Although I wanted to run a marathon the year before, I still believed that I couldn’t, I shouldn’t.  And I watched others run it and enjoy the exhilaration that comes with personal accomplishment.  But the lights came back on for me in 2011.  I found my “Runner’s Chi”.  And the way I set my goal, juggled the day-to-day demands and put the hard work in was mirrored on almost all fronts of my life.   Healing old injuries, testing the limits of my strength, pushing how far I could go.  Enduring the pain and mental focus associated with the miles run, I was able to revel in the exhilaration I created for myself crossing the finish line.  

I pull all of that with me in to 2012, especially the sentiment “I’ll never do that again.”

From the dirt, I sometimes learn the why for a particular yank.  You offer a hand and help up and with it you transfer a bag for me to carry.  A bag full of bad memories and bitter feelings.   

We run, but I am slower, can’t go some of the places I would like to because of it.  It isn’t a simple choice to let it go.  That choice was eliminated years ago, should have been sooner but it took some time for me to believe that.  What choice is left but taking off the leash?  

After my mom passed, there was never a time I needed my father more.  And there was never a time that the blinders were pulled back to reveal the brutal, ugly truth.  My mom was the glue that held it all together.  

My need for normalcy was overwhelming.  I knew I couldn’t turn back time, but I wanted desperately to fill the void left by her death.  I did what most intuitively would do – I turned to my surviving parent for comfort and the proverbial shoulder to cry on.   But I didn’t get that.  Instead, I had to stand by his side, helping him to buy new sheets along with other things my mom had always done for the 49 years they were married.  It became apparent early on that talking about my mom or my grieving process wasn’t an option.  And so it was all stiff upper lip and small talk from then on out. 

We bump along.  Days turn to weeks, weeks turn to months, months to years and we rebuild.  Go on with our lives.  I can’t speak for everyone, but I know struggled with needing reaasurance and comfort for a long time.  Feelings of anger and resentment boiled over occasionally because he wasn’t able to or wouldn’t give me what I needed.  But underneath it all, I was/am just a little girl who wanted/wants her daddy to make it all better. 

After hearing my deliberations on a shed for the back yard roll on for far too long, my dad declared one afternoon in the early Fall that he would build me a shed.  Annnnd the fun began.  The fighting at home began.  The fighting with my dad began.   The fighting with the neighbor began.  The weeks of hearing how he would build it stage by stage began.  The plans were made, scrapped and then re-made.   The materials lists were made.  The materials were bought.  The concrete was poured, the frame was built, the siding hung and the paint applied.   And after months of raw human interaction and manual labor, a shed was born. 

After her death, I wanted to feel my dad’s love.  I wanted to bury my head in his chest and feel safe and secure.  I wanted him to be with my children, show them who we are and why we do the things we do.  To instill in them a sense of history, leave a connection with their past to be sure it becomes a part of their identity through life.    

He poured hours of thought and attention into every detail of that structure.  Used his hands, energy and strength to put it together.  I remember wishing he had put that time and energy into me, my siblings and my kids. 

I didn’t understand then that my dad will never show me love the way I would like him to or the way I would show love myself.   And that I can’t define how someone should love me – I should just open my heart to the opportunity and soak it up.  Different doesn’t always mean less.  I couldn’t see then that all I needed was a shed. 

Every time I look out my kitchen window I am reminded, assured and thankful.  Dare I say almost as good as a hug.  Cuz if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.

My first year, an Achilles injury was the culprit. Second year, a sprained ankle. Third year, it was the kid’s summer schedule. This year? I blame my emphasis on preparing for dehydration. And my new job. And the kids being home. In all honesty, I think I am experiencing burn out and have grown resentful of the assumption that, even with all the constraints on my schedule, I should just be able to do this.

The details are all lost. Forget the limitations imposed and competing demands in my life. Without the fuel, training, support and restoration, how can there be the expectation that I will be ready? But there is. It’s like pouring everything you have into the unattainable and feeling empty because you couldn’t make it happen like you thought you should. And I will beat myself up for not finishing faster, doing more during the year to train and even for contemplating not starting.

Could I have trained harder? Absolutely. But with 4 weeks to go, I dive in and train as though I never stopped. Ninety-nine percent of of endurance racing is mental so I will go with this: I define success and it starts with shedding the expectation that I should just be able to do this.

Someday I’ll break the 3-hour mark…maybe in 2034.

And then darkness set in. A few clouds at first. Some rain, and then the sea turned violent and trashed me about. I held on for dear life, clinging to the only stable structure I had. The storm eventually subsided, but the sky stayed dark. My boat was battered, had holes and was sinking. I had no sun, wind, no food or water. Nothing at all to keep me going. I jumped off what was left of my boat and floated, for a long time I floated not thinking about anything but the darkness and water keeping me heavy and alone.

I fell asleep inside along the way and woke up on an island. I walked the beach until I came upon a long boardwalk . I sat on its steps in the darkness, watching the shooting stars and the sun begin to break the day. The first time in a long time that I had seen the sun, felt its warmth. With enough light, I walked to the end of the boardwalk looked over my shoulder, taking a picture with my eye that I would keep forever.

The boardwalk took me over the dune to a place where the flowers bloomed, the food was plentiful, wine flowed. Rest came easy with the peace the island gave me. It was sunny each day and there was never a lack of happiness.

The search planes began coming. I ducked and hid as they swept low over the tree lines looking for me, not wanting to be found. The island gave me everything I needed and then some. The searchers were relentless, despite my best efforts I couldn’t hide forever. They found me and escorted me back into those familiar dark, uncharted waters. Floating, wondering what it will take to rebuild my stable structure and sail again. Sun shining on my shoulders, all the fish I can eat. Never a lack of wind in my sails, always on track.

Why did it flip? Something of an earthquake. An invisible hand. The cup of life was taken away and won’t be back. Or maybe the tray cracked and gave way under the weight of the pieces as they stacked up over the years. What a mess to pick up. Where to start?

I wish the tray hadn’t flipped, was back to normal – the way it was before. When the tray could hold plenty and lend the pieces needed to replenish and nourish and they were replaced clean and fresh, ready to be lent again. Before the flip, before the overwhelming noise.

But the pieces, still and falling, stop time. Through the noise, a chance to find the right mix of pieces allowing the tray to provide balanced sustenance. Too many knives cutting away, not enough spoons to cup the juice of life or forks to grab hold of it. What pieces have gone missing over the years, what pieces have the years have shown a need for?

When the free fall stops, I will put the pieces back in the tray, the drawer will fit back into the larger cabinet and the tray will be normal. Not the normal I knew but rather the new normal. With the mix of pieces that perpetuate healthy, balanced sustenance. Those pieces that speak to the starved parts and those overindulged. Time will resume, the noise will stop. And the new normal will satiate. A new cup of life will be created to replace the one given.