Recovery

When the long run has taken its toll on the body, recovery is in order.  

Seasoned runners are very in tune with their bodies.  When I began distance running, I ignored my body's warning signs and sought instead to push my body to its outer limits.   There are numerable benefits to pushing the body.  The endorphin rush is always worth the trouble of the extra miles.  The additional burned calories makes the size 6 blue jeans a reality.  The extra time spent on the path means less time working and dealing with life's stress.  The more time I run, the more I can escape.  There are no people to spoil a good path while running.  Because I prefer to run alone, the solitude shelters me from outside noise.  Bills must be paid and clients tended to and children nurtured, all of which disappears on the path.  It is just me and the path.  

Positive enticements notwithstanding, there is a bad side to running in excess with no regard for physical limits:  the body will break down.  Once I began to realize the bad side of running, I began the journey toward recovery.

A runner who is not in recovery is not a runner in the true sense of the word.  He or she is instead a person whose legs are moving to the beat of gratification.  This will make for an injured runner.  This will make for a broken runner.  This will make a non-runner, in the end.  

There are many ways to recover from a long run.  STEP 1 of recovery for the body is knowing when the body needs a break, while realizing that the runner inside would never stop running if allowed by custom, convention, and physicality.

STEP 2 to recovery from the long run is stopping the run so that recovery can take place.  This requires a belief that stopping the run will restore the body.  The Runner Within will bargain with the mind.  It will rationalize and plead to remain on the path for long periods, every day.  Recovery requires restoration of the body and that means stopping the run.

STEP 3 requires for the avid runner to be realistic about the length and type of recovery warranted.  Sometimes this requires that the runner surrender to the advice of the greater runner (for there is always a greater runner).  Sometimes it requires simply to trust the higher instinct which knows the body's limits.  Many times it requires pain as a reminder of the limit.

STEP 4 of recovery would have the runner take an inventory of the body and its aches, to better assess the length and type of recovery needed.  This must be an honest assessment, which is not easy for the one who longs for the path. 

At some point, the runner may have to admit to another runner or to a physician the exact nature of the bodily limitation which makes recovery important.  Often times the runner will hide from herself the reality of the body, which makes understanding and naming the problem critical.  A runner who accomplishes this task has gained STEP 5. 

The runner must be prepared to have the body fully recovered.  This means that there must be a true desire for bodily healing which outweighs the instant urge to run.  When that true desire materializes, the runner has made it to STEP 6.

STEP 7 requires humility from the runner because the runner must understand the body's limits in order to remove the body's shortcomings on the long run.  Humility is centered on the possibility that the runner cannot control all that the body is, and therefore may need to rely upon outsiders, or minimally, upon a rest from the path.

While resting, the runner should take an inventory of why the body broke down and understand how to avoid this in the future.  STEP 8 is not difficult because often times the injured runner has no choice but to inventory, because a run is not possible.  The runner must be able to understand how the body was harmed by the run and be willing to make amends to the body.

When possible, the runner should directly address the body's needs, unless doing so would cause the body more harm than good.  STEP 9 would not have the runner binge on food, alcohol, drugs or cigarettes while trying to recover the body.  Rather, the runner should care for the body while at rest so that the run may return in full.

Many runners never make it to STEP 10, which requires that the runner take a continued inventory of the body and its limits and act promptly to prevent abusing the body on the path.  This is because many runners, once healed, gorge on the run and ignore the body's warnings until the runner is thrown back to the beginning.

The fortunate runner will pray and meditate to improve his or her contact with the body.  This means that the runner, after recovery, will realize that the run is one long recovery for the soul and for the body.  The oneness of the attention to the body's limits when placed with mindfulness of thought and soul is the center of STEP 11. 

Finally, the runner who understands recovery of the body can and should carry that message to other runners, through both word and deed.  STEP 12 feeds the body because it causes the runner to remember, through example, the body's limits.

And now it is time for my "midnight" run...

Circle Dream

Today I ran nearly 9-miles, covering old ground and new. The cold wind whipped through my tights and jacket, while the sun warmed me and brightened my eyes. My runs nowadays consist of trying to restore the running muscles which dissipated as I crawled on life's path for several months. I lost my voice to speak and my legs to run. Transformation came to me not unlike Dickinson's carriage driver, though I did not hitch a ride. I walked instead, which wore down the patterns of my soul.

The path has united me.

My older sister once told me, in a rather agitated tone, that she does not understand why I "run around in circles, without ever going anywhere!" I never analyzed my running from the perspective of a non-runner, and when she gave me this opinion, I characteristically ignored her on the basis that she could never understand me running in circles, any more than I could understand her thinking in circles. My sister gave me this unsolicited observation just four short months before she unexpectedly died at age 46, on March 8, 2008. It has taken me 8-months, several hours of sitting upon the grass of her grave, and over 1800 running/walking miles to digest her absence. As fate would have it, she is buried next to my mother, who died in 1997, at age 58, from a heart attack.

Four months prior to my mother's death, in a very justified fit of anger, I vowed to "dance on her grave." It is a vow that I never kept, or even wanted to keep. When I sit on my sister's grass, my failures haunt me.

The hardest lesson that life has to offer has imprinted itself on my soul. Humility involves a letting go. True Humility does not wait for us to release the grip.

My sister was correct. I do run in circles, metaphorically and literally. There really is no other way to run life's path, because even when we delude ourselves about linear running, it is, in all actuality, a circle-run.

My children and I once made dream-catchers. I am 1/8th Cherokee Indian. Our craft-hour was my first glance backward toward my ancestors of that lineage. Though back then, I was not yet a runner on the outside, my soul was already running in circles. I was intended to meet with God's Eye. In the Native American dream-catchers, the circle represents the unbroken wholeness from which we draw our power and strength. It is our Source of Being. Everything is in the circle. Within the circle the traditional people follow their ancient ways of connection to each other and to Mother Earth. At the center of All That Is the Creator weaves the Web of Life, spiraling from the known into the unknown. Energy manifests as matter as it follows the path of the spiral and then matter disappears as it leaves the spiral of life to become energy once again. Four orders of being--the rocks, water, and air; the trees, grasses, and flowers; the four-legged, winged, swimmers, and the crawlers; and the two-legged creatures, the humans--are interdependent on each other and are one in the essential foundation of the universe. All beings are woven together in the matrix of All That Is.

Carl Jung called all circular images a "mandala." It is one of the most important dream symbols which represent the psychic center of personality. It is symbolic of wholeness, completeness and unity of the self.

Running in circles, I run away from and to myself, over and over again. At times, I see shadows of myself--tracers, moving along side or coming toward me. Mostly, I move out of the way of myself...past, present, and future.

My prayer is simple, and that is that I "BE."

BEING is a prerequisite to the great, "I AM."

So much of BEING involves nothingness, which brings about what Jean Paul Sartre called "fear and trembling."

I run through the nothingness. Sometimes I tremble, but mostly I give thanks for the empty spaces--the in between...those fluid, transient spaces. Integration is not easy in those places, and the urge to run faster will take over one's mind and body. Fortunately, I could only crawl through the fluid spaces these past months. It gave me time to get lost and time to find a valid way home.

There was time to say goodbye to my failures and to realize that some failures will forever haunt me. This is acceptable, so long as the haunting does not cause me to cease moving on the path.

My running legs have slowly returned. I understand my circle dreams now, more than ever. There is comfort in knowing that I am going "somewhere" when I run in circles. I will know where I am when I arrive. Until then, I will enjoy the run, for whatever it is worth.

Because I could not stop for Death
by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death —
He kindly stopped for me —
The Carriage held but just Ourselves —
And Immortality.

We slowly drove — He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility —

We passed the School,
where Children strove
At Recess — in the Ring —
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain —
We passed the Setting Sun —

Or rather — He passed Us —
The Dews drew quivering and chill —
For only Gossamer, my Gown —
My Tippet — only Tulle —

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground —
The Roof was scarcely visible —
The Cornice — in the Ground —

Since then — 'tis Centuries — and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity —

CIRCLE DREAM
by 10000 Maniacs

I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.
And in that circle I had made were all the worlds unformed and unborn yet.
A volume, a sphere that was the earth, that was the moon, that did revolve around my room.

I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.
And in that circle was a maze, a terrible spiral to be lost in.
Blind in my fear, I was escaping just by feel.
But at every turn my way was sealed.

I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.
And in that circle was a face.
Her eyes looked upon me with fondness.
Her warmth coming near, calling me "sweetness," calling me "dear."
But I whispered, "no, I can't rest here."

I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.

God's Paparazzi

My Garmin reports that I have logged near 870-miles since my last blog on March 10. I have been unable to write about my runs because my words are locked inside of me. This is OK. It is a new experience for me, but I must believe that it comes with the territory of transformation, love, and acceptance which belongs to the run within me.

