, ; .

walking down a path littered with leaves, hands touching, laughter lilting,
the breeze lifts your hair above your eye and clears the ground ahead;
i see in you a kind of dream-of-a-thing, and let go of what i was before seeing.

familiar spaces in my rooms become yours,
a speckling-together of colors to make one brand new;
you anchor in me, our roots spreading down.

but sweaters pull, yarn dangling at seems and on collars,
shapes shifting, it is still comfortable to draw you close;
warmth in familiarity amidst small, biting pockets of cold sky.

we walk toward nowhere, disconnecting and untangling in static air,
looking in your eyes, i see revealed a space and clearer colors;
your anchor lifts. i stand rooted on the shore.

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if , then .

Sometimes it is the people no one imagines anything of
who
do the things that no one can imagine.
~The Imitation Game

tonight i had a lucky thing happen. though i’m not sure it was really luck at all. the way that things led to one another strike me as more probability than luck, and i think the subject of this post might agree.

after attending a book talk last week by Marc Solomon regarding his new publication “Winning Marriage”, our hosts The Welcoming Committee gave all of those who attended tickets to see the preview of the upcoming feature “The Imitation Game“. now, i hadn’t heard much about the movie prior, other than it would star Benedict Cumberbatch, the charmingly cantankerous lead in the fantastic series “Sherlock“. once i found the description on imdb, however, i knew this movie was for me.

when in college, i was required to fill a math credit for my liberal arts degree. to this day, i am thankful for my liberal arts gen-ed reqs for giving me the chance to expose my mind to things i would have never been willing to test out on my own. with “required risk”, i explored openly and ended up choosing three minors based on elective classes, including my math class. now, this was math that made sense to me because it was based on words. yes, words. the class was based out of the Philosophy department and was titled “Beginning Logic” (if you attend UNH, it is still available under PHIL412). my instructor, Rudolph Valentine Dusek, was a wildly entertaining introduction to why i would grow to love this course – he’d often go off on tangents about something seemingly unrelated to the course topic only to link back in at the last second with a reason why logic was relevant. “if this, then that” (if x, then y; if a, then b; https://ifttt.com/, etc.. it made perfect sense! i was hooked.

so how does this relate to the movie? Alan Turing, the subject of “The Imagination Game”, was familiar with logic as a budding mathematician in the 1930s. we studied Turing in many of my Philosophy courses, including my introduction to him during Logic. as Turing developed in his thinking and studies, he ultimately created “The Turing Machine”, which was the start of computing, including one of my personal favorites, the vending machine.  and that’s not just because there are tasty treats, interesting items, and refreshing or warming beverages inside; NO! it is because you put in specific coins and bills and the machine is able to know what to give you based on particular selections. F A S C I N A T I N G!

a still of Benedict Cumberbatch as Alan Turing from “The Imitation Game” – image from theimitationgamemovie.com

i’ve always loved numbers, even though math doesn’t come easily to me. i can learn any math, but it takes me longer than say, how to write a sonnet, or a new yoga pose. but the idea of numbers, and how we connect to them, is mesmerizing. i have a habit of adding numbers, typically seeking to find my favorite number: 9.

when i found out i would have tickets to the movie, i was ecstatic. the only issue was i had to work until 7, and we were asked to arrive at that time for a 7:30 showing. i was worried i wouldn’t make it (i emailed Ashley at TWC, of course, because sometimes my lateness, even when i can’t control it, makes people anxious!), so i was pleasantly surprised to find myself there just before 7:20pm, with enough time to get a soda and popcorn before the movie started. when i arrived, we received numbers for entrance to the show. my number was 153. 1+5+3=9.

the imitation game ticket

now, i’ve been having a bit of a go of it lately, and the fact that i made it to this movie on time, (albeit unexpectedly alone) snack in hand, and with a ticket number equalling 9, i felt like i was in the right place. and the movie was fantastic. even though i sat in the 2nd row, the cheers and laughter of an lgbtqa crowd made me feel at home and welcome. watching the film unfold, pictures of a war my grandfathers fought in, loss, suffering, a mind stretching to express it’s understanding, the pain of a misunderstood life was palpable to me.

