Take me home ... country roads

I have a pretty good memory for even the smallest details.  So my memories of my childhood and growing up are pretty vivid.  I remember at a very young age rifling through my parents' cassette tape collection and playing so many musical treasures on their then-state of the art tape deck, throwing on a sparkly tutu (or way too tight leotard) and ballet shoes and creating dances with my sister.  There were so many songs ... ABBA, Diana Ross, the Beatles, the Beach Boys, Olivia Newton John, Kenny Rogers (I am really not doing any favors to my parents right now, but this music was/is amazing).  But the song that most quickly brings me back to my childhood and to a real, palpable feeling, is John Denver's "Country Roads."  I remember playing it, laying on the couch with my legs propped up on the couch back and staring at an old oil painting we had hanging over the couch.  This one:

I have no idea where or when my parents got that painting, but if there's one thing that reminds me of home, it's that.  I remember staring up at it, while listening to "Country Roads" and just daydreaming about the words and letting myself sink into that painting and the dirt roads and the house in the back and into the song itself and the country he was singing about (nevermind that I thought he said "mountain llama" instead of "mountain momma").  

But this one always got me, and to this day sticks with me:  

Country roads, take me home

To the place I belong

I took those words to heart and very literally in 2012-2013 when I was newly on my own and felt like I had no real home.  So I went back home - to the place I was born and the place I belonged -- where my parents still lived and my grandmothers and most of my family.  There was no greater comfort than home.  My folks would watch my kids and I'd go for runs, endless runs for endless miles, on those country roads.  

Fields and flowers.  Pickup trucks and creeks.  Puffy clouds and old barely-standing barns.  Trees and windy roads and creaky bridges.  Every run I would head out on my way and feel so much more centered when I came back.  I can't imagine that any other place in the world would have given me that clarity and grounding than the place where I was from ... those country roads at home.  

By running at home -- the place where I belonged -- I felt more me and more able to handle whatever this new life of mine had in store.  It was terrifying.  But I was grounded and centered.  And even as I felt ever more confident and more settled in my new life, I would still return home as much as I could and run those familiar roads and see my family and those familiar places ... home was home was home and always would be and always will be.    

I have a new home now with a wonderful husband and my wonderful children and my wonderful step-children.  My heart (and my home) is full.  Life is good.  I found the love of my life and happiness greater than I dreamed possible.  As it turns out, those country roads did lead me right home ... to the place I belong.   

You took me home, country roads.  

The Gift of the Present

A couple of summers ago, I was in a teeny tiny little town in Wisconsin for work and happened to walk past a sweet store on the main drag.  The shop had little gifty things and as I passed the window I saw a hand-painted sign that said "enjoy this moment, for this moment is your life."  I went along my merry way in search of (delicious and amazing) cheese-curds and beer, but that got me thinking a lot about the past, present and future and the careful, but necessary, navigation of the balance of all three in my life.  The past is gone; the future is uncertain.  All we have is the present moment in which we live, and each of those moments becomes the thread that ties together the tapestry of what is, ultimately, our lives.

The lesson from the little wooden sign was precisely perfect. Yet, as much as I would love to focus solely on the present, it's really hard to put that into practice.  I have always been a very future-oriented person.  I set goals - big, juicy goals - and I usually attain them.  It may take time and hard work and there are usually a bunch of setbacks and failures along the way, but I eventually get there.  And then I set another goal.  The goal setting is good, and it's important, and it is part of who I am.  But a constantly forward-looking life misses so many beautiful moments in the present.  I've come to realize that if I set my sights on the day that has yet to come, I am losing the days that are here right now -- a life looking only at the future is not a life well lived.  

Likewise, I find myself thinking about the past a bit.  I try - hard - not to dwell on it, but I can't help but be guided by choices I've made, and things that happened in my life, as I live my life in the present.  The past has made me who and what I am today, and with all my flaws and messes (and believe you me, there are many), I like who I am.  To be sure, there have been some pretty significant peaks and some equally significant valleys, but I am in a place where I really know myself.  But shedding the rough stuff of the past is far easier said than done.  It's like a rear view mirror -- you look back and want to leave the past back where it belongs, but objects in mirror are closer than they appear.  

And now the present, and that delicate balance of being guided by the lessons and mistakes of the past while looking to the future with hopeful optimism, but having just a single big toe dipped in each.  The present is where it all happens: it's the place to feel the feels.  It's the only place to feel joy or to feel sadness.  It's where we laugh and cry.  It's where we can hug and kiss the ones we love.  It's where we touch and hear and taste and see.  It's where our heart swells and breaks.  The present is where life happens and if you blink -- poof -- it is gone.

So, rather than being too forward focused or stuck in the past, I am making an effort to live more in the here and now.  Rather than wring my hands and fret and ask "what is going to happen?", I am changing the punctuation from a question to a statement -- yes: what is going to happen.  What is going to happen, and it's up to me to make it happen.  No matter what the what is that happens, I'll be ready for it.  I am pulling those big toes out of the past and future and jumping - full boar - into the present with the accompanying chance to really experience life, with eyes fully open to the possibility probability of failure and of setbacks, but with the knowledge that with soaking up the moments -- good and bad, easy and challenging, wonderful and horrible -- of the present brings the possibility of life's ultimate reward.

It's the perfect present.

Rock/Paper/Scissors ... shoot!

Or blog, as the case may be.

The last few months of 2016 were a blur of new and good things for me - many major life changes all rolled up together, all at once, all in a firestorm tornado of glitter rainbows craziness.

Rock - We got engaged in September! We are getting married soon. Very soon!

Paper - We bought a house!  Lots and lots and lots of paperwork with that whole process.  Get used to seeing this badboy on the blog. There is so much to do, including and especially new siding and decking in the Spring.  We love our new home - not just the structure (which is super cool), but in what it represents for a shared new space for us and our children to forge our new family.

Scissors - I cut ties with the old and got a new job [and a new commute]! It's a completely different position at a new place doing completely new things.  And while unfortunately, I am beholden to a train schedule again, I love my new job so much that it actually makes the commute worth it. 

Shoot! or, Blog!  With all of these changes (especially the new house), I have lots to share.  I am hoping to blog a bit more in 2017 (which is to say, I am hoping to blog in 2017) and share the good things with you.  