The night has taken my run lately because I gave my day-soul to the God of work and anxiety. I usually run in circles at a local track, two of which are surrounded by nature preserves and hidden behind large public school buildings. The other night a young deer came to visit. She meandered near the fence and circled the grass as if to invite a chase. For several minutes she stood and watched me run, and I adored her silhouette--her body well-fed, and her head so small, with perky ears which begged me to play. She circled again and walked the tree line. I took out my mini laser beam light to find her and she froze. I was sorry for the fear I caused, but I could not help myself. She was alone, as was I, and I wanted to let her know where I was.

One night I ran into a large "something" which would not budge off of the path. I shone my light and hissed, and it failed to move, even an inch. I could not identify what the creature was and so I tossed a stone its direction. It moved away, but reluctantly, and it left me with a notion it would return. It had a long tail and what appeared to be a silver streak on its back. To me it was a large lump of a thing which blocked my way. I am sure she thought the same of me. Within minutes, the creature revealed her identity when my eyes watered and the air around me swallowed me until I moved upwind. It was the mother-load skunk who let me know it was her path, and not mine.

Near the track is a frog pond, presumably created to fend off mosquitoes, which are quite bad down in the flood plain below. As night falls, there is a symphony of frogs which is really an orgy of frogs, if one were honest. They are having lots of wild, loud, pleasurable sex down there, as I run by in the moonlight. I am thankful I cannot see them as I hear them.

Three huge turkey vultures circle me at the sunset and once they landed nearby. They were so large on the ground that I had irrational Hitchcockian fears, the likes of which were matched just last night when the largest bat I have ever witnessed flew above my head. It was in a tree to the front of me and it flew out over the track, over my head, and to a tree behind me. Its wingspan must have been at least 3-feet. It was close enough that I could see its bare body, which is why I knew it was not a bird. The bat operates by sonar and I must have invited its curiosity.

The sunsets are sometimes too beautiful to waste with a circle run, and so I must stop and film them with my digital camera and zoom lens and tripod. This set-up allows for me to film various parts of the sunset and other interesting features around me, such as the red-winged blackbirds which nest in the brush near the frog pond. I poked around down there one sunset only to have a very aggressive and mouthy red winged black bird warn me to go away, which I eventually did, but not before taking several shots in the dark at her noises, which I later edited to find her real side.

There are sand pipers which play and perch themselves on the goal posts. The Robbins pop along in the grass and do not seem afraid of my circles.

I wear bug spray and it seems I am invited to walk more than run by the creatures around. There are no others of my species to observe.

One evening I witnessed a disturbing scene of nature when I was the sole eye witness to a hawk which raided a nest of baby birds. The birds screamed for their lives as the hawk ravished the nest and I could hear the mother return with a fight, to no avail. I was sickened by the sounds and I wondered why I was there at that time, in that spot, to witness the brutal force of nature which cannot be quelled. Upon my return to the location there was a large baby bird lying dead in the path, violently bloodied. It troubled me so much that I cannot forget the sound and images witnessed. I wonder whether I was randomly present for a random event, or whether I was meant to be there for a lesson. I think the answers are yes and yes.

On June 17, 2008, as I rounded the southeast corner of the track, I looked up and back over my left shoulder, to see what appeared to be a comet in the sky. It was a clear night and the stars were bright. There was a good moon, if I recall, because I had my tripod down on the west side of the track, focused on the moon. I have seen many shooting stars in that location, but never an asteroid, so close to the earth. It was a big ball of fire, with a long tail. It took me 43-years to see this thing scorch the sky. I could not believe my eyes. A few seconds later, when it was gone, I questioned myself about whether I had in fact seen the asteroid. It was so remarkable that my memory doubted itself.

It did happen.

Mostly, I pray alone out in the night. During my prayers I am surrounded by what in my childhood we called "lightening bugs." The male insects of this species lighten up to attract a mate. The field and the trees around me flash around like bulbs on cameras. I imagine it is God's Paparazzi, showing itself to humanity-- capturing us on the eternal film of life.

The problem is that all of what surrounds me makes me move from a run to a crawl. I am compelled to heed the beauty and the savagery and the spontaneity of the surroundings---to learn from its contradiction and harmony.

My words are returning to me, one at at time, and with each new word comes a sense a new life and possibility. I believe I will run again, maybe not like the run of the past, but it will be a run that I can appreciate, after the long crawl out of the night of my soul.

Language of the Soul

This afternoon I ran 11-miles while I considered the "birthday" of two dead people in my life. On March 10, 2005, my client was executed. I celebrate his birthday each year on his execution date. He was set free by the needle, an irony of proportion, in light of the needle tracks on his arms the day he was arrested.

I associate the hawk with my client and when I see a hawk, I feel his presence in a metaphoric sense. I recently read that metaphor is the language of the soul. This is true, which is why I can see the metaphor even in a pile of crap.

You see baby, I've got soul, and lots of it...

Not long ago a hawk hovered over me. It faced into the wind and my back was to the wind. I was alone on a long corridor next to a very large water canal. I had taken my rosary out of a pocket and I can only imagine that the glisten of the gold in the sun attracted the huge hawk. The sun was behind this hawk and so I could only see a dark silhouette as time stood still. I stopped my run and gazed for what seemed an eternity at this giant hawk which was approximately 8-feet from my head.

I asked the hawk what he wanted. If the hawk answered me, my spiritual density blocked the message. It was as though he was warning me of something and time needed to stand still for him to convey the message.

Approximately 3-months later, I pulled into my driveway with my 2 children in the car. A hawk larger than the one which had hovered swept down over my windshield. It swooped close to the ground, up my driveway, and into my backyard. This hawk was obscene in his gestures. I told a friend that I was warned by the great hawk, but that I did not know what the warning was.

My sister was in a car wreck 6-nights ago. She was 46-years old--three years my senior. She died 2 nights ago. I had the gift of her last fall, for a few brief days, when we walked the beach in Florida and sat before the eternal sunset as we discussed life and love and God and our childhoods. One day, we floated together on one raft with our legs dangling and our arms hugging the raft. She shared her secret with me and I took it from her and kept it in a safe place.

My sister suffered since age 17 with bi-polar disorder and at times it got the best of her.

I loved my sister, but I hated her illness. She helped me to understand the mentally ill and this has impacted my legal work. I learned from her that the mentally ill do not belong in jails and prisons. I learned from her that the mentally ill have souls and fears and loves, just like the rest of us, but that they are obstructed from sharing their gifts with us at times.

Prior to her death 2 nights ago, I had not spoken to my sister since November, 2007, because she went from floating on that raft with me to her illness before I could say goodbye.

She told me that my running around in circles was senseless, and that I got nowhere.

She stayed awake until 3 a.m. and left at 6 a.m. "to watch the sunrise", even though the sun does not rise on the Gulf of Mexico. It sets.

It was not her. It was her illness. I simply drew my clear boundary to protect myself.

I lost my sister well before her car accident. I began letting go of her months ago when her illness showed itself to me. I knew then that she was headed for a path of destruction and I feared for whomever might be with her on the path when it happened.

For whatever reason, my concerns were lost on others. I did no convincing. I knew what I knew. I knew that my sister had driven me down an airport runway at 11 p.m. one night and that she had no idea what she had done until I screamed her back to reality. I knew she wanted to be free of her illness so much that at times she left her lithium in its container, with the prayer that perhaps she would not need it.

It was not my sister, because she was sweet and loving and harmless and she was a perfect mother. She was the most thoughtful person I knew. She was a beautiful sister.

For me, my sister died when her illness took her for the last time.

I was sensitive to her illness. I knew it well. She showed it to me in a way she did not show it to her other siblings. I have to believe there was a reason for that. Perhaps deep inside she knew I would protect her from danger, or I would locate her in the dark when no one else could or would.

She knew that I knew her illness.

I did not save my sister this time. I did not fight her and pull her in my direction toward safety. I closed myself away from her illness this time.

Now she is dead.

Goodbye my beautiful sister. I love you. I pray you are now free as the hawk.

The Whisper

Today I ran near 10-miles. The temperature reached near 65 degrees and the sun appeared. Yesterday I ran as well, but the conditions were not as worthy. I ran on a muddy path yesterday and today's path was paved and full of human riff-raff.

I felt the love as I ran, and I embraced the Chaos in my life. I considered the things, people and areas in my life around which I draw lines while asking God not to disturb them....My prayer has been instead, "God, fix me, but here is how I want for you to do that."

The pain in my hip was constant today. By the end of my run, my hip brought me near to tears. I was so very tempted to lay myself down, face onto the ground, with outstretched arms, and to beg God not to take away my running from me. The thought was so real for me that I began to think about what the human riff-raff down yonder on the path might think about me as I laid myself down and prayed to God not to take away my running from me. I wanted to draw a huge line around my running and beg if necessary that God fix me without touching that part of my life.

The more the thought possessed me, the more my hip ached.

Prostration on the paved running path was a near possibility. I was so close to laying myself down, but self control prevented me from begging God in such a pitiful manner.