Alan Turing was a gay man, arrested for “indecency” in 1952. he took his own life in the summer of 1954, in between the births of my parents, at the age of 41. he was barely 30 when he cracked the German Enigma code, helping to end World War II and saving millions of lives.

we are lucky to live in a world that has been made vastly different by this one man, although he was never valued for his whole self. considering the people in my theatre tonight, some of whom have full-time jobs related to lgbtqa advocacy, and all of whom rely on computers to function daily, i know we would not be where we are today without him. i left with a grateful heart and a sense of urgency to find my own Turning machine, to know my own gift and make it come to life.

here’s to finding and knowing our own worth.
and, yes, i give the film a 9.

the diamond dark.

the darkness crawls in, slippery, like spiders angling their legs and contorting their edges to slide through crevices, around corners. the places you allowed to go dark grow darker, slate spiders crawling in to build webs and block the light. you know you should not allow the spinning to start, but it intoxicates you, mesmerizes you. crusts over the corners of your eyes and numbs your ache by slowing the beating of your one, red heart. and while you allow the fascination to bleed-in the slow creep of hollow, the poisoning begins. into your veins like oil. venom. infection. until you are bound by spun, glittering diamonds and petrified by sludge.
you are gone, girl,

.g o n e.

i started this post almost two months ago. i’ve been in the depths of a very dark and incredibly painful time in my life. this has been the most physical pain i have felt as a result of emotional sadness that i can remember, especially in my adult life. i wanted to share this because i don’t think we do a good job of describing how pain and sadness can take a hold of us, even when we don’t want them to, even when we try to make decisions to keep us out of the dregs. i wanted to share that regardless of the joys and fears we experience, or the positive and negative things in our lives, we are all capable of feeling intense sadness and happiness. we all need time to turn inward, as well as to feel the support and care of those who matter to us. we need space and boundaries, laughter and quiet. this stillness, the space where sadness lives, is a place we have to go and from which we can return. it is the same place from which hope can grow. you are not alone. 

swap/meet

swapping
the swap begins.

back in the end of April, i went to a fantastic swap. if you aren’t familiar with community clothes swaps, it’s a time when a group of folks gets together, brings clothes they no longer want (and accessories, books, whatever), and makes trades/donations/etc. i didn’t know many of the people at this particular swap, but that doesn’t usually matter as you all just sort of jump in to a pile of clothes and see what comes out. this was a beautiful mix of people across age, gender identity, and skin color. there were a handful of babies, too, content to be in a room full of joyful people, happy to see them and happy to be present. our host, Emma W. (the kind of person who makes you feel like you’ve been friends for years), welcomed us with instructions on where to put different types of items for swapping, a special locale for our own things (so as not to accidentally swap them!), and a warm kitchen full of freshly made food.

i have never been to (and hope to never experience!) a swap where people did not also potluck a whole mess of their own specialty foods, ranging from classic chips and dip and day-old muffins, to fresh baked homemade bread and organic and locally-sourced vegan casseroles. i might suggest bringing a few small, individually-wrapped packages of the food goods you’re sharing for those of us who might also want to swap FOOD (think holiday cookie swap, but even more awesome because it can be any thing, any time!).

we love swapping all of the things!
swappers love good cooks, books, and lovely swapped looks!  (photo cred: Emma W.)

one of the first notable “swappers” i learned about was Amy Lynn Chase, of Haberdash Vintage and Crompton Collective fame, who co-founded The Swapaholics in 2009. i somehow stumbled across Amy on social media and started seeing her pop up all around me. Amy is one of the most creative and collectivist entrepreneurs in the region, and she has played a huge role (in my opinion) in reinvigorating a thriving community-based movement in Worcester. i was lucky enough to meet her at the SoWa market in Boston a few years ago, and i have to say, she lived up to the hype. if you haven’t checked her out, you can find her here. plus she has the cutest dogs and chickens. if you want to go straight to those of the four-legged and fiendishly cute persuasion, click here. (here’s a direct link to one of my favorites, featuring Emma (not the swap host!) and Penny: super pups)

 frantic swapping!   swap crew left photo: i was so swap-excited that i couldn’t get my finger out of the way in time!
right photo: searching through, examining, and trying on. (cred – Emma W.)