Mother's Day

Happy Mothers Day to me.  It's my 10th one.  A decade of freshly picked dandelions and sweet cards covered in crayon and handmade gifts and smudgey fingerprints and messes and sloppy slobbery kisses and being known as Mommy or Mama or, gulp, Mom.  

My babies are getting bigger.  Every day, every moment, I can see it. 

I remember wishing for this time - this exact moment.  When they were newborns and it was 2 am and I couldn't get them to sleep and I was tired and they were fed and they didn't need a diaper change and they hated me and I hated life and everything was hard and awful and is a mother supposed to feel this way and I'm a fraud and please stop crying and please stop crying and I can't wait until this little baby is older and then - when this little baby is older - I will feel more in control and normal.  And in spite of that and all of the feelings about all of the things, I remember pulling them close and smelling their sweet baby heads and taking it in and saying "shhhhh.  stop.  just for a moment. they will be big soon."

The crying eventually stopped. The 2 month olds turned into 2 year olds, who finally slept through the night in their little toddler beds.  And the 2 year olds turned into 4 year olds who somehow - every single night - ended up sleeping next to me in my bed.  Every night, around 2 am, I would hear the soft pitter patter of little baby feet on the carpet and the heavy breaths attempting to pull their little baby bodies up onto my bed.  Sometimes they would just fall asleep.  Sometimes they would say "hi Mommy".  Sometimes they would talk more at length about what was going on.  I was tired.  I wanted to sleep.  But I would listen and say "ok, it's time to sleep, baby."  They would fall asleep, and I remember pulling them close and smelling their sweet baby heads and taking it in and saying "shhhhh.  stop.  just for a moment. they will be big soon."

Motherhood is hard. It is beautiful and amazing and wonderful, and I will go to my grave knowing that even in a life where I wasn't perfect and did oh so many things wrong, I did two things very right.  But it is hard.  Nothing can prepare you for how hard.  All the while you know that while the days go by so slow, the years go by so fast.  And you try to remind yourself "shhhhh.  stop.  just for a moment. they will be big soon."

But for every moment where I was at the end of my rope and cried myself to sleep with self-doubt, there was a moment where a tiny baby hand reached out for mine and let me envelop its softness in my own grasp.  For every moment of sheer exhaustion and not believing I could do this -- this "motherhood" thing -- there was a moment where my sweet baby child would hug me and gently pat my back - a tacit message of "I love you. I need you. And you're doing fine."  For every moment where I felt like I was The Worst Mother Ever, there was a moment where my little one said, unprompted and apropos of nothing, "mommy, I love you." 

My baby children are 10 and 8.  They're certainly not "grown" but they are big.  And yet, I still find myself reminding myself to slow down, to stop, to take in their sweet still-kind-of-babyness.  "shhhhh.  stop.  just for a moment. they will be big soon."  That state of "Big" is pretty much, but not quite, here.  I still reach for their hands, and they still let me hold them.  I still smell their sweet baby heads, and they still let me.  I still snuggle their bigger (but smaller than mine) little bodies, and they let me.  I still call them "darling love" and they still let me.  And now I find myself begging them, and begging time, to just slow down.  Please slow down.  Please, I am not quite ready for you to be big. 

Yes, Motherhood is hard. But that's what makes it great.  Giving birth is truly an allegory for motherhood itself - it's hard, it's painful, you're filled with doubt, but in the end, you do it, and you do great.  

Happy Mother's Day to me.  And to my sweet baby children.  I am their biggest fan, their biggest cheerleader, their biggest advocate ... but I am also Mommy.  I am bracing myself for what's coming - the eye rolls, the "please drop me off a block away", the "OMG Mommmmmmmmmm".  I'm not remotely ready for it, but I know it will happen -- much like motherhood itself.  And I'm hopeful that when I do, I can think back to when they were babies, and how I took the moment in the middle of the chaos and reminded myself to "shhhhh.  stop.  just for a moment. they will be big soon." Because although they may be big, no matter how big or how old, they will always, forever, be my babies.  

I heart you.

Happy Valentines Day.  Yesterday.  But better late than never.

Valentines Day is one of those really tricky holidays.  There's a lot riding on it, a lot of expectation, and hope and emotion and pressure.  Sure, you can opt out of the holiday, but good luck trying to escape it.  For all its commercialism and "Hallmark holiday" kitsch, the Valentine message is pervasive and loud: Love! Love! Love! (and, of course, just as pervasive and loud: candy and cupids and chocolates and hearts and cards and kittens and overpriced underwhelming crowded prix fixe dinner.  and kittens.  did I mention kittens).

I don't know what's inside this kitten Valentine box, but I need it because the kitten looks so forlorn.

There are so many kinds of love to celebrate on Valentines Day.  I wrote a Valentine last year to my kids.  I had been alone for three full years and had made peace with the holiday ... and realized that my sweet little loves deserved a love letter of their own.  

I opted out of the holiday for years.  And then, upon my divorce, I was opted out of the holiday. So in  2013 I grappled with that a bit, and I wrote my first post on my own.  I realized that when you cut through the cliches and the saccharine and the over the top nonsense, the idea of Valentines Day was really pretty wonderful.  A day celebrating nothing more and nothing less than love is really not so bad.  I said the following in that blog post, some three years ago: 

But I also want to turn around my thinking and focus on love and the love I want and deserve.  I always think about Carrie Bradshaw's line from the finale of the "Sex and the City" series:

I’m looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love.

This is what I want.  I believe it is out there.  I believe in love and all that comes with it -- to love and to be loved; to need and to be needed.  I believe there is someone out there who will love me and get me and who knows that I would rather have one single lily of the valley stem over a roomful of red roses -- someone who knows that despite the fact that I would never ask for them, I actually love receiving flowers.  I am hopeful that this will be the hardest Valentines Day that I ever have.  I feel a lot like Scrooge at the end of A Christmas Carol, because I promise, when the time is right, I will not take Valentines Day, and more importantly what it means, for granted again.  Because, despite the heartbreak and all of the struggle of life and love, I believe in love.  And I believe in me.  

Oh 2013 self.  You had no idea what was in store for you, but you knew.  You knew -- you knew deep down in your heart, in your heart that may have been a little torn and tattered, but that was never fully broken -- you knew that the love you have right now was waiting for you.  That in just a few short years, you would find that someone, and you did.  That you would find your heart, and you did.   And what's funny and ironic is that my darling love gave me a necklace with a heart (and it's just coincidental, or perhaps serendipitous, that I was wearing my running heart headband too).  The necklace is an allegory for life: my sweet love gave me his heart, but he also gave me mine.  