Yesterday after my run I spent time in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament, and a Silent Priest whom I barely know, came and knelt beside me. As I silently prayed my infantile, "help me, help me, help me," he must have sensed my desperation.

There was another woman in the Chapel. I call her Professional Prayer Woman. She had the routine down. She said some prayers aloud and she had her rosary and she knew when to get on her knees and when to sit up. I knelt on my little chair and hunched over and rocked back and forth and thought only the Prayer of Eternal Help Me.

Professional Prayer Woman made her glorious exit. In came Silent Priest, who knelt beside me and prayed his silent but seemingly equally desperate prayer.

This went on for 15-minutes. Mass was to begin in 15-more minutes. I wanted to prostrate myself right there, but I thought that Silent Priest might think I was trying to upstage Professional Prayer Woman.

Silent Priest and I remained in the chapel until life called us out.

My mother, a very gifted singer, sang a song throughout my childhood which now plays like a rewinding tape in my head:

Hear, oh Lord, the sound of my call.
Hear, oh Lord, and have mercy.
My soul is longing for the glory of you.
Oh, hear oh Lord, and answer me.

I guess the point it is simple.

Silent Priest told me that God never left me, and I asked Silent Priest why, then do I not feel God, or know God? Silent Priest told me that God has never left me, and I asked Silent Priest why God is not present and why God is absent? Silent Priest repeated again that God has not left me, and I asked Silent Priest, how can I hear God?

Silent Priest told me that God is in the Whisper, and that I must Be Still, And Know that God is God. I asked Silent Priest why God is in the Whisper, and Silent Priest said that God has never left me and that I must Be Still and Listen for the Whisper.

I asked Silent Priest why if God is near, do I feel so much pain, from my hip to my soul, and Silent Priest said that God has never left me. I asked Silent Priest if God has never left me, then why can't God fix my pain, and Silent Priest told me that God is with me.

Silent Priest told me to be gentle with myself so that I can hear the Whisper when it arrives.

The words of Silent Priest kept me from prostrating myself on the path of my longest run today. It would have been an obscenely self-indulgent prayer posture.

I will instead prostrate myself in my private corridors, where I will pray to hear the Whisper. I will examine how to erase the lines I have placed around the things, people and areas in my life which block out the sounds of the Whisper.

It is open season on the soul and if I cannot run through this season, I will walk or I will crawl.

Crossing the Drawbridge

Last fall, when life was carefree and happy, before I was told that I required a new right hip, before I experienced internal bleeding in my right thigh, before my anti-DNA lupus antibody climbed, and before I began my journey of surrender in pure love...when I chased butterflies as a child, and photographed flowers with no time boundary, and loved for granted...along that way of my path, there was a drawbridge which pulled upon my soul like a magnet.

Each day I ran past the drawbridge, and I watched as the small boats waited patiently, as if in prayer on bended knees. The boats requested passage on the journey with their still silence. The tower-keeper eventually opened the drawbridge and allowed passage. I never ran past the point of the drawbridge. I do not know why. At that time, I was just not at all curious about the journey for the boats once permitted to cross. I was fixated only upon the point of passage, where the bridge drew open from inside and brought forth two large wings, which lifted to the sky...a man-made structure which recognized the pure symbolism of our dialogue with God.

Despite being pulled toward the symbol, its message was lost upon me at the time. Now I realize that the drawing open was an opening to God and the still silence was a necessary gesture for those wanting passage on the journey. Thankfully, the bridge imprinted my soul even though spiritual density tried its best to block the imprint.

On my final day with the drawbridge, I was disappointed to see that no boats requested passage during my run. Toward the end of my run, I was a half mile away from the bridge, when I saw a boat pass me in the direction of the bridge. I knew what this meant. With blind will, similar to that which caused me to later chase a huge buck across the ravine during the Griffy Lake run, I sprinted toward the drawbridge with the hope I might get a photo. My camera phone had no zoom, and so I had to run as fast as my legs would carry me.

I got my photo, from afar, which I now realize is exactly where I belonged on the stage of the metaphor at that time. It was an opening up that I did not comprehend in the transcendental sense, but which I recognized on an instinctual spiritual level. It was similar to when I studied in China and I knew no Chinese, but I quickly understood what was being said in a general sense. It was a survival thing because I used to pay cab drivers to take me where no foreigners were allowed, and then I had no way of getting myself back to the beginning. I used cases of cigarettes and a written Chinese note which gave the name of The East China Institute of Law and Politics, which I knew phonetically as hwa deng sheng faw shey uey...this landed me further away from school each time I tried to pronounce it.

Like the foreigner trying to engage a language she does not know, I recognize there is something from God being spoken, but I rarely comprehend. More often, I get myself further away from my home as I know it to be when I attempt to communicate in the language for which I have no fluency. I pass spiritually phonetic chicken scratches to the passers by on the journey and inevitably push myself further from home.

All of this revelation has led to a weekly Lenten pancake breakfast with my very dear friend. I'll call her Anne. We discuss our journeys with God. We are "reading" a CD on tape together which she introduced me to which is called "Entering the Castle" and it is based upon the mystical lessons of St. Terese of Avila. I cannot get past CD 1, and my friend is stuck on CD 2. We are both digesting the material in a way that only two like-minds can do.

It is all so relevant. Everything. That is the problem. The pancakes are relevant most of all. They are most necessary. They temporarily relieve the suffering and the pain.

As I explained to my friend, a person whom I feel completely free to trust in the healthiest sense, I am on my knees now on a way I have never been. I cannot speak a prayer other than the words, "help me, help me, help me, help me...." and I utter these words all day, every day, and all night, even in my sleep. Even the Our Father seems too complicated to me right now, and so my last trek to mass consisted of me holding hands during that prayer saying in my mind the only prayer that I could say, "helpmehelpmehelpmehelpmehelpme..."

Clint Eastwood's character in the movie Million Dollar Baby, had clearly lived a life of regret, pain, and suffering. He saw hope in a young female boxer who had to shake his soul to the core to get him to feel again. In the end, she had to leave him in a very bad and unexpected way. He prayed over her body and on his knees he made the sign of the cross in a manner that only a lost and spiritually disoriented man could. Because of his deep pain and suffering, he was unable to even complete a simple gesture such a making the sign of the cross.

The point is, though, that he tried anyway: He attended mass, in spite of himself, and he got on his knees and he prayed and he signed himself...he offered up his sloppy and sad and depressed attempts to be with God. I suspect that his internal words of prayer were simply "Help me, help me, help me..."

This brings me to Robert B. I took his case pro bono in 1999 and worked on it until 2007 in an attempt to free him from a 60-year sentence for a murder that he did not commit. I blindly fought for Robert while he did his time inside. I located the person who committed the murder and put him on the stand and got him to admit that he was present at the scene of the crime and did all of the things that the murderer did. He took the 5th. Robert was never legally vindicated, but he was factually and morally vindicated. He contacted me a few days after he was released from prison. I met him downtown and he wore a polyester suit with fake alligator shoes and his hair was braided and I hugged him in the public restaurant and I could not let him go. I could not have been happier to see one of my God-given soul mates in life, free at last.

Robert wore his sunglasses indoors. He was jumpy and shy and most afraid of his surroundings. Robert was held against his will for 30-years and was blinded by the light out of prison, even when indoors. I wanted to fix his soul but I could not. I could only tell him that I respected him, that he was my hero, and that I would do whatever it took to help him on his journey.

He asked nothing. He told me that I was his hero and that he was a permanent fixture in my life and that if I ever needed anything, he would be there "to cover my back." From Robert, this means the world. These words are better than any gold or treasure any person could ever give to me. Robert's vow to "cover my back" was a spiritual commitment from his soul to mine. It was his way of telling me that he loved me and that he was thankful for my friendship.

He recognized the running affect on my body and wondered aloud whether had I been thinner back in 1999 would I have won his post-conviction case. It was an honest thought, and Robert knows no thought other than an honest one.

Not long after, Robert was kind enough to address my Tuesday evening Criminal Law class, whose members he held spellbound for 3 hours, in spite of his prison lingo and lack of any education. He moved an entire room of people with his gentleness.

On our ride home, Robert shared with me that "God is great. God is good. I thank God every day."

After he exited my car, I knew inside I would likely never see Robert again. Maybe I am wrong, but he was headed to Louisiana, where he will disappear, I suspect. I felt a deep sadness for him and for his life, and he told me not to feel sad for his life. He reminded me again how good that God is. He told me that bitterness becomes a person inside and that he wants to shine inside and he said that God is with him and with me, and asked me not to be sad for him and not to regret that I did not win his case legally. He told me that God put him exactly where he was supposed to be on his journey.

The next day, as I ran where my hip allowed me to run, I thought that if Robert knows that God is good after having spent 30-years in prison for a murder that he beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt did not commit, then God must be good. If Robert doesn't belly-ache, then why should I ruminate about my hip or my blood or whatever else comes to my body?

