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.
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