a way

I do that sometimes.

I still haven't figured out how to put all my thoughts -- particularly the sloppy and awkward ones -- on the page with and without a filter. So sometimes I paint those broad, polished, black and white brush strokes, when one must fill in the blanks in the absence of gradation. That's how details get lost.

I'm unsure how to paint the picture of the last twelve days. They've been full. Overflowing. I'm trying to see in technicolor, but mostly - honestly - I just see black and I see white. Perhaps another time.

Melissa and Joel and their kiddos spent the weekend with us. That was sweet. Earlier this evening, upon their departure, a high-browed, white-gloved realtor stopped by unannounced in the wake of clutter and chaos. That was not.

And tonight, my right eye won't stop twitching and I'm chewing gum. Tonight, my mouth and my mind and my eyelid are working over time, perhaps so my heart and my soul won't have to. It's nearly 11, and I am copiously pounding away at my gum and my keyboard. After twelve full days, it feels difficult - virtually impossible - to deal with the empty spaces, the unknowns and the silence any longer. So instead, I am tapping and twitching and chomping away.

Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.

There is that word again... sigh. And then there was yesterday.

Yesterday, I was scheduled to start my race at 7:16 a.m. That was impossible, however because at 8:30 yesterday morning, I was still at a hospital in downtown Denver, where I had arrived eight hours earlier to attend my last birth.

Somehow -- I'm still not sure how -- less than two hours later, I crossed a finish line 30 miles away.I ran my race in 52.07. I ran my fourth Bolder Boulder six minutes faster than my last and more than seventeen minutes faster than my first. I still can't believe I was there.

He will make a way where there is no way. Yet, tonight, I'm still here. I can't believe I'm here. I'm miles away from where I began, yet somehow, I'm still here. I'm full. I'm empty. I'm done. I'm undone. I'm ending. I'm beginning. I'm there, and yet I am still here.

There is always a way. Please, help me to remember. Please help me to find my way.

too much

We are supposed to leave for a road trip to Omaha in seven hours. Omaha. Eight hours in the car with Paul and my kiddos. I haven't packed. Nothing is certain. One birth to go. I've been running around all day, and tonight, we had to vacate our house -- my home -- so it could be scrutinized by a prospective buyer. We sold our couch. I can't deal. I couldn't sleep last night, and this is just the beginning. I feel panicky and paralyzed and sleepy. My stomach hurts. It's not that big of a deal - to most - but... but, I don't want to go. I'm losing control. I'm barely standing. I'm freaked out. I can't breathe. I'm tired, and this is just the beginning. I want to cry.

registered

I just realized that today is my half-birthday. Today, I'm 32 and 1/2.

Today, I am in that inevitable place and space of looking back on the road we have traveled - particularly over the last five years.

I see a picturesque trail with mountains, blue skies, green trees, beautiful friends, beloved community, life and death and much more life. I have traveled many miles in five years. One step at a time, I have been monumentally and eternally transformed.

Thank you.

Her dream was vivid and clear, and I was its star. "You don't have to worry about the Ironman," she said. "Take in the sights. Delight in the city. Enjoy the run."

For years and years, I sat idly by and I held back because I feared the road -- the daunting destination ahead. How would I go? How would I get there? "Just start," she said. "JUST START," He said. Two simple words have changed my life. Small Steps. A new day. A clean slate.

I am no longer and will never again be the woman I was. That which I once missed is now the substance -- the essence -- of all that I am and everything I hope to become. I have been moved. I am alive. And I am changed.

Oh, the Journey -- the process -- it is poetry. The story is destiny. And it is the kingdom, and it is eternity. I see it. I feel it. I taste it. I smell it. Miles have been logged. Boulders mark the way, and I am overwhelmed.

Oh this road, it was never meant to be traveled alone. Friends have become family, and family have become friends. I am better because of the people I have encountered. Oh, sweet Jesus, I thank you. I thank you.

This is my last summer in Denver. I'm poised and purposed and ready to run, to re-trace my steps, to mark my path and to remember. To remember. I fully intend to heed, to delight and to enjoy. Interested?

I put out the request every year, and I have never gotten any takers. Perhaps THIS is my year. This is the last time I'm asking, because I'm moving, folks! I'm officially registered for the Bolder Boulder over Memorial Day weekend (EA wave), the Rocky Mountain 1/2 Marathon in mid-June and the Tri for the Cure in early August. I'd love some company, so If you've been thinking about it and it's time, let's do it. Just start.