On a later run, I considered that if Robert is not bitter about love lost, then how in God's name can I not surrender in love?

Robert inadvertently helped me run through myself on my longest run.

I told him when he gets back from Louisiana to call me, and we will have some pancakes...

Climbing & Falling

The run a few days ago was completed at nightfall. It began at dusk. I ran north for 4 miles and then south for 4 miles. The night sky cleared as my path was shone by The Big Dipper. Lined by naked trees which presented only tall and stretched silhouettes, the path offered me as its solitary prayer. And my soul rose up.

The night sky reflected a jet which, from my vantage point, was either climbing or falling. I could not tell whether the jet was leaving vapor on its way up, or consuming vapor on its way downward. The jet was my focus for a mile. It became my fixation during the run which led me away from myself and my pain.

Sometimes, like the jet, it is impossible to tell whether we are climbing or falling---whether we are creating vapor in our wake, or consuming it during our free-falls.

A couple of days ago I presented in a court where I had been absent for 3 years. The bailiff asked me how I lost all of my weight. I told him I ran it off. He asked me whether I was running to something or away from something. My response was that the jury was still out on that issue.

A perfect storm brews in my life which has been on the horizon since March 10, 2005, when I knelt on the cold floor of an execution chamber before the dead body of my client. I arose from my knees an altered person. Now, 95-pounds and 10 sizes later, the internal transformation has externalized.

Good things are accompanied by the bad. I learned on January 21st that I require a new right hip. The internal bleeding in my right thigh which caused the hematomas caused a check of my hip joint, which has been a source of much pain while sitting recently. I have been told that I have femoroacetabular impingement or FAI, which has torn my labrum. The doctor says that a deformity in my ball joint pinches the labrum and causes pain when I sit.

Running feels better. Due to my blood clotting and bleeding, I must wait to do a replacement until I start to "walk with a gimp", as the hip surgeon said. Until then I will accept hip injections and bide my time.

I could not cry or even feel the surgeon's words for reasons I cannot say on this forum.

What I can say is that I have lived and truly loved, prayed and cursed, given and taken, accepted and denied. I have lied while also I have buried myself in truth. I have been worthy and unworthy, redeemed and depraved. I have protected and assaulted, destroyed and created. I have laid myself down in green pastures and I have fought on the ridge.

Today I ran as best I could. The hip pain is bad. The surgeon told me to run if I desired because this FAI is not a running injury. I will not complain, but I will instead give thanks for the pain. I am alive to feel the pain in my hip and in my life.

The pain will pass, and I will rise to meet myself on the path. Where I am, I will be.

It is no longer important to me to know whether I am climbing or falling, running to or running from.

I am the marble inside of the block, partially carved. A runner inside.

Flying My Freak Flag High

I am back running, with time being my only constraint. "Today" (as is my custom, my today has gone into tomorrow) I anticipated a 7-mile run. I was prepared with 2 layers of running tights and 3 good layers of shirts, over which I wore my thick Nike running jacket that I obtained for $42 at a Kohls sale. It was the only running jacket on the rack and was my perfect size. The find was so great that Angels danced, right in Kohls, as they sang my name with a Nike chorus in the background. The jacket is my best friend this winter, similar to the wool pea coat that I cannot get my teen daughter to remove. I believe she may sleep in the pea coat, which we obtained recently on clearance at American Eagle, where Angels also danced at the find. She in her pea coat, me in my black Nike winter running jacket...we understand one another on a level that only mothers and daughters can.

I had exactly 1-hour-and-15-minutes to run. On a mission, I bid adieu to my computer and sped towards my running destination, an asphalt paved path which seemed to never end. I parked in an elementary school lot, hoping that me in my batman belt would not be mistaken for a loony with a bomb belt, as these are modern day considerations. I wore 2 sets of running gloves with a pair of Hinds mittens over them because I have Reynauld's Syndrome and when my extremities lose heat, it can never be gained. I needed to type on my computer after the run, and dial my phone, so I needed my fingers today.

Placing an under armor running sock hat on my head, adjusting the iPod, then locating the satellites, I was off to the races. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me. I had the run timed perfectly so that I would keep my schedule.

My shoe came untied and I wasted 5-minutes trying to tie it without removing my hand covers. "Hells bells" I thought, as I surrendered to my inability and jeopardized my fingers in the cold. It only took a minute to lose all feeling in my fingers. Because I had stopped in the cold, my toes also began to get cold, another concern of mine. I try to avoid losing all feeling in my toes by keeping my blood moving. It is not always easy, but I have become almost an expert at managing my blood flow to the toes. I won't surrender my toes in the battle.

Come to think of it, I won't surrender anything in the battle. I won't give an inch. If I am to lose a battle, or even The War, it will have to be taken from me with energy. I understand that everyone at some point loses a battle or The War, and I am prepared to lose mine, but it will be with energy, and not with resignation.

So I ran to spite my toes and fingers. I'd show them. I hobbled like a toeless misfit searching for a purpose, until I felt the warmth return. My fingers, likewise, began to show life.

It was time to turn around.

I headed southbound on the path and within seconds it felt my face was being slapped by the devil himself. There was a cruel and stinging north wind blowing in my face I had not anticipated. In my hurry to get to my run, I did not check the weather stats, which left me entirely unprepared. I was 2-miles from my car.

I sped up, which triggered an asthma attack. This happens to me when I run in the cold without my inhaler or a cover over my face. If I caved to the asthma, that meant giving up my trusted and loyal soldiers on the front line: my toes and fingers. I ran through the asthma, reasoning that I was at least on a busy road, and that I had my Road ID on my tennis shoe. I weighed the options of the wager and placed my bet on running as fast as I could back to my car.

My Road ID gives me lots of courage to make irrational decisions. I once ran alone under a dark bridge in spite of 2 very unsavory characters waiting underneath, because "I have my Road ID". It not a death wish, but rather, a life fantasy of invincibility. My Road ID makes me Uber-Runner, in a way cloaking devices work for the Romulan.

And so it goes that me, a 43-year-old, female, spectacle-of-a-runner, ran into the north wind, gasping for air, while slightly hobbling and curling her fingers inward...I appeared to have been slapped repeatedly by some evil perpetrators across the face. With snot all over my nose and my mittens, I made it to the car in time to drive to pick up my 5th grader at school and transport her to volleyball practice.

As I was dumping her out of the car so that I could return to my computer and finish my work, she told me that she forgot her tennis shoes. I traded my sacred running shoes, with Road ID and Garmin Foot Pod, for a pair of cushy, suede Uggs, which are upper calf boots. She balked at the pod, telling me it was "too embarrassing" to have on her foot. It took me an eternity to untie the pod because I had no feeling in my fingers.

Forgetting my condition, I stopped into the dry cleaners and drug store on my way back to the computer. I got stares from men and women. I could not understand why. Lately I have gotten many stares from men when I wear my running tights in public. Being a recovering emotional retard and a newby to the Thin and Energetic Universe, it took me a while to figure out why. It was a 11 p.m. in a grocery produce section that I finally realized I could not wear the tights on such missions.

Problem is, in my rush today, I forgot that I was wearing my tights when I chose to run my errands this afternoon. In the line of the drug store, I self-consciously looked down, and remembered the tights. I searched for a tear, for sure that this was the source of the gender-blind stares.

It was then I realized that I was flying my Freak Flag high with the Uggs and running tights. I looked like a 43-year old, stay-at-home-stripper, who longed for the glory days of 5th Grade. Even the toddler twins behind me in line stood still and stared at me. I feared I might scare them if I tried to explain to the adults what was going on with me at that moment. I couldn't tell the toddlers that I was Santa's helper because Christmas was over.

I had exactly 1-hour to get home, finish my research and writing, and get back to the volleyball parking lot. I made it in time, as I always do. I hoped I would not be pulled over by the Po-Po for speeding while wearing the Uggs and tights. I imagined myself standing outside of my car while k-9 search dogs explored my car for contraband and drugs, as neighbors and friends whizzed by and honked at me holding my freak flag.

I did trade the Uggs for a pair of running shoes before returning to pick up my volleyball girl, because I save my embarrassing clothes for my teen daughter.

"Today" I know this: I came and I conquered. I ran the good run, through the obstacles and beyond. The lesson remembered is that we are nothing, if not but a scripted line in The Great Divine Comedy. Today was just my day to play the lead.

Running On Ice While Dancing With Daffodils

I cannot run at the present time. My hematologist and my internal medicine doctor are in conspiracy to place me in Hospital Prison because I have recently experienced internal bleeding which has manifested itself as small internal hematomas down my thigh muscle. I assumed it was a blood clot, only to learn after a few hours at the ER on New Year's Day that I have graduated to being both a bleeder and a clotter, rather than just a mere clotter.

I am moving up in the world, in a sense.