Usually, my blog posts are directed to the world at large and all of the interwebs.  But not today. Today, I am talking directly to my sweetheart.  Please forgive me, interwebs.  It's Valentines Day and I have a love letter to share with my darling love.  

Thank you, my darling, for loving me and needing me.  And thank you for letting me love you and need you.  

Thank you, my darling, for making me laugh and smile, and for smiling and laughing with and sometimes at me ... and for knowing that there is a line there and always caring to protect my feelings.

Thank you, my darling, for "getting" me and who I am.  From moment one.  And for not only letting me be who I am, but for loving who I am and wanting nothing more, and no one else, than what, and who, I am.

Thank you, my darling, for anticipating my needs.  For giving me personalized pencils and books and phone cases, because you know I spent (and continue to spend) my life looking for the elusive "Shanna" bike license plates and pencils and magnets in the souvenir shops to no avail.  For giving me flowers.  And chocolate.  And beer that I love.  Thank you for somehow knowing when I need a text with just a picture of a small soft kitten or other baby animal.  Thank you for encouraging my love of unicorns and rainbows, even though you don't get it.

Thank you, my darling, for loving to swim with me.  And for being patient and sweet and reassuring when we go hiking and I get a little scared.  And for suggesting that we do a 5K at a local brewery in the Spring (even though you hate running) because you know how much I love running and beer.  And you of course. 

Thank you, my darling, for giving up watching a very important and exciting Eagles v. Cowboys game in the Fall to take me to see the band America -- surrounded by people a generation older than us -- because you knew I love their music and you knew how happy that it would make me.  And how happy you were, simply because I was happy.  

Thank you, my darling, for looking at me the way that you do.  For the times we are looking at each other and for the times you think I don't see you looking at me.  

Thank you, my darling, for being you.  You're not perfect, and I do not want you to be, but you're perfect for me.  You make me feel good and alive and loved and safe and adored and respected and liked and all of the things.  You make me feel more like "me" and more alive and loved than I have ever felt.  And you know exactly what to do and what to say.  When I am having a stressful day, you make it better.  You don't (and can't) fix it.  But you listen and you make it better.  

I promised back in 2013 that "when the time is right, I will not take Valentines Day, and more importantly what it means, for granted again."  The time is now.  And I don't and I won't.  

Happy Valentines Day, my sweet Matthew.  My heart is full with our love -- our real love ... our ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each other love.  Thank you for showing me, by doing nothing more than simply being you, that it's true: love always wins. 

Quality v. Quantity

I'm sure it's pretty obvious by now that my blog writing has trailed off a bit.  And not for lack of passion about writing.  I adore writing.  I have always been steadfast that running and triathlon got me through my divorce in one piece, but I've come to realize that writing -- and more specifically this blog -- did as well.  Writing has been my catharsis in a way that running could not, and can never, be.  It has enabled me to do something that even at the ripe old age of 40 that I struggle with ... to articulate my inner most feelings and "say" them aloud.  My blog, first and foremost, is for me.  But I've been thrilled, and frankly surprised, that so many people have reached out to me to say that they're somehow touched or moved by what I say here.  For Christmas, Matt even gave me a little (pink!) leather journal personalized with my name on the front and a lovely inscription on the inside cover because he loves the blog and wants to encourage me to write.  

My lack of posts is due to many reasons too numerous and varied to share here.  But one of them, and perhaps the most important, is that I'm focusing on quality over quantity where it comes to my writing.  My blog has evolved from a very structured three post per week workout-home-clothes schedule to a very unstructured, more "organic" (God, I really hate the overuse of that word sometimes but it's really the only one that fits) flow of introspection and reflection.  I will still post about my home and projects and decorating and style and fashion and unicorns and kittens.  And of course I'll continue to share posts about running, races and workouts going forward.  But at least for the foreseeable future, I want to incorporate more "real" writing here. I'm thankful that this is my space to do it.  

Thank you for giving me the chance to share with you.  

Lucky number 40

Well look who's 40!  Today!  

That's right, y'all.  I'm the big four-oh!  And I am grabbing 40 by the big brass ones.  Needless to say, 40 is a huge milestone.  I think it's way bigger than 30.  I know there have been movies and shows and books about the mid-life crisis that's supposed to accompany turning 40, but to be honest, I haven't been looking at 40 as something lurking in the corner, waiting for me to get there and pounce on me like this adorable, yet menacing, cat:

Rather, I have been looking at 40 like this - with me as the Kool Aid Man bursting through a big wall.

That's right.  I went full on Kool Aid Man on you!  And now I want Kool Aid.  Anyway, no mid-life crisis for this girl, no crying in my wine beer ... I won't be bemoaning the fact that I'm older or that my age starts with a "4" or that I'm as close to retirement as I am to starting college or that my body has changed or that I have laugh lines and crows feet -- though all of those things are all true.  The way I see it, is my thirties were my awakening.  I did the very difficult and often painful work of discovering who I was, what I wanted, what I didn't, and what my life was all about. I am certain that my parents and grandmothers would read that and laugh -- that I think at age 40 I've got it all figured out.  I am not so bold as to say that, but I know a lot more about life, love, loss and myself than I did just a decade ago.  I am ready to turn 40 and embrace the new decade and season of my life and wait for the good things and lessons that are yet to unfold.  The difference between now and ten years ago is I feel equipped  to handle what may come, and I know that what may come will be beautiful, horrible, painful, sublime and everything in between.

I've also been thinking.  I've been thinking a lot.  I tend to do that, as I think this blog shows.  But in life, when a milestone approaches, one ponders.  I've been doing a lot of thinking and reflecting and pondering as I near the close to mid-way point (Deo volente) of my journey through this life and I've realized that there has been one thing that I have been really wrong about:  luck. 