since learning about swapping, i’ve been to a handful of them. i actually managed to go a full two years without purchasing any new clothing because of my swap finds. a feat that, if applied to even a few dozen people, would reduce supply and demand quite naturally. sustainability is actually a huge part of all of this. not just in terms of reducing the supply and demand of an industry that can sometimes have a pretty wide and dark underbelly. but in terms of connecting people to one another. of sustaining our access to financially accessible clothing, shared emotional and physical sustenance (because we can also fill our friend groups and our bellies full of goodness), and a network of like-minded supporters. true sustainability is that of the environment, our finances, and equitable communities. (to learn more about this concept, visit ACPA’s Sustainability Committee page and the ACPA monograph Toward A Sustainable Future)

swap3sometimes it’s nice to try something completely unique (photo cred: Emma W.)

people have asked if it’s weird to see others trying on your clothes and hearing their comments on them. personally, i enjoy the friendly jibes. or the excited squeals. and i love it when someone else tries on a piece of clothing that i loved that fits them perfectly and makes them feel like a new person. it’s different from dress up. we’re actually helping to create each other, in context and community.

after the swap, whatever is left is usually donated. Emma’s swap donation plan was to bring any items remaining un-swapped to Boomerang’s, a greater-Boston-based thrift shop dedicated to helping end the fight against AIDS. their efforts directly benefit our community’s health, education, and future.

you can do swap whatever way you like. host a public event with a low fee cover to raise money for charity. have a get-together with friends to refresh your wardrobes. swap with family at the holidays to donate extra items to agencies in your area. the beauty of swapping is that it’s whatever you want it to be: fun, feast, or fundraiser.

every time i’ve attended a swap, i’ve successfully left with a lot more than clothing. swapping is about community, connecting with others in a way that reduces waste and increases connection. you swap clothes and swap stories; try on outfits and new ideas; trade belts and shoes for affirmation and kindness. a true swap is one where you can be honest about what looks good and doesn’t because it doesn’t cost you anything. you can leave with more or less than you came with and it doesn’t matter because it’s different than what you brought in. and the best part of a good swap is, that you’ll be different, too. 

super swap outfits swap walktesting out some swap outfits! (photos courtesy of Emma W., swap host extraordinaire, pictured on the far left and the far right in purple-y excellence)

many thanks to Emma for hosting this swap. big love to Libby who invited me to come. and giant swap hugs to all those who were present for sharing your clothes, your food, and yourselves. here’s to many more swaptastic events to come!

waking into everything

i’m back after a little hiatus. i’m not going to apologize because i needed the break. and part of this project is about listening to myself, allowing myself to find the balance between achieving goals by staying committed because i want to and not because i feel guilty about it or because i think i should. “shoulds” are really everywhere (you can read more about that in my first blog post here) and are much better for future planning (“i should really check that out!”) than cementing ourselves in the regrets of our own history (“i really should’ve told them how i felt”) or the story of others (“i do it this way, so you should, too”). so i’m back. and i appreciate the space, support, and lack of “shoulds”: you’re rad! 

now, on to the actual piece for today. this idea came to me just as i was falling asleep and jolted me up because i couldn’t let it slip into the ether, along with my consciousness, to fall out of my mind like the day. while it is short, it gets at a small moment that i’ve tried to cling to each time i’ve experienced it. i’d love to hear your thoughts and feedback. thanks for reading.

you wake at 4am on a saturday, nowhere to be and no time set to wake, hearing the wind in the trees. the sound, bursting through the stark silence of the darkest part of dark, is everything you could never put into words. and you shake in the warmth of your bed, feeling the energy of the world; the beautiful, noisy quiet, telling you the state of the day. it is a moment between you and no one else and all things. it is the place you had forgotten and always remember, tucked neatly behind your ear. 

you, aching with joy that you woke, let this moment wrap around and through you like a spell-bound midnight vine, saturating your senses, soaking you to the soul; warm, swift air embracing you, lulling you down, back toward sleep and your own interior, velvet darkness. and you know, know with every part of you and see it already set into motion, that this moment quiets you so she may depart. walking down the sidewalk on your street but a wisp and a soft, milky petal, floating on the air. but you’ve seen her. felt her there. and knew her whole life in that moment. and you close your eyes, glad for this, letting it pass with reverence; everything being right and good and as you knew the world has always been, through every moment in the history of moments.

and everything being different when you wake, again, hours and darkness passed, smiling.