I have a deadly blood clotting disorder which I imagine will some day cause me introduction to the angels of heaven who guard the River Styx, over which I must cross. I treat this disorder as a person who I do not like: I tend to it only when necessary, and ignore it whenever possible. I don't even return its phone calls.

While doctors tinker with my blood thinner injections, I am left to remember my runs, rather than to experience them. Sometimes, I guess, the memory of the thing can be better than the thing itself. As William Wordsworth noted, "I gazed and gazed, but little thought, what wealth to me that show had brought. For oft when on my couch I lie, in vacant or in pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude, and then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils."

I cannot get one experience out of my mind. It was near sunset on Christmas evening. I only had time to run a route from my home, and down to a nearby parish, where I knew the parking lot to be empty and paved with soft asphalt. The outside parameter of the lot is exactly 1/2 mile. From my home, over the bridge, and down an asphalt path to the church lot, then around the lot 4x and back is a an even 5-mile run.

I was feeling the love. I ran fast and my mind sank into a peaceful place as I made an even path to the church with the tall steeple. Used to be, I spent considerable time under that very steeple. For many reasons, I have taken a sabbatical from that steeple and, for now, I am content to view it from the outside in. As consolation, I attend the eternal church of the running path, where God joins me when He pleases.

Recently, while out of town, I interrupted a 20-mile run with a visit to a priest where I confessed and received absolution, for sins committed by me which were "known and unknown." I thought to myself, with head bowed and eyes closed, that this guy sure knew how to cover all of the bases. If he would just give me what I call "anticipatory absolution," for sins not yet committed, but which sins I anticipated committing. Maybe I should have asked for it specifically, but I did not. It was bad enough that I was an outsider to his parish sitting there sweating all over his chair from my run, while I muttered my act of contrition like a broken child. I couldn't possibly reveal that I anticipated future sin. Don't we all so anticipate it?

As luck would have it, this priest whom I had not previously met, was also a runner. As we conversed about sin and redemption and holiness, he incorporated running metaphors for my understanding. He gave me food for thought and thought for food. He wrapped up the session by giving me a list of things to ponder while running.

Holy of Holy's! I had a priest who dished out penance to be served while meditating on a long run! He blessed me and my decision to take a sabbatical from the steeple, and reminded me that God is everywhere.

And so it goes that on Christmas evening, I was circling the steeple from outside, all alone, but not alone. I decided to jog slowly into the prayer garden, which is .4 mile with various stations of the cross devised for prayer. As I entered the prayer garden, there was a small area of bricks which had donor names on them. It was covered with a thick sheet of ice.

I did not notice the patch of ice on the bricks because I was reading the sign at the entrance to the prayer garden. This sign displayed several rules about prayer garden etiquette. I found it so odd. One of the rules said something about how only normal conversation is allowed in the prayer garden. I wondered whether talking aloud to God is considered normal. Another rule stated that the prayer garden is monitored by a security company and said that any violations of these rules could lead to arrest by the security guards. I tried to visualize a person being arrested in the prayer garden for violating prayer garden conduct rules.

It made me want to violate a rule to see what would happen. Would the pigs use handcuffs? Would I be placed in a paddy wagon? What would the formal charges be? Could I get some Muslims or Hindus on my jury, because they pray real loud, and perhaps might sympathize with me as a prayer garden offender.

It was at that smart-ass moment that I became airborne. My legs both flew forward into the air ahead of my body. I had no time to react. I was twisting my body to avoid falling onto the ice. It happened so fast. By then it was nearly dark. I could see knocking myself out in the sub-zero temperature in the prayer garden at dark. The headlines would read: "Lawyer found frozen to death in prayer garden". I couldn't let myself end that way.

I avoided a fall by twisting and contorting my body. It was the kind of thing that should never be on camera, and movements for which I would surely have been arrested by the prayer garden police had they seen them.

It is not lost on me that I gave up all physical control, momentarily, in a prayer garden. I lost all ability to manage my direction and to save myself, and for a few split seconds, I was utterly helpless. I had no choice but to surrender.

William James said in The Varieties of Religious Experience, that prayer "is a process wherein work is really done and spiritual energy flows in and produces effects, either psychological or material, within the phenomenal world." I can now officially vouch for that.

During those few seconds, I said a few, what we Catholics call, ejaculates (love that!), which are intensely short, but meaningful prayers, as I flew threw the air. Soon after, I ran back home. For whatever reason, a Latin phrase played like a perpetual rewinding tape in my head, all of the way home. It is important to note that I do NOT speak or know Latin, at all. I am not sure where I learned this Latin phrase, but I know it came to me as I slid around the ice at the entry to a prayer garden, outside of the tall steeple, and all alone, but not alone. It was:

Lux in tenebrs lucet et tenebrae eam non comprehenderunt. This is to say, "The light shines in darkness and the darkness has not understood it."

I think I understand why the phrase was brought to me during my moment of physical helplessness.

While I anticipate my next run, praying that my blood will behave, I see that the path is not waiting, but is inside, as a light shining in the darkness.

The Walkabout

Because I am not running in a marathon until sometime in the spring of 2008, I am not following a marathon training plan. Because of this, I often times find myself walking great distances, either before or after my running session, and sometimes both. For whatever reason, my internal being has a need these days to WALKABOUT.

I do not ignore reality on my Walkabouts. I take my cell phones, both of which have unlimited data plans with unlimited email and text capabilities. Both also have cameras. I accept and return business calls, emails, and texts. My thinking is that I can do these tasks while sitting at my desk, or I can do them while walking. I can meet my professional obligations while also feeding my soul.

I have decided to structure my Walkabout time so that I am not completely sucked into a virtual reality. For me, getting sucked into work is a natural occurrence. I must discipline myself by not taking the phones with me during my running portion. I am to complete my run in good faith and then I may retrieve the phones from my car. Even then, I need to limit my talk time to calls which are critical. This is because I need to use the walk time, in part, to think without a fast-beating heart.

The term "Walkabout" is an Australian term referring to the belief that Australian Aborigines "go walkabout" at the age of thirteen in the wilderness for six months as a rite of passage. They then trace the path of the ceremonial ancestors of their tribe, following the exact route that those ancestors took, and imitating in a fashion, their heroic deeds. These paths are known as the Songlines.

Songlines are an intricate series of song cycles that identify landmarks and subtle tracking mechanisms for navigation. These songs often evoke how the features of the land were created and named during the Dreaming. The Dreaming Spirits as they traveled across the Earth, created and named trees, rocks, waterholes, animals and other natural phenomena.

I believe my recent need to Walkabout is based at least in part upon a metaphoric need to trace the path of my ancestors and to experience their songlines. Perhaps in doing so I will gain a spiritual tracking mechanism for navigation, if indeed the dreaming spirits of my ancestors created and named landmarks for my journey.

Of course, our ancestors do mark our journey to a large degree. Our parents form us, either with love or with hatred, or worse, with a sloppy mixture of love and hatred. Their parents formed them. It is an endless line. The question is whether I want to follow the guided marks established for me, or whether I want to deviate and listen for another songline.

There is no clear cut answer, but what is clear is that I cannot listen for a new songline without first hearing the songline left for me by my ancestors, and understanding fully the landmarks of its landscape. The songline is sometimes loud and unambiguous. Sometimes it is faint. It is nonetheless ever-present.

So it goes that I will turn off my electronic devices, at least for a time, in an effort to hear more clearly. I will also turn down the volume of noise and clutter which is the background orchestra to my life. I will not drown the trace sounds of the songlines meant for me, but I will listen carefully.

First though, I must complete the run which opens my heart and soul. Two days ago I ran in the unseasonably warm 63-degree weather. Prior to the run I received a call from a friend with whom I indulged myself with a talk. She was cooking, her form of meditation, and I was running. A harmonic convergence was in order. It was a worthy indulgence.

After our talk, I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, on a path not previously known. While talking with my friend, I wandered away from my familiar routes, in an effort to avoid traffic noise. While not paying attention to my direction, I ended on a road which I did not recognize. I had a general idea of my coordinates, but this road was a mystery. It was a beautiful road, called Riverview, and there was a steep embankment, up which I climbed. At the top, there was a grass pedestrian path. To the right was a short wall over which I could look down and see a river. To the left, down the embankment, was a hazardous road where cars whizzed by with no thought of pedestrians.

This path to me was a great metaphor for life itself, with beauty in our view, and hazard in our reach. I felt it was no accident that I discovered the path while immersed in the moment with my friend. I had allowed myself to be moved to another space, both physically and spiritually.

Unfortunately, I had an appointment to keep, and so I removed myself from the path, and sprinted in a direction that I hoped would carry me back to my familiar route. A warm rain began to fall and I felt exhilarated by the rain and the run. I wished no end to the run.

I found my familiar path, and I returned.

For a moment, on the run, I heard the faint songline meant for me which allowed for me to experience true freedom from the confines of those things which have blocked my ability to hear: The negative people and forces. The inflicted pains, physical and mental. The incessant desire to fill, rather than to empty.