This realization was prompted by a gift from my parents.  They recently went on a trip to Scotland and Ireland.  They always ask what I'd like as a souvenir, and usually my answer is a Christmas tree ornament.  But this time, I asked for a Celtic knot necklace.  I love simple jewelry and I thought a pretty little Celtic knot would be something I could wear all of the time.  They brought one back for me, and a very similar, but smaller, version for my little girl.  When she gave it to me, my mom said that the knot meant something, but she could not remember what ... that each of the knots has a unique meaning but she could not for the life of her remember what mine was.  I figured I could google it and figure it out eventually.  One night as I took off my necklace, I looked closely on the back and realized that the answer was right in front of me the entire time and stamped onto the back of the necklace: my knot meant luck.  

And I realized, just like that, I've been living a life filled with luck.  Just like I have been walking around for weeks with luck literally hanging around my neck without knowing it, I realized I have been living the most luckiest life of all.  I've never thought of myself as a particularly "lucky" person, and I've never really believed in luck, at least for me.  I always ascribed to Lucille Ball's philosophy of making your own "luck":

Luck? I don't know anything about luck.

I've never banked on it and I'm afraid of people who do.

Luck to me is something else:  hard work and realizing what is opportunity and what isn't.

While I can say with conviction that many of my life's blessings are the result of my hard work, I have to admit that so many more -- the really important ones -- are the result of pure and total luck.  Of things beyond my control.   I'm talking about my relationships and the people who I treasure more dearly than any possession or any accomplishment.  Those are all the result of luck.  Ironman  or marathon finish? That was me.  My success in college and law school? My hard work.  Career? All me.  But friendship ... family ... love ... those are not things you can attain by working hard and putting your head down and seeing it through.  Those are, at least at the outset, by and large, all driven by luck.  By somehow magically being in the right place at the exact right time.  

I am lucky that I have two incredible, kind, sweet, smart children.  Sure, part of who they are is shaped by me and their dad, but I believe a bigger part of them was who they were when they were born.  Their capacity for and ability to love humbles me and shows me that regardless of how I might feel to the contrary, I have done something really right by them.  Sometimes I just watch them do their homework, or watch a show, or work on an art project and am overwhelmed that these two perfect little creatures are here because of me.

I am lucky that I was born to two wonderful, loving parents.  I had no control over this.  My mom and dad have always encouraged me and never once made me feel like I couldn't do anything I set my mind to.  My parents were and continue to be first in line when it comes to supporting me - whether it was by watching me with a bunch of friends put on The Muppet Show, or by applauding my sister and me dancing in our tutus to ABBA, or driving up to Lake Placid to see me become an Ironman.  I feel like I make them proud. But they make me proud as well.

I am lucky that both of my grandmothers, who are in their late 80s, are still with us.  I am so so blessed to have such strong, smart, vibrant role models in them for the past 40 years.  They are both incredible women.  

I am lucky that my sister was born some 3 years and 4 months after I was.  She was my first friend, and while we are very different, we are always sisters and have each others' backs like no one else.  As we have gotten older, we have gotten closer.  I am looking forward to becoming even better friends.  

I am lucky that by some stroke of luck, my friend Heather and I were both in Mrs. Nidorf's first grade class. And that despite some tween-angsty ups and downs we managed to stay friends essentially from age 6 to the present day.  And I am lucky that I played field hockey in high school with "the girl with the red shin guards from Hopewell."  My friend Angie and I met in high school and became fast, close friends.  Angie, Heather and I were, and are, so close through good times, bad times and everything in between.   We literally grew up together, laughed and cried together; and we continue to grow together and laugh and cry together.  We just have a lot better hair and clothes than we did in the early 1990s.  

I am lucky that the powers that be at Catholic University put me in close proximity in the same dorm as my friends Missy, Maggie, Melissa and Julia.  Looking back, we became friends solely because of where our dorm rooms were located.  I came into my own in college, and these girls were there.  We became adult women together and have not only remained friends but have gotten closer.  Our friendship was strengthened 8 years ago when Maggie died.  The five of us spent one last night together, with Missy, Melissa, Julia and I sitting vigil with Maggie in her hospital room.  Our friendship has continued to grow despite our loss, but I believe that our friendship keeps Maggie alive.  Things are not real until I tell my Catholic girls.    

I am lucky that my friend Colleen and I ended up going to the same law school, and despite living together for a year, remained friends.  Haha.  Colleen's perspective on life and love has come to my rescue many times.  Colleen, more than anyone else in my life until that point, encouraged me to be myself and thought that the person who I was (and am) was weird and funny and that I should never change.  

I am lucky that I stumbled upon the Martha Stewart wedding boards back in 2001 when I got engaged ... and that almost 30 other remarkable women -- my "Wedding Friends" -- did as well. We've gone from talking about dresses and flowers and favors to children and divorces and marriage.  Our perspectives and lives are as different as our geographic reach.  They are dear, precious friends.  Abby, Andrea, Angie, Ava, Camille, Debbie, Denise, Heidi, Jeanine, Jen, Jennie, Juliet, Kate, Lea, Liz, Lynn, Madelyn, Mandie,  Marci, Maya, Nicole, Patti, Rachel, Rose, Toya and Yovanka -- all of them have shaped who I am.  

I am lucky, though this may seem odd to be considered a "lucky" thing, that my dear friend Toya and I were newly single again around the same time.  When you are newly divorced, you feel as though everyone around you is a couple, and you are very, painfully alone.  Frankly, it is kind of true.  But Toya and I, who had struck up a very close friendship some 6 years prior, helped each other through what was at times a painfully lonely time.  That shared experience brought us even closer.  And now the two of us have found happy, fulfilling relationships ... oddly enough one month to the day apart.  She knows everything about me.  We are soul sisters.   

I am lucky that Toya decided to try to sell her half marathon bib that she could not run rather than take a loss. And that when I emailed my running club about the bib, Tina answered.  Tina and I started talking races, running and unicorns and have been close friends ever since.  There is no way we would have met had this not happened.  Lucky lucky.   She makes me laugh on the regular and only she knows the importance of owning a pair of yoga pants emblazoned with unicorns and rainbows.  

I am lucky that even though my marriage did not make it, my relationship with my former sister in law, Jamie, did.  Jamie is my sister forever and a dear, treasured friend.  We talk often and see each other as often as we can.  I am lucky that what started out with us being the spouses of brothers turned into a close friendship of our own.  I've seen Jamie become a wife, and now a mother. I am lucky that she will always be in my life.