 

home (thoughts on expectations)

childhood brings forward memories of barbecues (in new england, that’s what we call a cookout), my mother putting hamburger and hotdog buns, humpty dumpty potato chips, and triscuits into wicker baskets lined with unfolded napkin squares. burgers and marinated teriyaki chicken on the grill. all of us cousins running around on a soda-induced sugar high.

one of my favorite things about my family was that, while there were always traditional gendered roles echoing in the aunts washing dishes and the uncles drinking beer and talking about tools and lawn equipment, there were just as many free and open positions that each family member took. my uncle, the family historian and memory-capturer, always filming and photographing our get-togethers with pride. my mom changing the propane tank on the grill. another uncle serving burgers while my aunt broke apart the giant ice bag from the gas station. all of the cousins asked to help clean things up. while these were small things, they expressed that work should be shared and jobs were equal. they also helped me to see the value of family. we were there for one another, functioned as a unit. celebrated successes. mourned losses. just got together to hang out. and this was what i always wanted for my future. i have realized that while my family wasn’t always perfect and we didn’t have a lot of money, they gave me room to be who i was and worked to give me a life that went beyond expectation.

but i had expectations. expectations i always felt were challenging to live up to. expectations that didn’t come from my parents or my aunts and uncles or cousins. expectations i created for myself. in many ways, i’ve resisted being closer to my family in recent years because i felt that i couldn’t live up to that. at 33, i do not own my own home or have children of my own to bring to barbecues and holiday parties. not having these things has made me feel like i have little to contribute to the unit, although they do not expect anything but my time and love. i’ve asked myself a lot about these expectations recently, and realized that i have them for myself in almost every area of my life, for no other reason than the “supposed to”s and “should”s i’ve mentioned before. it’s incredible how much power we give to living up to what we think others expect of us. imagine the accomplishments we could achieve if we removed that standard and started living for all of the things that bring us what we actually need and want in our lives. for some people that may mean following the dreams of their families. for others it may mean abandoning those dreams at all costs. but we must decide for ourselves. choose the path that brings us to the place we want to find ourselves in the world. and follow it until it ends, or we choose another. that is what will bring us truly beyond expectation. beyond the hopes and dreams of others and into the warm heart of what even we couldn’t see for ourselves. the real meaning of what it means to be home.

a spring evening fade

it’s the time the summer breathes out onto spring, warm tendrils fingering their way into your hair, wrapping tentatively, shyly around your cool, bare arms. in this moment the summer is still guarded, unsure of her place and unwilling to declare herself firmly. and in these night skies i see the gradient blue with tacit, dark clouds, sinking themselves toward twilight in the most achingly effortless way. pale pink buds blaze against dusky light blue patches, dancing gingerly in the air of evening shade, laughing sweet. these are the moments i throw open the windows, home lights barely twinkling around me, breathing in the change of air: the smell of soil, and drying rain, and growing things poking baby faces out of dirt, just mingling under my nose like mealtime fragrance through the dusty screen. this is the time that brings awe. and forgiveness. and hope for what is possible. and the feeling that on the break of warmer air, we – walking headstrong into bright, warming night – well, we can do anything.

the way she moves.

google result for "grace"

image courtesy of Google (from Google search for “grace”)

grace
i used to be graceful. like, pride-myself-on-walking-in-quietly-while-commanding-a-room-full-of-respect-and-attention, graceful. at least, that’s how i imagined it. i was careful to convey the mood and intention of my interactions with the heaviness of my footfalls; i tried to move as close to silently as possible; and i always paid attention to how i held my body, whether moving or standing still. this was simply a way of being, and in my teens and twenties, was not meant to force attention or convey a pompous attitude, but as a camaraderie between how the world experienced me and how i existed and impacted the world in return. everyday was an adventure in this way, and always required me to hone intuition to get a sense of the energy of the day, the mood of an event, or the tone of a group. i studied and learned about the person in the room who wasn’t speaking or being spoken to. i explored the details of places to find secret spots, or books, or histories. i discovered things about the world this way, and it was exhilarating. it gave me a place to exist and a method of doing it. i had a place, and it was mine.

athletics: a (my) history
i’d never go so far as to say that this grace, as i’ve dubbed it, was by any means athletic. while i could do athletic things, i was not athletically gifted. coordination was not my problem – i could dance, stretch, mimic, and perform. it was athleticism – running, organized team-on-team sports, play-by-play instruction based on rules, plans, strengths and weaknesses of players – that never came naturally. i did make an effort, just never the connection.

two very particular experiences with organized athletics impacted me immensely beyond my natural disinclination in this area:
1) my middle school gym teacher made every non-natural-born-athlete feel like an inferior species and regularly taunted us in gym. i’m sure my pre-teen imagination exaggerated this to some extent, but i still remember the sentiment of gym class to this very day, including the sinking pit in my stomach when changing in the locker room. to my credit, i also remember being able to climb fairly high on rope-climb day (“for a girl”) which was the only smug moment i EVER had in his class.