The songline told me that I am to transform and to reach and to receive, and that I can define myself, rather than allow for others to define me. I can shut off the noise and tune out that which is inconsistent with my definition of self. I can with impunity shuttle the demons away and behind me.

For now, I will head out for another run, in the cold. It may be just another run. I don't know. I never know when a run will turn into a lesson. What I do know is that I must continue along the path as best as I can.

Making Rain

I am still absorbing the run from Tuesday afternoon. It was unseasonably warm. I had a court hearing in Bloomington and with daylight savings time, it gets dark at 5:30 p.m. this time of year. My hearing was at 11:30 a.m. and I did not exit the courtroom until 1:00 p.m. I had promised my nephew Nathan, a sophomore at IU, that I would see his dorm room this time in town. Last time I dropped him and his girlfriend off at the curb after a hurried lunch. I think my car wheels may have still be rolling as I dropped them off. Anyway, I phoned Nathan at 11:30 to advise I was in town and to ask what his schedule was for the day.

He was available until 2:30 p.m. and he invited me to see his dorm. I am a second mother to Nathan and I really wanted to see his dorm and to visit with him.

And so I illegally parked and took myself, along with my running bags, into Nathan's dorm. I bought him lunch in the cafeteria located in the basement. I took the grand tour of his floor. He was very proud. I put money on his food card for him and we chatted about family matters, after which I changed into my running clothes in his dorm room while he went to brush his teeth.

On my way to Bloomington I called St. Francis of Central Avenue on his cell phone to ask where a good place to run in Bloomington is. He suggested running Griffey Lake near the golf course. After court I asked The Judge where a good place to run in Bloomington is. He suggested Griffey Lake and the golf course.

It was a consensus.

So I dropped Nathan at Kelley Business, and headed to my running destination. I was so very motivated by the sunshine and the 62-degree weather. It was 5-years to the date of my near-death pulmonary embolism which caused a loss of part of my lung. Fully 95-pounds later, I was eager for the opportunity to celebrate a life lived and a life to come.

When I arrived I realized that I had just entered a running heaven of sorts. There is a trail which circles Griffey Lake which I am told extends about 9 miles. I never got to measure that trail and here's why:

Somewhere early on I followed what I thought was a pedestrian path into the woods. I assumed that all of the leaves had made the path nearly impossible to see. I jogged quite a bit and lost the path completely. I thought to myself that this was the dumbest suggestion ever made to me by St. Francis of Central Avenue and The Judge.

"Who in God's name runs through the woods with no path?" Within about 10 minutes I was exactly where I began. I had made a small circle, thinking I was instead making progress. I then had irrational thoughts about St. Francis and The Judge being conspiratorial morons.

I gave it another whirl, following my steps back into the woods, but this time deviating deeper into the woods.

I phoned my husband to tell him that I was having the time of my life running through the woods, but that he should at least know where I was in case I fall down one of those steep ravines to the left of me. The leaves were slippery and I am uncoordinated. He told me that I should not be running through the woods, but that I should instead be working, and asked whether I shouldn't be "making some rain" instead of wasting an afternoon in the woods. I recognized his comments for what they were and I felt sorry for him and his fears and his anxiety. I felt sorry for him because he was not climbing through the woods with me, and most sorry for him because he could not see the forest for the trees.

He triggered the little voice inside which had pushed me to work myself into a morbidly obese, blood clotting, miserable woman. That little voice said, "why are you out here all alone in the woods wasting time when you have so much work to do, and when you have a family to support?"

I spoke back to the voice with my legs. I pushed through the woods even faster. A bit later I looked down to see blood streaming from my shin bones. Lost in thought, I had not noticed that my bare legs were being cut to shreds by thorns as I raced through the woods.

I was not wearing trail shoes. My legs were exposed. I did have my batman belt and an extra bottle of Smart Water.

I went deeper. Before I knew it I was surrounded by briers and brush and there was no trail anywhere. I climbed down a steep ravine. I climbed up a steep ravine. I did this 4 more times. At the top of the 5th ravine, in the middle of this woods where no soul would join me, I heard noises all around me. I began to have thoughts of the movie Deliverance. My heart pounded and my adrenaline shot up. I told myself that I had done something stupid getting lost in these woods and now my number was surely up.

I spun around to see 5, maybe 8 deer, surrounding me completely. There was one deer with small antlers. There were 2 small does. There was one rather large deer which froze and came closer to me.

Just days prior I had encountered a deer alone on a path and he lingered with me for over 10 minutes. I took 2 videos and several photos of that deer as he came closer. It was as though he wanted to tell me something. And he did.

Back to Griffey Lake, these deer seemed like ghosts to me. They milled about as though I were the ghost. They seemed entirely unconcerned with my presence. I was in their world, and not visa verse. I was not a threat to them, obviously. I sent a good friend a text message which read, "There are deer everywhere!"

I wanted to pause the moment in time forever. I did not want to move forward or backward. I just wanted to be. That's all. I wanted to be and float about and sense my invisibility.

Of course, it didn't last, because I made several motions which caused the deer to realize that I was a foreigner among them. The largest deer took the initiative in scrambling away from me. He leaped past me and stood at the edge of the ravine. It was very steep, and deep and there was no sloping angle. It dropped straight off.

And then I saw an amazing thing. This deer ran straight down the wall of the ravine. I thought he was committing deer suicide or something. I thought I had scared him into jumping off of the ledge. I ran to the ledge, why I do not know. I mean, I wasn't going to perform some kind of a deer rescue.

I ran to him which frightened all of the other deer. I stood on the very ledge and looked over and watched as this woods ghost leaped downward...straight downward, and then he leaped across the ravine, perhaps 30 feet, maybe more, and landed on the other side. He then made a rapid assent to the top of the ravine on the other side. It was as though he floated in air to the top.

I considered that this deer knew nothing about the laws of gravity, but he was certainly bound by them, nonetheless, wasn't he? He knew nothing about the idea that he could not do what he had just done. He seemed to have no concept of limits at all.

He was graceful throughout this exhibition. His large white tail bounced high as he arrived at his destination. He bounced across the ridge of the ravine as if to perform a victory dance. And then he stopped and stared over at me, as if to say, "Its your turn."

I wanted to follow him, more than anything, and so I headed over to the part of the ravine off to the right about 20 yards which allowed me to slide down and then climb up a less steep angle.

I got more bloodied by the act but I did not consider the effects. I wanted only to go to the other side and show this deer that I too could accomplish the unthinkable.

He didn't wait around for my pride to catch up. He took off, and I think I heard him say, "sucker" into the wind as he made his exit.

I continued to climb to the top when I realized that I had only 20 minutes of daylight left, if I was lucky, and that I had no idea where in the hell I was or how to get out. I considered phoning my husband to ask him about survivalist tips, but I didn't because (1) I did not have a signal, and (2) I did not want to think about making rain.

I scurried along at a rapid pace hoping to see some sign of the lake or civilization. Nothing.

I finally got a signal and I thought maybe, if it got dark, I could call St. Francis of Central Avenue, who spends every Tuesday night in Bloomington, and he could call some sort of park ranger or someone to come get me out of this predicament. And then I thought I'd rather freeze overnight in those woods than call him for help because he would realize what a total emotional retard that I was to have gotten lost alone in the woods with no long pants or anything except running shorts, tank top, and a skimpy windbreaker. He will think I am surely in need of something he cannot offer and that would compromise our relationship. More important, he would feel responsible for me getting lost in there and that I did not want.

So I trudged on and I began to get a bit panicky. Then I remembered that when I came into the woods the sun was at my back and so if I walked in the direction of the sunset, surely I would find my place. It worked. I ran through for about 15 minutes and I finally saw water. I climbed down one last steep ravine and I walked over the water rocks, and onto the path which I was originally intended to experience.

It was a dirt path near the water. I was not sure which direction to take it around the lake, but I figured there were a couple of fishing boats out there. I could always yell out to them if need be. I took a gamble and went left and within about a half mile I was in view of the parking lot.

It was 5:30 p.m. and darkness was falling.

I said a prayer of thanksgiving for all I had seen and done in the past 3 hours.

I emerged from the woods a different person--a person who had followed no path but who had found her way nonetheless.

One thing is certain and that is I made some rain that day in the woods. I worked in a way I could never have imagined. Every muscle in my body ached. I was exhausted.

I sent St. Francis of Central Avenue a text message telling him that this run deserved a standing ovation.

Then I gave the run a standing ovation, on the corner of the edge of the path, where my feet met the water and my eyes met the horizon.