I am lucky that I happened to have the exact same train schedule as my sweet friend Robyn and that she took pity on a very pregnant woman who needed a seat.  We had seen each other for months on the morning and afternoon trains that we took and one day struck up a conversation about how unkind people on the train were to pregnant women.  We became friends and realized we had so much in common.  Thank you SEPTA for being the catalyst for my friendship with this wonderful, sweet and always got your back friend. 

I am lucky that when I started my career at my firm, Amy did as well.  And that we were somehow staffed on the same case that enabled us to get to know each other better.  We became friends, and then close friends and then super duper close friends.  I am lucky that we run, and swim, and bike at the same pace.  There's nothing quite so therapeutic as a run with a close friend.  And I am lucky that when she could not train with me for the 2012 Philly marathon that Bill could and that Amy insisted that we train together.  Bill and I didn't really know each other well, but on our first long training run, he said, "So tell me the story of your life.  We've got a lot of running to do.  We might as well start there."  And a friendship of our own was born.  I am lucky that my two friends have been my training partners [IRONMEN!] and dear friends who supported me through some of the highest, and some of the lowest, times in my life.  They're about as close to family as you can get.  

I am lucky that my incredible boyfriend Matt and I happened to meet online in the early Summer and that the line "so how was your Monday?" was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.  I am so lucky that despite what happened in our respective pasts that we were (and are) both happy people and both truly ready for and open to love.  And that we found each other.  I am lucky that he loves me for who I am and does not want to change a single thing about me -- even my music.  I am lucky that we love one another and tell each other how we feel.  Not only am I lucky to be loved by him, but I am so lucky to love him.  The first picture is one that he took of me, and he is responsible for that smile.  He makes me happy.  So very happy.  And what else can you ask for in life than to be really, truly, purely happy?  

And finally, I am lucky that I am here.  That I was able to wake up this morning, take a deep breath, look around at all of my blessings and live another beautiful day on this Earth.  And take a run and listen to my horrible music.  And then have a delicious IPA because beer makes me happy.  And cake.  And maybe cry a little, because I am a sap but also truly thankful for my luck in life, so much so that it brings me to tears.  And I'm thankful for this blog - it's been my creative outlet for years and a place where I love to share a little bit of me with the big world [wide web].  Today's post was about as "me" as they come - cats, Kool Aid, running, beer, Latin [Deo volente means "God willing" - I've been waiting ages to use this phrase], dorkiness, love, and most of all, the people who I love and who love me.  

So tonight I will spend the evening with my darling children and the love of my life eating my birthday meal of fried chicken and thanking God for the incredible life of luck and consequent love with which I've been blessed.

Here's to 40.  

Grief is the Price We Pay for Love

My friend Maggie was, herself, a contradiction - a tiny person with a huge personality; a beautiful woman who was most comfortable in fuzzy novelty socks from Target and jeans; a thoughtful, quiet presence with an enormous and unforgettable laugh.  So in a way, her death on December 6, 2007, seemed to fit that mold.  That profound sadness and grief at a time when the rest of the world was celebrating and filled with hope. 

It's been 8 years.  Eight years since I got the phone call and lived the following 5 days that would change me forever.  Eight years since one of my very best friends quietly, beautifully, and with incredible strength, left this world.  Eight years since I saw her face.  

Her death was unexpected.  She wasn't sick.  It wasn't a disease or an affliction.  It was just "one of those things," which is what people say when they don't know what else to say.  She was there and then she was not.  She hung on for days, and I truly believe that was so that we could all come see her and say our goodbyes.  Even though we weren't really prepared for the fact that we were saying goodbye.

I vividly remember looking out of the window at the hospital on the morning of her death before she died, knowing what was about to happen in a very short time, and watching the cars on the Beltway below race to wherever they were going.  I remember wanting to scream at their drivers "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IS HAPPENING IN HERE?" because, to me, it was unfathomable and unfair that the entire world was not grieving and feeling those same feelings as we were.  That this beautiful life was about to be gone forever and there they were, going about their daily routine, unfazed by the sadness and grief and horror that was happening so painfully and acutely right then and there to me.  But I didn't scream. I sat at the window, held my very pregnant belly in silence and cried.  And to this day, when I drive on the Beltway and see that hospital, my heart aches and my eyes well with tears.  

Even though it has been eight years, I am still unprepared for the way I feel in early December.  I always know, in my head, that the anniversary is coming, but I am never prepared.  I know it's coming.  In the back of my mind, I think "OK December 6 is coming ... it will be sad."  If only grief were logical.  If only grief understood that time is supposed to make things easier to bear.  I've stopped trying to figure out why I feel the way that I do.  I just accept it and deal.  After all, life goes on, which is a painful truth of grief.  There is work to be done, children to be mothered, errands to be run, bills to be paid, life to be lived in all of its grand and mundane details.  Grief is always there.  

As I write this post, I have a candle flickering nearby.  It's the holidays, and I love to have holiday candles in my house.  I've had to take a few moments from writing this to wipe away my tears and I find myself looking at my candle and the flame, and it occurs to me that grief is so much like a flickering flame.  It's always there burning ... when it starts the flame is the largest and the most intense, and then the fire settles a bit but it keeps burning and it stays burning, sometimes low and quiet, and sometimes, without warning or reason, bursting with an unexpected bolt of fire.  There's no real rhyme or reason, and there's no real antidote to it.  It's just there.  And in a way, it's comforting.  I hate to think of a time in my life when I am not grieving the loss of my very dear friend.  My 8 years of grief have been just like that: a long slow burn with occasional and unpredictable bursts of profound sadness.  Such is life.  And such is death.  

I miss her every single day.  I miss her the most at this time of year.   With 8 years, I can actually see differences in my appearance from the last time she was with us.  But Maggie will always be young and beautiful.  I am thankful and grateful to God that I knew her.  I miss my friend.

Rest in Peace, Maggie.  We will always love you.

on grace

Happy Monday.  [horizontal smile]

I still owe a major recap (both of life and of training) of the Summer and I promise to get to that soon(ish).  I have a handful of half-finished posts that I've been working on for awhile, and I am really hoping to get back to a more regular schedule.

When I dusted off the cobwebs and logged back on to the blog this past weekend, I found this post that I had written awhile ago but not finished and had not published.  I thought hmm ... this is a good one I want to share.  