Perhaps this is YOUR year. Perhaps this the year that we will run together. Or perhaps we won't. Perhaps these are my races to run on my own. If I must, I will. I began, I will end, and I will move ahead with a race. Whatever the case, I will run, and I will take you with me.

on mother's day

I went to bed weary and burdened last night - bearing the stress and disappointments of the week, trying to let go, while still holding on. My stomach hurt. They didn't call. We didn't get an offer. I didn't say goodnight.

I was dazed and confused when I woke up this morning. It was 3:50 a.m. Paul was breathing heavily beside me, Cole was staring me down in the dark, and he was saying something. Eventually he came into focus.

"Mommy, I had an accident."

Perhaps if I laid still long enough, he would make his way over to the other side of the bed. He didn't. I'm not sure how long I laid there before I eventually stood up. Once I did, I was annoyed.

Happy Mother's Day.

Anxious, vexed and busy thoughts assailed my mind as I washed my face, brushed my teeth and suited up an hour-and-a-half earlier than I had planned. It was dark, quiet, cold and clammy out. I breathed deep breaths trying to find peace in my pace, to quiet my mind and to enjoy the run. Mostly, I felt anxious and annoyed. Fast, squatty rabbits darted across the dark trail, and I encountered two coyotes. For 108 minutes, I was on edge.

I was greeted with a hearty "Happy Mother's Day" when I returned home and opened the front door. It was sweet, and my heart sailed. Almost immediately, however, the barrage of questions followed. Would you like to open your cards? Can we have breakfast? What's for breakfast? Can we reinstate the rule that we don't go to bed without saying goodnight? Momma, can we have wraps for lunch? Mommy, will you heat my rice pillow? What's the plan for today? What do you want for mother's day?

And so went today. I've been wallowing, cranky and annoyed ever since - silently wondering if I am the only mother alive who just wants to be left alone for Mother's Day.

I didn't always feel this way. I think I started to dislike this "holiday" only once I became a mother. That was the point at which expectation settled in. It was no longer just about my mother, but it also became about me. This year in particular, it was mostly about me.

What's the plan for today? What do I want for mother's day? For starters, I don't want to have to answer this question. As a matter of fact, I don't want to answer any questions. But since you asked...

I want a massage, a pedicure and a manicure for Mother's Day.
I want a week at a she-she spa/silent retreat for Mother's Day.
I want someone else to think about breakfast (and lunch and dinner) for Mother's Day.
I want an uninterrupted nap for Mother's Day.
I want someone else to wash the urine-soaked sheets on top of my washer for Mother's Day.
I want my house to go into contract tomorrow (interested?), and I want our move to be swift and sweet for Mother's Day.
I want respite from menstruation, with all of the rewards and none of the embarrassment or side effects (i.e. pregnancy) for Mother's Day.
I want my bike and I want it now for Mother's Day.
I want blue skies and sunshine for Mother's Day.
I want a clean kitchen and $25,000 for Mother's Day.
I want everyone I love to live in the same town for Mother's Day.
I want patience, peace of mind, self control, inside voices and a cup of hot tea for Mother's Day.
I want to bid tantrums, bad days, binges and chin hairs an eternal adieu for Mother's Day.
I want to be over myself and celebrating other moms for Mother's Day.
I want a good mood... and world peace for Mother's Day.

With all my pissy himming, hah-ing and carrying on today, I didn't open my gifts until a few minutes ago. Just before my kiddos went to bed, they proudly presented me with:

1. Two crayon-colored cards with rainbows, flowers and my favorite: kid-print.

2. Cole's paint-stained hand prints - one red, one blue - and a poem on a page:

"...Mothers are for loving when you snuggle up tight. Mothers are for kissing you a sweet good night."

3. "About Me and My Mom" from Maya:

What is your mom's name? Abi
What is your name? Maya
How old is your mom? 22
How old are you? 5
What is your mom's favorite thing to do? Write.
What is your favorite thing to do? Color
What is your mom's favorite food? Oatmeal.
What is your favorite food? Hot Dogs.
What makes your mom smile? When I help her clean the house.
What makes you smile? Playing with my brother.