Griffey Lake Run Photos:

The Run Within

It was my every intention to discontinue this blog after the Chicago Marathon. I did discontinue, only to be told by various friends and acquaintances to keep my blog for as long as I run. This, I thought, is a huge commitment. I am not one these days to make huge commitments, let alone new commitments, but one friend made a persuasive point with me. She said that I run for myself and that I should blog for others because others will vicariously benefit from experiencing my personal growth via the blog. She said that I might motivate one person to move from the couch to the trail. She said that I might bring light to others. My response was that I search for the light myself and when I find it there is no way to cover the light rays and so whether I blog my runs or not, the light rays will expand, regardless. She said, "shut up and write."

It has been over a month since the Chicago Marathon and I have logged approximately 200 miles on the path since then. I would like to do another marathon soon, in an effort to get myself over the trauma of the Chicago Marathon experience. My thinking was that I should get out there as soon as possible and shake off the dust and move forward, because surely not all marathons involve hundreds down, helicopters, first responders, stretchers, overflowing aid tents, and police officers with bull horns. I needed to move on.

Problem is, I no longer feel that need to move on. Indeed, I have enjoyed the running this month which does not involve strict guidance. If I want to run 20 miles, I will. If I have time to run only 5 miles, I will, without feeling a nagging guilt that I must make up the miles. If I choose to run 20 miles two days in a row, I will (running advice, be damned). Speed work is done when I am up to the task, and not every Thursday.

Not training for a marathon takes the structure out of running for me. I don't know whether that is good or bad. Structure is important for me to improve as a runner. Structure involves discipline and good results. Free form running, on the other hand, requires no discipline and results are irrelevant. Either way, my mind still wanders when I run. I get the benefit of thinking and of problem solving in my head whether I am meeting a running goal or whether I am running just for the sake of running.

As I see it, I have spent 43-years alive. The first 6-years consisted of growing to a point where I could at least climb up on the counter and get my own food out of the cabinet when no one else would. The next 6-years consisted of figuring out how to go out there and get my own food for the cabinet. At age 11, I had 3 paper routes at once. Those were the days when the paper girl or boy rode a bike with horns on the handle bar to strap on the paper bag. I "collected" once per week--made good money for an 11-year-old. By age 13 I had a real job working at a clothing store where I was relegated to the sidewalk sale. I sat outside all day on hot summer days when my friends went to the pool and rode their bikes.

Not complaining. It built character. For the next 15-years I achieved in academics, attending college on a scholarship, graduating with double majors in English and philosophy, and then on to law school, where I had to be Editor-in-Chief of my law review, and I had to travel to China to study Chinese law, and I had to over-achieve where ever I could.

The past 15-years have been spent as a lawyer, earning the best living possible, and trying to win whenever possible. Once again, not complaining. This was all very good life formation for the inevitable, but I guess the point is that I no longer feel that need to achieve. This applies in life and in running.

Instead, I want to be. That's it. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Just be.

I suppose at age 43 I should be at the peak of my career and I should be pushing to win at every angle. Funny thing is that I feel more like a winner now than ever before. I just do not have to measure my progress. I will continue to search for another marathon to run, and that may be next month or next year, or never. It doesn't matter.

So it goes that when I run, at least for now, I will measure my results by the beat of my soul, rather than by the beat of my heart, and by the steps not taken as much as by the steps taken. When inspired, I will share my experience in word-to-page, not for others so much as for myself, because word-to-page, at least for me, is the "full" in "full circle."

If Running is a Metaphor for Life

Yesterday I completed the Chicago Marathon.

It was my goal for 6-months. I trained no less than 600 hours. I ran no less than 1500 miles in preparation. On the days I did not run, I biked and lifted and swam, with the hope of cross-training myself into a more worthy runner. I became the poster child for Muscle Milk, and I gained almost Ph.D.-expertise in things like electrolytes and carb burn and how the gastrointestinal system works.

In 6-months I went down 3 complete clothing sizes and grew my hair out an inch for each clothing size (longer hair pulls back better in a ponytail for running). This adds to the 3 complete clothes sizes and 3 inches of hair that had already transformed me in the three prior years.

A total of 95-pounds gone.

I went blond, or I should say that I let my blond self emerge.

There is a frumpy, darker haired, jiggly, flabby, shadow of myself running around in the world. I set her free with the condition that she never return. I gave her money for a good hair stylist and sent her on her way. It was the least I could do.

My professional peers who have not seen me in a while have no idea it is me. I consider gossiping about myself to see what others might say about me behind my back. Now and then, I should pay myself a gratuitous compliment as a third person would.

Evidently, a courtroom objection is more effective when made by a trim blond.

The other day a male prosecutor (I call him The One Who Has Never Beaten Me) is suddently my friend, when 95-pounds ago he was telling people that if Satan couldn't get them off in their case they should hire me, because I would get them off scott-free. In other words, in his head, I was worse than Satan. I guess Satan cannot be a thin blond who runs.

I still get them off scott-free. Jiggly Girl just ticked people off doing the same thing. The One Who Has Never Beaten Me didn't like the fact that he was beaten repeatedly by a Jiggly Girl. He was humiliated. But he doesn't see Jiggly Girl any more. I am not rubbing his face in his own deficiencies.

The world is different now, I guess. "So, this is the way the skinny and athletic live?" I think to myself, as I shove Lilith back into her box where she belongs. Lilith is very happy that Frumpy, Jiggly, Flabby Girl ran away from home, but Lilith needs to behave herself too. I let her out now and then to enjoy the scenery, but she wears a leash, just in case...

I have always looked at least a decade younger than I am, but at age 42, one would think that getting carded for alcohol is a by-gone experience. I got carded twice last month.

While in line for the Porty-Potty at the Chicago Marathon, before the race, I spoke to a mother-daughter combination waiting in front of me. The daughter was 22. I eventually mentioned my 14-year old daughter, and the mother interrupted and insisted that there was no way I was old enough to have a 14-year old. She was incredulous. I considered telling her that I am a loonie who waits in Porty-Potty lines and talks about make-believe children in conversations with strangers, but there was an outside chance she may have read Whose Afraid of Virginia Wolf. I might have gotten trapped in a discussion with her about make-believe children in American literature. I just wanted to pee.

None of these things impress me.

Despite the outward changes, on the inside, I am pretty much the same person who laid on a hospital gurney on November 13, 2002, fighting for my last breath, and praying to God that my children do not have to endure my loss. I suffered a massive pulmonary embolism and the clot eventually caused the lung tissue in my lower left lung to infarct. I was told in that tiny ER room, surrounded by 3 doctors, that I might die immediately, or within hours or days, depending on what the clot did. They told me that I had a deadly blood clotting disorder which may or may not respond to blood thinners, and that even if I made it through this, that my prognosis was very poor.

Some people are truly ready to die, but I was not on that day. I was 38-years-old and I had small children.

It was an ordinary day, like any other. That is how our lives end: on the most ordinary of days. When I was filled with enough morphine to forget I could not breathe, I relaxed, and I considered my life: past, present, and future.

As for the past, I asked God for forgiveness for all I had ever harmed in any way, and for forgiveness most of all for harming God, if that is even possible. As for the present, I thanked God for my very existence, and for allowing me to ask for forgiveness. As for the future, I asked only that my children be safe and happy. I could not imagine a future which included me, and if it did include me I could not comprehend how I would manage the life I previously had.

More morphine, please.

Next morning I was so high on morphine that I took the morphine drip for a walk. The nursing shift had changed and the new nurses did not put a face with the name on the chart. I walked over to a window down the hallway and watched the most beautiful sunrise of my life. It was tinted by the hues of my morphine. A nurse finally approached and we had a conversation about that sunrise. Eventually, she asked me what I was in for. I told her that I had a blood clot in my lung, at which point she called in the National Guard. I was put back in my bed and one of the doctors stomped in to inform me that if I got out of my bed again I would be tied to the bed.

It was worth the sunrise.

As I recovered those ensuing months, the thought of going life's distance was impossible to imagine. I could barely move from the recliner chair to the bathroom. I gave up all illusion of control. I spent 6 good months on heavy narcotics.

I was so ready to emerge from the fog, and when I did gradually emerge, I made the decision to change my life by living each day as though it were my last ordinary day.

It was a year later, on November 11, 2003, that I suffered a second pulmonary embolism, this time in my other lung.

Buying time was not an option. Bargaining with God was out of the question.

Finding my path was now an urgent matter, because I had always felt that my entire purpose in this life was to ready myself for God, and I had some major, major work to complete in a short time.

Not long after that 2003 embolism I plopped myself down for the first time on the couch of a trusted priest. It was hit and miss for 2 entire years, partially due to my inability to connect in any meaningful way to any person who might harm me later. Of course, this priest would not harm me, but I did not know that. I was operating from experience. I was an injured animal and any human being who attempted real contact would frighten me. Like an injured animal, I scrambled away quickly, but I kept a clear eye on the one who caused me to scramble in case he left food out for me to get later.

Thankfully, treating wounded and scared animals was in the nature of this priest. I'll call him St. Francis of Central Ave, though I am not sure he would like that moniker. St. Francis of Assisi was a bit of a lunatic and my priest-friend is no lunatic. He is, rather, a very ordinary man with a simple gift. He found an emotional retard (this is a term of art) in the woods.