Quite some time ago, I read the blog of a friend of a friend (got it?) who divorced and then discovered he had a brain tumor.  Talk about an epic kick in the teeth, right?  I don't know him, but a lot of what he posted resonated.  In particular, I found myself nodding along with his comments that he relied, and relies, on his friends in this new stage of life, and that he is constantly amazed by how truly giving his true friends have been and continue to be.  I had (and continue to have) the same experience, especially in those early days.  Days when I didn't ask for help -- days when friends just showed up and did.  

It got me thinking about grace, and how so many people extended so much grace in those early days.  When you are in the throes of a separation and then a divorce, you can't really express your feelings in a coherent manner.  I look back at those days and it was really like triage: I survived because I had to, I put one foot in front of the other, I breathed in and out, I survived.  And I am so lucky that I had people who stood by my side and were there, were kind, were loving and showed me grace.  

I am fortunate that I didn't have any real naysayers in my life ... no people who wanted to criticize me for not working hard enough, for not caring enough about my children to "make it work", for "giving up", for disregarding my marriage vows.  I did not have to explain myself to those who loved me, and that was grace.  

Relatively recently (and long after my separation and divorce), an acquaintance on Facebook (an acquaintance who is not, and never has been, married or divorced) posted a link to an article that basically criticized the notion of divorce and essentially passed judgement on those who found themselves in an unhappy marriage and then divorced.  This Facebook friend said the following:  

Thoughts on this? What constitutes a "dead" marriage? I've never been married but my "map" has always been that divorce would only be an option for me if there was cheating, abuse, or addiction involved (which, chances are, I would see that behavior prior to marriage if I am in a relationship long enough with the person). Once I'm married, I feel I should know that person's core values and beliefs enough to gauge the likelihood of those things occurring. I guess my thought process is that "irreconcilable differences" or just "not being happy" in a marriage is not enough of a reason to divorce, especially if children are involved. Work on it - you fell in love with that person for a reason and if you're unhappy then that has more to do with work you need to do on yourself than anything else. The only way you would be modeling bad behavior is by allowing children to be in a continual unhealthy environment of cheating, abuse, or addiction. You're modeling good behavior if they see you are in a relationship free of those things and choose to work on your own "unhappiness" to grow as a person.

I sat there at my computer and read the post over and over.  My face was red, my hands were shaking, my heart was pounding.  And as much as I wanted to just ignore and move on, I did not.  I stood up for myself.  And I stood up for people in my shoes who went through the same thing that I did.  And I said this:

I have a lot of thoughts. As you know, I’ve been married once and am now divorced. So I can bring that perspective to the table. While you are certainly entitled to your own opinion, having never been in a marriage, or through the absolutely heart wrenchingly difficult process of divorce, your opinion is, quite frankly, overly simplistic. Marriage, even the best marriages with the most amazing and truest loves, is difficult. Marriage is a living, breathing thing independent of the people who comprise it. People grow, people change, time marches on. A marriage has to be strong enough to adapt to those changes. That’s so easy to say and acknowledge in concept, but in reality, it’s really just hard. I venture that most people are not the same people they were 10, 15, 20 years ago. Change is wonderful, but often very difficult. And sometimes permanent and divergent. No one enters a marriage thinking that divorce will happen; likewise, no one leaves a marriage without a hell of a lot of heartbreak. 

This comment of yours: “I guess my thought process is that ‘irreconcilable differences’ or just ‘not being happy’ in a marriage is not enough of a reason to divorce, especially if children are involved. Work on it - you fell in love with that person for a reason and if you're unhappy then that has more to do with work you need to do on yourself than anything else” is rife with judgment, and having been through a divorce (a divorce that was, by and large, amicable and a divorce in which children were involved), it made me bristle. To limit divorce as “only an option” where there is cheating, abuse or addiction involved is myopic in my view. Those are horrible things for sure. But irreconcilable differences are insidious. They don’t just happen overnight. They take time and they are destructive. By brushing them off as “not enough reason to divorce, especially if children are involved” invalidates, minimizes and undercuts the difficult decisions that many people make to leave their marriages. Without going into details here about my own situation, I will tell you that I did “work on it.” For years. But at the end of the day, ending my marriage was the healthiest thing for me, for my ex, and for my children who now have parents who are happy, well-adjusted and living a better life, which, in turn, makes my children happier, better adjusted and living a better life. They did not ask for divorced parents, and my ex and I work very hard to surround them with love and show them every single day that we are still a family, if not in a traditional sense. I am thankful that, by all accounts, we are succeeding. 

All this to say – before you make declarations like the ones above, give some thought to those who have actually had to go through it and who live it every single day. I am beyond grateful that I have friends and family who were, and continue to be, kind, supportive, caring, sympathetic, empathetic and just plain amazing and who understood that making the decision to divorce was done with a lot of thought and prayer. I was shown a lot of grace by the people in my life, and I encourage you extend that same grace to those facing the prospect of divorce.

She deleted her post.

I reproduce our exchange here not as a means to chastise her, but as a plea to anyone who is watching a friend or an acquaintance or a loved one go through a separation or divorce or troubles in a marriage to muster the strength to show grace.  The beauty of showing grace is that it is as active as it is passive ... by simply loving your loved one, without judgment, and being there and saying or simply implying that no matter what happens, "I love you, I am here, and I will love you," you are extending an incredible amount of grace at a time when everything is upside down, inside out and unrecognizable.  No one knows what to say.  Even now, when a friend is contemplating divorce and confides in me, I admit that don't know what to say (which is hard because I've been there). But everyone's journey and everyone's story is different.  So I listen.  And I let him or her know that there's no magic answer, but I am there.  

It's been more than three years, but I still cannot thank enough those in my life who showed (and continue to show) me that grace.  I am who I am today because of it.  I was able to move on, find myself again, and now, find a loving relationship in which I am truly in love and truly happy.  "I once was lost, but now I'm found ... was blind but now I see."  

There's a reason that the song calls grace "amazing".  It truly is.  

5 More Things About Me

Happy Monday.  Happy Middle of June.  How did that happen?

Totally self-indulgent, but I'm sharing five more random things about me.  Nothing like showing my hand to the internet on a Monday morning.

1.  I *love* Barry Manilow.

Yes, I do.  I am not ashamed.  

In fact, I saw him in concert this past weekend with four of my girlfriends (who liked and knew Barry's music in varying degrees and intensities).  He is amazing in concert (especially considering he is over 70) and it was a blast.  It's essentially a giant sing-a-long of his hits and he is a tremendously talented showman.  Some scenes from the concert:

During the Copacabana - ribbon steamer cannons!! 