At the base of the page, she colored a picture of the two of us standing side by side.

And now my kiddos have retired for the night, Paul is downstairs, my house is definitely quiet and it is relatively clean. I am finally alone, save my laptop, my gifts and my thoughts, and I can't help but to think about how differently today may have gone if I had opened my heart and my gifts this morning.

What's the plan for today? What do I want for mother's day? Mostly, I just want a do-over for Mother's Day... OK, and world peace.

trinitron

It arrived in a moving truck nearly five years ago. Although it often rested quietly behind closed doors, it took up space and commanded attention. It unified and divided, entertained and anesthetized. It afforded opportunity to lose ourselves, and in some ways, it helped us to find ourselves. It ran its course and served its purpose. It was heavy and huge. Freaking huge. 38.75" x 30.5" x 24.9" and 216.5 lbs, to be exact. It was our television, a SONY TRINITRON, and now It's gone.

E is for elimination. It has been our mantra of late. On the heels of winter, warm winds of change have begun to forcefully blow. They have shifted and transformed. They have scattered seeds and blown open doors. They have resurrected and restored. They have lifted dense fog and helped us to see.

They have revealed the paradox of beautiful and abundant simplicity, but they have also opened our eyes to notice all sorts of other stuff. Stuff, it is such a bland and non-descript word, but save a four letter expletive, there is no better description for the boxes and files and bins and piles, above us, below us, within us, without us, in cupboards, in drawers, around and about us. The burdens, the weights, the policies. The plans. The noise... The stuff. Where did it all come from? How did we get from there to here?

As we have looked and seen with focus and clearer eyes, an urge to purge, to toss, to release and to give away has overwhelmed. In the weeks of late, piles have been pillaged. Policies have been canceled. The noise has been silenced. And in the spaces between we've rediscovered long-buried treasures. It has been good. Very good.

36" SONY TRINITRON - $90, Westminster, CO.

Paul and I hoisted the hoss from its hutch and lugged it to our garage amidst the other discards. What do they say? One man's refuse is another man's refuge... or something. I posted our TV with a photo and its dimensions on Craigslist, and within minutes, I began to receive calls.

An eager and interested, Lisa was among the first to inquire and to commit. She called from work around 8:30 a.m. Perhaps it was a coffee break. Perhaps. She would plan to come by with her boyfriend on her way home. Would I hold it for her? Would it fit in a standard sedan?

Yes, I guess and I'm not sure.

They arrived at my door just after four - at the tail end of a clamorous afternoon of cleaning out, clearing out and eventually stressing out. My crazed, cabin-fevered kiddos, who had just been sent to their rooms to simmer, were upstairs bouncing off the walls, a frustrated Paul had departed with a truckload of treasures for the good folks at Goodwill, and I had just begun to find short-lived solace in my pantry.

Lisa's eyes were soft, dark and framed by ebony rims. Her shoulder length hair was also dark, inconspicuous and straight. She was small-framed and hugged in shades of blue - aqua on top and navy below. He (I can no longer recall his name, but for the story's sake, I'll call him Marcus) stood just behind her. A man of average height and build, Marcus had salt and pepper curls, five o'clock shadow, jeans and a just-tight-enough t-shirt. We exchanged our hellos and agreed to reconvene in the garage a few moments later. Somewhat down and distracted, I failed to notice the matchbox car in which they arrived.

It wasn't until I opened the garage that I even notice the neon writing on the wall. It quickly became clear that the Trinitron was much larger than they expected. Nevertheless, the three of us spent the next hour trying to squeeze a 200+ pound watermelon into a Dixie cup. We lifted (with the legs... at first) and attempted the back seat. Rrrrrrright.

With a furrowed brow, Marcus stood back, sized up, measured and rallied his troops (us) to try again. We attempted the back seat a few more times from a few more angles before we proceeded to the front seat. Uh huh, not so much. Marcus continued his wishful calculating and strategizing, and he offered idea after idea. 1-2-3... lift, he coached. Turn it this way... what if we tried... How about... Do you have twine?...

Twine?!?! Is he KIDDING?!?!