2) my parents really wanted me to try a sport, club, or activity. as a young kid (elementary school-ish), i was really into books and writing and, while i had friends and played a lot, this caused me to spend a lot of time on my own. after a little prodding, i finally decided i would try soccer. i remember putting on shorts with sweatpants on over them to walk to the gym in the cold, finding a cool enough tee-shirt that i also wouldn’t be upset if i sweat all over, and lacing up my sneakers that i had no clue wouldn’t get traction on the turf. i don’t think i had ever really seen cleats up close before. but i felt good. i knew a little about soccer, and i thought i was going to keep my head down, listen to what the coach taught us, and eventually test it out with my own two feet. it took very little time to discover how SORELY mistaken i was, entering a gym full of 9 and 10 year old boys who had been playing soccer for YEARS (how were we even old enough to have been doing ANYTHING for years?!) and one, count her: ONE, other girl. who was athletic. and really (or as we say it at home, wicked) good at soccer. fan-freaking-tastic. i have no memory of a coach or any adult being there, though i’m sure there were a handful chatting over coffee in the corner, talking about the lack of funding and sharing town gossip. the horse blinders were on. all i could see were kids in adidas sambas (i still have an obsession with these) and cleats running around like mini-Beckham’s, making the ball do their child-athlete bidding. i was in WAY over my head. the worst part of all of this was not the overwhelming sense of lack of knowledge and skill- because i could have gotten over that. i didn’t like being bad at things, but i wanted to learn how not to be bad at something even more. i would have stayed and learned and maybe even been okay at soccer. instead, the jokes about a girl on the field incessantly began, not a grown up or my Mia-Hamm-like-girl-player-in-solidarity in sight to say a word. the derision was impressive for boys that age, though i imagine, as politely as i can say this, that they had good instruction (from all aspects). i had a decently thick skin for a kid that age (i hadn’t yet been to the gym class in example 1), but it didn’t take long before i was furious. and with the fury came the frustration. and the over-thinking. and then the reduced coordination. i’m pretty sure i stayed for the whole first game, which i imagine was shortened given our ages, although it felt like forever. even though i yelled back at the boys and i tried to learn the rules, the name calling, the intentional kick shots to the stomach and face, and the lack of ANY SINGLE PERSON stepping in to simply tell them to “knock it off” sealed the deal for me: i would not be returning to soccer. not then. not ever. this was one of the only times i can remember in my whole life when i’ve been that frustrated and managed not to cry, though i did power-walk home, fists clenched and shaking, my face red, to tell my dad “SEE! DO YOU SEE NOW! (of course he hadn’t seen what happened and was completely blindsided) THIS IS WHY I DID NOT WANT TO PLAY A SPORT!!!” i did, because i was coordinated and didn’t mind exercising, eventually become a cheerleader, and we did ironically cheer for the high school men’s soccer team when they were low on fans. although many of the players were different, more mature, and were really, genuinely nice guys, i remember thinking, “my how the tides have turned!”

a b i l i t y and commitment
this sets the stage for you. while i still felt a connection to my “grace”, never had a problem with breaking a sweat, was one of a handful of girls who used the weight room with the football players in high school, and could dance, do yoga, and take down a solid Tae Bo video, i never believed in my physical ability. i started joking that i only ran if i was being chased. and that stuck. and created a mindset. it wasn’t just that i didn’t – i couldn’t – and even if i could, i wouldn’t want to. once i got to college, it stood out to me more. friends went to the gym. they went running together. they played club, intramural, or even varsity sports. IN FRONT OF PEOPLE. and they liked it! my newly minted women’s studies minor self could only think back to the soccer turf, and i chose to find a team in clubs, organizations, and my job as a Resident Assistant. this attitude continued after i graduated. even after i took some time to really do yoga, discovered how much i enjoyed pushing myself in pilates, and took intensively long walks with friends and co-workers. i loved how these things made me feel, but i could never commit. i felt like i would fail before i ever began. habits were broken before they formed. and i could blame it on work, and then grad school, or both.