2.  I take vitamins and I organize the heck out of them.

I feel better when I take my vitamins each day.  I take a prenatal vitamin (more in a second on that but there are no babies or plans or hopes for more babies!), vitamin C, calcium, and flax seed oil.  I take the prenatals because they are great! They make my nails and hair grow strong and I like the mix of vitamins in them.  But with all of those vitamins, I find it to be a pain to grab the basket and get out the pills each morning.  No more! I bought this sucker at CVS and I fill it every Sunday.  Love.  Dork.  I recognize that this and #1 above go hand in hand. 

3.  My kids know me way too well.

I laughed - hard - when I read the Mother's Day my little girl gave me.  Why, yes, my favorite color is white and Mommy does love to run, swim and bike. I particularly love that she got the order of preference right! And yes.  Most importantly of all, I am happy when she hugs me.  Melt. 

4.  My name is often butchered.

It's Shanna. Just like it's spelled.  Sh-anna. Rhymes with "banana".  Anna with "Sh" in front of it.  It's not Shayna. Or Shawna. Or Shonna.  Or Sheena.  Or even Shannon.  It's also not Channa, like the girl at Starbucks thought.

5.  I am super particular about changing out three things every other month.

There are three things in my house that I am absolutely militant about changing every other month.  I make it a point to change them on the first day of the month, every other month, starting in January.  I change: (1) my toothbrush; (2) my mascara; (3) the air-filter in my furnace.  It is much easier to remember to change them up when I do them all at once. 

There you go!  Five fun things.  And I will leave you with this. Because what is more fun than Barry Manilow in merengue sleeves?  The answer is nothing.  

The Runner of Oz

I love the movie The Wizard of Oz.  I always have.  I grew up watching, and loving, the movie and could not wait to watch it on TV when it would come on every year.  I loved everything about it: the characters, the music, the drama, the absolutely terrifying witch and come on ... the ruby slippers.  But more than those things, even as a child, I appreciated the lesson in the movie that at the end of the day, often what we are searching for in our lives, actually lives right there inside of us.  Just as the group America sang "Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man ... that he didn't already have."

Honestly, it had been awhile since I thought about the Wicked Witch, the Lollipop Guild, the Wizard, Dorothy and her little dog too.  But, recently, I was running with a group of running buddies super early in the morning and one of the women who I hadn't met before said, "ooh! I love your sneakers! They sparkle!"

Of course they do.  I remembered that when I found my first pair of my now beloved ruby red Sauconys nearly a year ago (and I have since that time purchased the same pair over and over and over again), that sparkle and the ruby red color was part (not all ... part) of what drew them to me.  I loved how they really did seem like my very own ruby slipper sneakers. I had kind of forgotten about that until she mentioned the sparkle.  And at that moment, I realized that I was my very own Dorothy searching for some sort of "home."  And I am living and learning some pretty important lessons from The Wizard of Oz.

Lesson 1:  Every Journey Begins With A Single Step.

It seems obvious, right?  Dorothy's journey began on tiny sliver of the yellow brick road that led to Oz - one single step toward something bigger and better.  But that lesson is easy to forget when you are mired in the muck or when you are staring down the barrel of an enormous task.  Something like Ironman - when I first started training, the idea of swim-bike-running 140.6 miles in less than 17 hours seemed overwhelming and daunting.  But the workouts weren't: 45 minute bike; 5 mile run; 1,500 yard swim.  I could do those.  I did those.  And bit by bit, bird by bird, I took on the training and eventually found myself swim-bike-running 140.6 miles in less than 17 hours with a huge smile on my face.

Likewise, starting over.  I'm now three years out from first separating, and it both feels like a split second ago and an eternity ago.  In many ways, it is both.  But at that time, the idea of starting over was completely overwhelming.  I didn't know what to do, who I was, where to start.  My single step was literally that:  to embrace as much of my "single" step toward being single again as I could and take things one day at a time.  There were days when I felt good and strong and hopeful.  There were days when I absolutely did not, and I cried harder than I can remember.  There were days of resolve and days of doubt.  But just like Dorothy on that yellow brick road, I kept on going.  Turning back or stopping was not an option.  My destination was about as nebulous as the city of Oz, but I trusted that I had to keep moving forward.

Truth be told, I'm still not sure of my destination.  I'm not sure how things will end up for me.  So for the moment, I am shelving the destination and embracing the journey, making new friends along the way, rediscovering myself, and finding strength that I didn't think I had.

Lesson 2:  Clicking My Heels Won't Bring Me Home but Pounding Them Will.

The big lesson in the movie, of course, is just what I said above: the characters all had inside them from the beginning those things they thought they lacked and wanted most.  The Scarecrow wanted a brain, but he was the smartest; the Tin Man wanted a heart, but he was the most loving; the Lion wanted courage, but he was the most brave; Dorothy wanted to go home, but home, and her ability to get there, was within her the entire time.  All she had to do was click those beautiful ruby red slippers three times and say "there's no place like home" and voila! Home she was.

Clicking my ruby red Sauconys won't get me that same result, but running in them sure will.  Running, along with introspection, friends, and prayer, have helped me find the "me" that was once lost.  I know I was (and am) searching for happiness, love, security, compassion and kindness.  I've found them all, in various forms and varying degrees, and I have realized that they were all right there inside me.

There's still a lot of work to do, but that's the beauty of running, introspection, friends, and prayer: there are no bounds to these things.  They will be there for me for the rest of my life.

Lesson 3:  The Scarecrow Had it Right.

As I've gotten older, I have found it kind of telling that the Scarecrow had the heart and had the courage but didn't have brains.  How true is that.  In order to be brave, and in order to really put your heart out there, you have to stop thinking and go for it.  You have to suspend rational, careful thought and just do ... not think.  As a smart, thinking person, I find this to be a pretty big challenge. But I am learning that overthinking can be insidious.  Real courage and real love often defy logic ... which goes hand in hand with the final lesson.

Lesson 4:  The Desire to Love and Be Loved Reigns Supreme, Despite the Risks.

One of my favorite moments in the movie has always been the end when the Wizard hands out the various coveted prizes to the characters, and in particular, the scene with the Tin Man:

Wizard of Oz:  As for you, my galvanized friend, you want a heart.  You don't know how lucky you are not to have one.  Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.  

