our volunteers.
"what?"
"That we'd have to turn people away. That we wouldn't have enough."
She wiped a tear.
Every year we make more sandwiches and better, meatier care packages. And every year, the line of people who could benefit from our little giveaway seems to extend further.
We didn't solve hunger on the east side. We didn't solve homelessness. We didn't make a dent in drug abuse.
But we did give 210 people the possibility of feeling a full tummy and feeling, on the eve of Christmas, that they matter. Like REALLY matter.
We don't have the right to judge. We were all born into different circumstances. We've all had different life experiences.
At the end of the day, the greatest lesson learned is that these people are just that – people. They have hearts. They are mothers and brothers and fathers and sisters. And they matter.
Thank you to EVERYONE who donated their time and money to the Great Sandwich Make this year.
You really made a difference!
On December 23rd, the Mann family – Ruby, Roman, Pinky, and Jaz – showed up at our little apartment with smiles and sandwich-making enthusiasm. Together, over the course of three+ hours, the six of us made 210 sandwiches and 210 care packages.
The sandwiches were stacked to the nines with awesomeness! Each had mustard, mayo, salt and pepper, tomato slices, lettuce, mozzarella cheese, and a thick chunk of either roast beef or smoke turkey – all in between the top and bottom of a freshly baked kaiser courtesy of the amazingly generous people at Fratelli Bakery.
If there was a Miss Sandwich pageant, ours would be a contender. Though it would probably spill out the sides of its bikini. I digress...
While Ruby, Pinky, and I manned the sandwich station, Roman, Jaz, and Mike worked on the care packages. We set up a system around the living room – cookies on the couch, oranges on the chairs, toothpaste and floss on the side tables, juiceboxes, granola bars, and other treats on the coffee table, chips stacked in boxes in the corner. It was mad!
Each kit received: 3 cookies (baked fresh from Marie Antoinette Bakery and Fratelli Bakery), a tube of toothpaste, dental floss, two oranges, a granola bar, a bag of chips, a juice box, and – of course – a sandwich!
We wrapped the sandwiches separately and stored them in our fridge for the night.
210 sandwiches need a LOT of fridge space!
We felt like we were doing one of those brain teaser puzzles – and eventually were able to fit all the sandwiches in the fridge ... three layers deep, three layers high, on the door, in the veggie crisper. Everywhere!
We high-fived!! A job well done!
Delivery Day
The following day, we packed two cars to the brim with care packages. In the trunk. On the back seats. In our laps. Everywhere.
We met up with three generous volunteers near the corner of Main and Hastings, a bullseye for poverty and drug abuse on Vancouver's East Side.
Together, the five of us lugged bags and boxes of care packages to the corner.
We asked one gentleman: "Would you like a sandwich?"
And the onslaught began.
One man said "May I shake your hand? Please?" and continued to give all five of us a long, solid handshake. The most genuine handshake I've ever received.
One woman was bowled over: "You've got to be kidding! You've got to be kidding! Man, this is great!"
"A junkie's dream come true," smiled one man wryly as he instantly dove into a bag of salt and vinegar chips.
"Can I have one?" asked a girl who couldn't look me in the eye and looked too be alone on a cold, rainy Christmas Eve.
Some people said thank you. Some stopped to chat a little. Some grabbed the bags and ran. Some took one, put it in their coat, turned around, and asked for another. Some were shy. Some were bold. All were grateful, in their own ways, and showed us truly the spirit of Christmas.
I wondered later if I would have been the same in their shoes. What if I was hungry, high, and cold? Would I have the decency to say Thank You?
In less than five minutes, our 210 care packages were gone. And people were still coming in droves.
"Any more sandwiches?"
"Am I too late?"
"Do you have any more?"
"Thanks anyway"
"I wasn't prepared for that," said one of our volunteers.
"what?"
"That we'd have to turn people away. That we wouldn't have enough."
She wiped a tear.
Every year we make more sandwiches and better, meatier care packages. And every year, the line of people who could benefit from our little giveaway seems to extend further.
We didn't solve hunger on the east side. We didn't solve homelessness. We didn't make a dent in drug abuse.
But we did give 210 people the possibility of feeling a full tummy and feeling, on the eve of Christmas, that they matter. Like REALLY matter.
We don't have the right to judge. We were all born into different circumstances. We've all had different life experiences.
At the end of the day, the greatest lesson learned is that these people are just that – people. They have hearts. They are mothers and brothers and fathers and sisters. And they matter.
Thank you to EVERYONE who donated their time and money to the Great Sandwich Make this year.
You really made a difference!
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