to sweat or not to sweat…
it wasn’t until i was in my mid-twenties that i discovered Bikram Yoga. it was the hardest physical activity i had ever done in my life – an hour and a half of yoga training in a 98° room filled with people an arms-width away. our teacher used to say “90 minutes of hell, a lifetime of heaven”. they told us that the goal of the first class was just to be able to stay in the room. laying down. not moving. i was sufficiently horrified and fascinated at the same time. when the class started, i was so focused on really hearing and doing what the instructor was communicating, that i suddenly found myself at the end of the class, having done every pose. my yogi later told me that i came to class with the best thing i could – what they called “an empty cup” – the ability to only focus on what they were saying and try, my very best, to go as deeply into the pose as i could push my body on that day with no care as to how i had performed the class before. aside from the fact that i would leave class feeling like an entirely different and much better person, my body felt different, my hair and skin were healthier (hello detoxification!), and i was sleeping better. i was TOTALLY in love. my grace was in her glory.

and then, not so much. after having a bout of optic neuritis flare up for the third year in a row, coupled with tingling and numbness in my feet and legs, i went through a battery of tests and pokes and prods, including a lumbar puncture (turn it up to eleven, because THIS is spinal tap!), only to be told at the ripe age of 27 that i had a mysterious, incurable illness that would most likely debilitate me progressively to the point of potential blindness, lack of motor skills, and memory loss: multiple sclerosis. my body was essentially attacking itself from the inside, confusing the good stuff for bad stuff, and going at it with gusto. fortunately, i had (and still have) a relatively mild case that did not seem to have done any major, permanent damage. one thing that came with this, and my new medication, however, was a sensitivity to heat. devastation station. my new found love for Bikram was pulled out from underneath me, the first time i had felt confident in my ability to do anything physically challenging. and the grace started slipping away.

don’t push it
i told myself for a long time that i should really be careful with how much i pushed myself. the fatigue with ms is mind-boggling, and days that i have over-exerted myself make it almost impossible for me to move, and sometimes even think, later on. i let fear replace the grace. and the worry curled up under my heart. and i just felt a whole lot of scared that every step would be one closer to my last. every single physical challenge i had faced had brought me to another, so why bother? it was like i could hear my 10 year old self yelling at my dad, but this time at myself, “SEE! DO YOU SEE NOW! THIS IS WHY YOU ARE NEVER GOING TO BE ABLE TO DO ANYTHING AGAIN!!!” while i really don’t think i was wrong to be mad about the “soccer pitch of sexism”, i had really devolved into a self-defeating pit of full-on “can i get some cheese with that” whine. all around me, every single day, were stories of people who beat the odds – with education, with new careers, with family, with love, and, of course, their health! i was staring it in the face and not even acknowledging that it was there. though i still dabbled in yoga and pilates and enjoyed taking walks, i wouldn’t dare RISK my health to try something new.

the times are a-changin’
after i got married, i had really found someone (luckily for me!) who didn’t put up with this attitude at all. while we still hadn’t made a set time for exercise in our daily schedule (especially when i started commuting 1,000 – yes, i’m totally serious – miles per week), we occassionally played raquetball, went for walks, and started playing pseudo-sports (bean bag toss, horseshoes, etc.). because my wife had been trained in physical education for elementary aged kids, she was perfectly suited to try to teach me anything sport-related (read: patient and capable of ignoring constant complaining). i started feeling comfortable with tossing the bean bag with friends, i didn’t feel *quite* so self-conscious learning a new game, and i started going for longer walks around the neighborhood. finally, a little over a year ago, i resolved to try running. i had just heard of a free app called “Couch to 5K”. i read the reviews of a few, and downloaded the Zen Labs version. i was pretty out of shape at first. and though the first few weeks weren’t too bad since i do a lot of fast walking, i definitely had room to expand my lung capacity, endurance, and strength. and suddenly, it got easier. and easier. i bought my first pair of running shoes EVER. and then the marathon bombing happened. and i thought to myself, how can you NOT run?! how, when you haven’t been debilitated by ms, when you can get up and move and walk and feel, are you NOT taking full advantage of what you ARE capable of? so you have ms. so tomorrow you might be tired, so in a year you might not be able to run as much, so in twenty-five years you might have a hard time walking – who knows? maybe none of those things will be true and every second you sit around not trying is definitely a moment you would regret with every fiber of your being if you couldn’t do it. so why not try.