Tin Man:  But I ... I still want one.  

I am not sure I can add much more to that.  It makes me tear up a little, to be honest.  It's a beautiful ,and yet harrowing, paradox of our own humanity: knowing that even though there are no guarantees of love or happiness or that your heart won't be broken and smashed in a million little pieces, we still simply want to love and to be loved.   I know I do.  Just like the Tin Man, I still want that, and I remind myself of the Wizard's final words to the Tin Man, "remember, my sentimental friend, that a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others."  Because, in the end, love is the only thing that matters.  

Wanderlust and Wonderlust

If you have read the blog for awhile, you probably recognize that my posts typically fall into one of three categories, which just happen to be the title of the blog itself: style, home and sweat.  Those things are all important to me, and I love that my blog is not pigeon-holed into just one of those categories.  If not already obvious, I write for myself for a bit of catharsis and to share a little bit of me with the interwebs and whoever wants to read; I don't write for sponsors or to amass a bunch of page clicks or for advertising dollars.  There's nothing wrong with that approach to blogging ... it's just not where my blog fits in.

You've also probably noticed that there are (and have been increasingly more) posts that are sort of outliers - posts that don't squarely fit in the style, home or sweat categories.  Posts that are more my own musings or thoughts.  Posts like Rainbow Connection, Running Through, My Funny Valentines, etc.  There are times when I just want to write about what's going on in my head and in my heart.  I am glad that I have a place to do it.

I have to confess that I was feeling pretty melancholy yesterday.  Even though life is, by all accounts (and frankly by my account, which is the only account that truly counts), good, I was feeling down and sorry for myself, and unfortunately that feeling coincided with a day on my own.  I am not unaccustomed to time to myself and without the kids.  It's just on this day, for whatever reason, I was feeling pretty blue.  I usually seek out the company of other people - that is my inclination, my instinct and my tendency.  But yesterday I wanted peace and quiet and solitude.

As I sat on my couch, willing myself to take a nap that I knew wasn't going to happen, I realized I needed to get outside.  Now, again, if you've read this blog for more than a minute you know what my inclination was: I wanted to run.  But I had already run 8 miles in the morning and I wasn't up for more miles (which, ultimately, was a blessing in disguise).  I decided to put on my new trail runners and go for a walk and explore.

I truly unplugged. I left my watch, my phone, my iPod, everything at home.  It really was just me and my thoughts.  I decided to explore the trails along the creek near my house, which, I'm ashamed to admit, I have not done in the 3 years I've been living here.  I indulged my wanderlust and just walked with no real purpose other than to clear my head and explore.  After just a few minutes, I realized all that I've missed by running all the time.  Walking along the quiet, wooded, shady trails enabled me to completely let go - to simply be, to see what was around me and appreciate the simple beauty.  I walked through the mud, I explored a trail up a hill, I stood on the pebbly shore of the creek and watched a few fish swim by, I took deep breaths, and I started to cry.  I'm not sure why and I'm not sure it matters.  But I found myself crying as I walked, and rather than stop, I just kept on walking and letting the tears flow.  It was obviously a release I needed.  While I still don't really know why the tears came, I don't think it matters.  They did, I let them flow, and I felt and feel better.  I found myself thinking of my friend Maggie, and then found myself talking to her.  I try to talk to her when I run, but that never really works.  Running thoughts are so staccato and broken up.  Running is more about pounding out stress and sadness than really muddling through.  I muddled through on my walk. 

I had no real purpose, no destination, no earthly clue where I was going, but I kept walking.  With wanderlust fully engaged, I started to feel better.  I'd veer off the path and check out a steep hill to see what was at the top. I'd walk to the creek bank to check out a gorgeous purple flower.  I'd stop for a minute and take a deep breath and say a quick prayer of thanks. And I kept walking. 

I found myself on a hillside covered in buttercups.  I can't remember the last time I saw a buttercup, let alone an entire hillside filled with them.  The ground cover was yellow and for a moment, I wished I had my phone so I could snap a picture of what I was seeing.  Not wanting to forget that sight, I stopped and picked a bundle. 

My wanderlust led me right to Valley Forge Park.  I had heard that there was a trail that led from where I live right to the park but had yet to find it.  I found it yesterday.  I realized on that walk how I need to indulge my wanderlust more often with a slow, steady walk.  Of course I will still run every chance I get, but I also realized I need to do more exploring and walking.  I feel like I've missed out on a lot of the world around me.  

While I was walking, I was thinking about this post and how it was my reconnection to wanderlust. But I also realized that the walk was as much wanderlust as wonderlust.   Where wanderlust is the exploration of the world around you, wonderlust, to me, is the exploration of wonder and of mystery.  I had not really thought about that until the moment during my walk where I was walking through what felt and looked like a blizzard of dandelion puffs - you know ... the ethereal white puff balls that are everywhere in Spring and are the bane of any self-respecting lawn-loving person's existence.

But it was magical.  It was really like a beautiful flurry of dandelion puffs all around me.   For a little while, I tried to find the source - where could all these puffs be coming from?  But I stopped myself.  Because I knew that no matter where the source, nothing could compete with the beautiful image I had in my mind.  I didn't want to ruin that.  

And as I walked through those lovely wisps, I thought about how when we were kids, we would take those puffs and say "make a wish!" and blow them away and hope our wishes came true. I was surrounded by wishes, surrounded by wonder.  What was that wish? What was that one? What was mine?  I closed my eyes and felt the billowy wishes wash over me.  I hope that some of mine come true.  That's wonderlust for you ... it's the beginning of a dream, of a wish, of hope.  It's the seduction of the very beginnings of those things in your heart.  

When I was finishing my walkabout, I realized I felt so much better.  The tears had stopped.  I no longer felt melancholy.  I felt hopeful.  And I immediately said to myself, "it is well with my soul."  Now, I don't talk about faith or religion here on the blog, because, well, I just don't.  But I am a woman of quiet faith, and that hymn resonates with me.  It always has.  After my wanderlust and wonderlust, it resonates even more:

When peace like a river, attendeth my way

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

It is well with my soul.  I can't guarantee I won't be sad or melancholy again.  But I know that I just need to wander, and wonder, and things will be better.  And it will be well with my soul.