After 2 years, I am still an emotional retard at times, but I no longer live alone in the woods, and my emotional retardation is no longer as apparent to others. I like to think I have graduated to an assisted living facility for emotional retards. I check in now and then to maintain some level of accountability to the community, which dislikes having emotional retards roaming about freely without supervision.

Even the emotionally retarded are children of God. It is not their fault they are emotionally retarded. They can't help it. They are harmless people. You just have to get used to them, and with some patience, they can shed their emotional retardation completely. I think a couple of them have even been elected President of the United States. Don't be scared. They won't hurt you. They are more scared of you than you are of them.

Preparation for God, to me, is not a sanctimonious or even holy-appearing journey. It is dirty and messy and full of detours. I imagine the crack addict, in his or her addiction, misery, despair, and loneliness, may be closer to God than I can ever hope to be. This is because the crack addict has lost everything and has nowhere to turn except to God.

There is a bare nakedness in it all.

And so it is that running, for me, is a metaphor for all of life. I realized something in yesterday's marathon. It was not until after I was broken down by the heat and the pain of running for 20-miles, and faced with the the fact that I had trained for 6-months for the race to be canceled due to the heat before I could finish, that I experienced the bare nakedness of life through the longest run of my life.

It was 88 percent humidity when I crossed the start line. St. Francis of Central Avenue, a former marathoner himself, left me an encouraging message as my feet were crossing the start line. I wondered to myself how he timed it that perfectly, since it took me 10 minutes and 13 seconds to cross the start line. I saw it was him but, of course, I could not answer. I already knew what his message said anyway.

My moment was upon me. I ran like Forest Gump. I had placed myself in the 4:15 pace group, even though I more realistically should have been pacing with the 4:30 group.

I felt the 4:15'ers really needed an emotional retard among them. They looked so together. I could learn from them, and they from me. But first I had to deal with the double sock issue. I always wear double socks on long runs but I have never run on hard surface for so many miles, and my feet began to swell.

This could have also been caused by my eating an entire bag of potato chips at the encouragement of my sister-in-law, who is a 2-time Boston marathoner. I will do anything she says when it comes to running. She told me the carbs and the salt were good for my run. I never eat chips but I sat there gobbling chips on the hotel bed, chatting with her about our bowel movements and how to hydrate pre-race to prevent having to use a Porty-Potty during the race.

So I stopped at mile 4 and sat on the steps of an Orthodox church. I removed my shoes while a young, handsome Orthodox priest sat over me, with his long black beard, long hair, and long black cassock. He looked like a rock star or an undercover DEA agent. I was dripping wet all over his steps.

He said to me, "You know, its OK to quit."

I didn't have time or inclination to respond. I tossed my new black baloga running socks his way and told him they would match his outfit, as I ran back into the race. I wasted at least 12 minutes.

It is no surprise that a man of God tried to persuade me to accept myself as I was at that moment...to not rejoin the race, because I had nothing to prove to anyone. Problem is, he didn't understand my motivations. I hope he uses my socks and gets a desire from them to at least run down the block. Only then will he understand.

I headed into mile-6 behind two men wearing matching royal blue tank tops and black shorts. One had "Gay" written on the back of his shirt, and the other had "Gayer" written on his. There was a park near mile 6 where I noticed about a dozen runners leave the road and head over to publicly urinate on the trees. These were the men. There were a few female runners who were squatting at the tree trunk with their pants down.

"Unbelievable," I thought to myself. I had never seen a female do such a thing, let alone several unrelated females do it at one time. This only proves that women were quite capable of combat situations. They can shit in the woods just like a man, and in front of thousands of people.

I continued to pace well, until some do-gooder spectator sprayed me with a garden hose. My right foot was sopped. I forgot to tighten my laces after removing the layer of socks on the first stop and the water in my shoe caused my right foot to slip around. This would cause blisters in no time and so I had to stop again to tighten my laces all the way up.

There went another 5 minutes.

I paced again quite well, until the arch support insert in my right foot began to slip forward due to the water.

Damned do-gooders.

I stopped a third time to remove my right shoe and to fix the arch support. I sat next to a very feminine young man. I think my sweat grossed him out royally. He tried to be polite, but I could read his bubble...

There went another 6 minutes.

My split at the 13.1 marker was 2:40:05. Take out the 3 shoe stops, and my split would have been 2:17. That would put me in the ball park of finishing in 4:30, which is respectable for an emotional retard on her first full marathon.

I felt terrific going into the second half, except the environment was beginning to take a psychological toll on me. It was by then 90 degrees and still very humid. The asphalt was burning my feet. My shoulders felt on fire from the sun.

Runners were collapsing all over the place. All of the aid tents were full and there were bodies everywhere. I saw one young woman in her 20's fall over right in front of me and she hit her head on the street. A spectator jumped to her aid. As I looked back he was pulling up her eyelids and feeling her neck for a pulse. Young men were falling as well.

It never occurred to me that I might also fall.

I felt great and I had my fuel belt. I had a hydration plan. Maybe the potato chips saved my life. There were bananas ahead, or so we were told.

No bananas materialized, at least ones I would eat. I must have asked 10 people if they knew where the bananas were. I even asked a First Responder who was carrying a stretcher. He looked at me like I was mad woman, which was possibly the case at that very moment.

My fixation on bananas helped me ignore what was happening around me. The banana obsession got me through several miles.

What led to my banana fixation was that in mile 19 the water station was void of water or Gatorade. I thought to myself, "Houston, we have a problem." I had 2 bottles in my belt which got me through to the next water station.

I filled up all of my bottles and drank as much water as I thought I needed.

Sometime during mile 20 or 21, a heavy-set police officer stepped in my path and began waiving his arms. I could not hear him because I was wearing my iPod in violation of the rules.

I read his lips. He said, "THE RACE IS OVER. YOU NEED TO WALK."

I side-stepped him and ran faster, only to be confronted by more police who were carrying bullhorns telling us to walk because the race was canceled.

I did walk but I trotted any time I felt no authority was looking my direction. It is part of my emotional retardation.

Within a couple of miles there were helicopters overhead and firetrucks and ambulances at every turn. I felt as though there had been a terrorist attack and I was walking off of Manhattan Island.

There were bodies everywhere I looked. The squad cars started driving down the middle of the road announcing on their speakers that we were all to walk.

It was beyond surreal. I was honestly traumatized by the experience.

It was then that I cried. I am not proud of this, but I cried like a little baby as I walked. I cried because it was not fair that I had trained so hard. I cried because I was stranded out in this heat and I couldn't find a familiar face, even though I looked all those miles for my sister-in-law's friends who were wearing orange and who had an orange wig and an orange flag. I was an orphan out there and I couldn't take another cop screaming in my ear with a bullhorn or another runner keeling over from the heat. I wanted a banana.

I couldn't run if I wanted to because the walkers were blocking my way.

Then I remembered that it was not about the marathon. I talked to myself for a couple of miles about the journey of it all. This was just a part of the journey.

I considered all of the obstacles which were thrown my way in this race, just as in life, and I was determined to complete the race with dignity.

So I dried off my tears and called my husband to tell him to ignore the split times being text messaged to him.

I thought about listening to St. Francis' voice message, but that would be too depressing for me at that time. It would have brought me back to the start line, where optimism ruled the day.

It was then that I remembered those on my journey: Jewish Mother, West Point Runner, Thinking Runner, Javelin Man, Jerry Garcia & Co, Helmet Man, Hemingway, Unicycle Man, St. Francis, and the many others who have graced me on the path, including my family.

I had a duty to them to finish with dignity.

My longest run was completed in 5:39:58, a full hour and 10 minutes longer than I imagined.

Before crossing the finish line, I spotted a familiar face and handed off my Batman Belt. I ran 100 yards to the finish line and raised my arms in victory.

It was a victory over my own weaknesses, and nothing more.

Tonight I researched what other marathon I might complete in the next 6 weeks. I must overcome the trauma of the Chicago Marathon experience, and I must better my time.

I have too many other weaknesses to surrender on the path to draw the finish line at this point in the journey.

I will therefore continue to run my longest run with perseverance and dignity until I am called to that finish line that I cannot draw for myself in the sand, but towards which I can run, in the hope that one day I will be draped by the Path Maker with His Finisher's Medal.

Life is a marathon. There is one difference, and that is that Life's Marathon cannot be repeated for a better time. The clock is ticking and, unlike the Chicago Marathon, I cannot find myself another marathon down the road.

There are no do-overs. Sometimes the path is clear and direct, and sometimes, like in Chicago, the path is treacherous and scary.

For me, I will stay the course. I am certain to encounter others on the path who might teach me a better way, or at least entertain me in the process.

When I am alone on the path, I will give thanks.

The end of the path will present itself in due time. Until then, I will run the good run.