Nike means victory
i got NIKE+ (first run recorded – April 30, 2013). i went for my first run outside. and other runners smiled and nodded. and there i was, in it. i felt the ground, i felt my breath, i felt the way my muscles worked. and around the bend, after that next lap, surprisingly, i found my grace again; a little different, maybe even a little worse-for-the wear, but still lovely, and thoughtful, and aware of the world around her. and i was so heartbreakingly grateful – after all of the people, all of the experiences, and all of my own inner monologues, telling me that i was not capable, that i could not do it, that i was not good enough – that grace could walk back in, quiet, and with ease and commanding confidence, and tell me, after all the times i had fallen and broken and failed and spirited myself away from the whole entire world, that i was everything i needed to be with one. simple. word.

“begin.”

here we are, nearly a year from my first Nike+ run and 215 logged miles later, still running. still growing, making mistakes, and working on letting the grace shine. i still give myself excuses as to why i will run tomorrow, or why i should eat a donut (do i really need an excuse?!), or why i should stay up just a little bit later, but i have never found a reason not to lace up my sneakers and run another round eventually. now more than halfway through “Couch to 10K”, i’ve finally found myself not looking for the reasons why not, but looking toward all of the reasons why i’ll have given myself by this time next year.

sometimes it’s the first step that’s the hardest. sometimes it’s the next one. either way, reuniting with the grace that helps me step at all has made this journey worth it. because it’s not just that you move. it’s in the way you do it.

let me take a realie.

Realie

taken 14 April 2014. no make-up. no filters. no editing.
The Today Show calls it, a #loveyourselfie

so by now, most of us have heard about Lorde’s Instagram and Twitter posts, one of her with her acne cream on, and one showing the photoshopped and non-photoshopped versions of her performing, captioned “remembers flaws are ok :-)”. more recently, Lady Gaga posted a photo of herself on Twitter, breathtakingly bare and sans costumes. it’s gotten to the point where it is just as easy for us to find photos of stars with bare-skinned faces as it is to find photos of stars baring it all; no easy task. what i thought was interesting about all of this is that almost no one i actually know, myself included, leaves the house without something on their face and/or done to their hair. regardless of gender, i know very few people who feel comfortable without making themselves “presentable”.

once in a while, i leave my apartment on an early weekend morning to run an errand WITH NOTHING ON MY FACE <insert shock and horror here!>. although make-up and hair-styling is meant to emphasize what i have, to “enhance my natural beauty”, i have never felt more visible, public, and seen (judged?), as when i literally dash face first, naked skin and all, into the throng of the public eye. i typically wear hats and radical sunglasses (a cool pair of sunglasses is my most essential accoutrement), drawing attention away from my face and toward my persona.

it’s not that i think i’m ugly. or that i think supermodels roll out of bed with perfect bumble-and-bumble hair and sephora make-up. it’s that need to be seen as “put together” – perhaps to exert control, structure. perhaps to look like we walked out of a photo shoot to spend 9 hours in the office. perhaps it’s to make others feel more comfortable with a streamlined, digestible version of ourselves. and i’m not sure for who’s benefit any of that actually is.

this is not to say that i am giving up bare minerals. i have come to understand what make-up does for others, but also how it makes me feel. especially on those “fake it til you make it” mornings, make-up helps give me a confidence boost, a ready-to-do-this attitude, a sense that i’m still me underneath, just a little more polished. given that i’m not a morning person, sometimes make-up is to my face what coffee is to my soul nervous system.

the reason that i bring this up is that i’d like to challenge you, me, everyone, to try being a little more  e x p o s e d  once in a while. wash your face, slap on a little moisturizer to keep your skin healthy (it is your biggest organ, you know!), and tszuj your hair with a little water. see how people react. see how YOU react. see what feels different. and what doesn’t. no hats and glasses. no make-up. nothing but your beautiful, natural self.

because most people in my circle probably haven’t seen me without make-up in a very long time, and because Lorde and big Lady G reminded me that “flaws are ok”, i decided i’d post my own “realie”. not a perfectly shot selfie to show what i’ve learned about the art of make-up application (which, considering that i’m NOT a pro is actually a scary amount), but a real, filter-less, unadulterated, straight-on photo of my clean, undone, naked face. so there you have it. i HAVE taken a selfie, and it’s the real deal.

life up.

i woke up at 6 am this morning, totally exhausted, eyes barely able to focus. i went to bed at 11 pm (friday night! woo!) after a very long, enjoyable day. the alarm was set so early because Sports Illustrated was in town to take a photo to commemorate the anniversary of the Boston Marathon Bombing, highlighting the strength, community, and resilience in the runners and our city. last year’s SI cover showed a nearly empty and chaotic Boylston Street; the goal of today was to create a stark contrast to that by filling the area around the finish line with Bostonites in Boston and marathon gear, surrounding each other, lifting each other up, cheering each other on. because i had such a personal experience after being at the marathon last year, every time i saw the posts asking people to come to the finish line today, something kept reaching out to me. so, while sleep was her usual sultry seductress this morning, i forced myself up, and walked out the door. 

arriving at the corner of Exeter and Boylston Streets, the police barricades and stream of people was vast. i walked up, alone, buoyed by the number of people present. the only thing preventing me from crying was how many people were laughing, smiling, hugging, cheering. the positivity was palpable. i wasn’t really looking for anyone i knew, just observing what was happening, and trying to find a place to stand so i could see what the people directly at the finish line were being instructed to do. even Sports Illustrated had a hard time wrangling Boston, which, if you haven’t heard, while not particularly known for it’s flexibility, does have a strong respect for and faith in all things sports. randomly, i saw a familiar face – Sara – a woman i had worked with years ago who had been running the marathon for as long as i’d known her, and i snaked through the crowd to say hello. we greeted each other and she introduced her fellow team runner, Robyn. almost immediately, the exchanges about the 117th marathon began. where were we. what did we see, hear, feel. who did we talk with. why did we come today. another person standing with them, Kim, said that she had been a volunteer last year. she told us about the fear. the response. the support. and then we all started to talk about running, volunteering, the marathon in general. suddenly we were laughing, taking pictures, chatting together like kids on a playground. others around us joined in, too. cracking jokes about the photo shoot. yelling to the person with the huge bunch of yellow balloons to get them out of the way of everyone’s faces. it was the most comfortable i’ve ever felt in a crowd. it was family.

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Robyn, Sara, Kim, and i at the Sports Illustrated photo shoot, Boston, MA. 12 April 2014.

 

Sara and Robyn are both running the marathon this year and had taken a break from their final team training run to come to the photo shoot. after they left to get back to the team, Kim and I kept talking, sharing what our experiences with the explosions had been like. we discovered all of these connections we had and kept talking, even after the photos had been taken and the crowd dwindled. we had family in the same places. we went to the same university. we had a shared work location. so we went to Starbucks. we talked for over an hour. about family, careers, our alma mater, our experiences with the marathon. we laughed. we held in tears, overwhelmed by emotion. we sat in silence. we couldn’t stop talking. 

and then it was time to go. 
we hugged goodbye, we parted ways, connected. 

given the nature of how small the world is, i will probably see Kim again. i don’t buy chance encounters and value immensely meeting someone who is open enough to life to reach out and embrace it. we are often too afraid, too guarded, too focused on the circles we are already in, to really let life in. there is so much in the world for us to absorb and so many opportunities for us to share in the human experience, should we choose to. nothing forced, nothing required, just genuine engagement with another person, face to face, in whatever way possible. a smile is enough to change everything.

in addition to the unexpected joy i received today, the people i went to the finish line for are featured on the site Dear World: Boston Marathon. so grateful to all of them for their courage, their commitment, and, most of all, their voices. my heart is with you.

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photo by Robert X. Fogarty, Dear World, and used from Runner’s World feature on his Dear World: Boston project

getting up this morning wasn’t just a chance for me to step up for them. it was a an opportunity for me to “life up“. and instead of the world feeling smaller, reduced by the interconnectedness of a random encounter with an old friend and hopefully a new one, it feels larger, wider, and enhanced by it. by a hello. a photograph. and a cup of joyful coffee in my worn out Nikes. 

Image

 

For more on the photo shoot, here is coverage from SI on today’s events, in their words, as well as those of others present.

For more on fundraising efforts for The One Fund, the main fundraising group for affected people and businesses, or to learn about the Boston Athletic Association, the organizer of the marathon, please visit their links.