It went like that for nearly an hour: he instructed, we obeyed. I suppose both Lisa and I felt the need to give the guy credit for his optimism. So we lifted and lugged with little to show for our work an hour later. Lisa was done before we began, and Marcus eventually capitulated too. They would not go home with a TV that afternoon, and I would park on the street another day with empty pockets, a late start to dinner and a sore back.

In a desperate attempt to reclaim my parking spot, I followed up with Maurice, the astute and arrogant voice from mid-morning. He had also inquired about the Trinitron - shortly after Lisa - and drilled me with a long series of specific, well-crafted questions. Does it cut off the ticker at the bottom of the screen? Will there be someone there to help me? May I test it? Can I take it off your hands for $80. Is 9:30 tonight too late?

In a reaction and a momentary lapse of judgement, I sold out my soul, my husband and my sleep far below their value with my hasty responses: I'm sorry, what? Yes, my husband. I guess so. I suppose so, and no, that's just fine.

In the hours that followed, I emptied and lost and filled myself. Anxious and obsessed, my thoughts became fixed on my stuff. I took on the least becoming qualities of my things: I felt heavy and weary and out of control. I gave in, I wallowed and I checked out - way out - before I finally attempted to check back in. At some point, it started to rain, and right on cue, in walks Maurice.

He was mousy - a big voice for such a little man - and he donned pegged jeans and a black jacket. He had a spring in his step, a VCR in tow and he arrived in a van (thank the LORD... or so I thought). We exchanged brief hellos and agreed to reconvene moments later in my garage. While Paul was warm and cozy inside, I had to face the rain and the cold and the mini-monster of my own making.

In the garage, Maurice bypassed the niceties altogether and barked orders for power and an extension cord. He plugged in the TV and the VCR, and like a scene from a bad (really bad) movie, he pulled a VHS tape and a remote control from an inside pocket of his jacket. Copiously rewinding and fast-forwarding through scene after scene of news footage and sports footage, he inspected and tested without a word. CNN, Fox News, ESPN... he had it all.

Sometimes it improves, he broke ten minutes of silence and spoke aloud to no one in particular. He continued to examine, and then explained, You see, there's an arc in the display... and it cuts off the feed at the bottom of the screen... and the pictures isn't clear... and...

AND, IT'S A TV, MAURICE!!!!! I screamed in my head.

For twenty more agonizing and freezing minutes, Maurice worked. He decided to pass on the Trinitron and for the second time that day, I shut the garage with a-tenth-of-a-ton television still in my possession. At least I didn't have to lift it.

The following morning, the cloud had lifted, the sky sparkled and the sun shone bright. It was a glorious Tuesday morning and I determined before I got out of bed that I would delight in my day... and I did. In the peace and quiet of the morning, I wrote and wrote some more and the words flowed. I worked out, I showered, I made breakfast, and I enjoyed. I was fully engaged, fully alive and fully present, and it was good. Very good.

Just as I made plans to go for a walk, my little red phone rang out. It was Daniel calling to inquire about the 36" Sony Trinitron I had advertised on Craigslist.

Yes, it's still available... Yes, I'll be around in an hour... Yes, there is an ATM machine just down the street...

Daniel, a huge kid dressed in baggy black, with shaggy hair and a baby face arrived at my door with two friends - a girl and a guy - 45 minutes later. I'm not sure how old they were, but their spirits were young and light and hopeful. Their expectation and anticipation were contagious. We exchanged brief hellos and agreed to reconvene a few moments later in my garage.

OHHHHHHH!! They erupted in laughter, disbelief and excited high-fives as I opened the garage and the Trinitron came into full view. They were beaming as they approached the enormous electronic with ebullience and jubilation. Before I could opened my mouth to explain that it would likely take the four of us to lift it, Daniel and one friend effortlessly hoisted the TV into the back of the black SUV (phew!) that was parked in my driveway.

It's $90, right? Daniel asked with a glowing, rosy smile.

He reached into his deep, chain-clad pocket and handed me five crisp $20 bills. This is AWESOME, he exclaimed. Keep the change. And as quickly and as simply as Daniel and his friends had arrived, they were gone. They left me 217 lbs lighter.

I stood in the sun for a long while and soaked it all in. Incredulously, I looked at the empty space in my garage, and I felt warm. With a smile on my face, the sun in my spirit and $100 in my pocket, I left my truck outside, shut the garage and headed for the trail.

found

The kiddos were in the backyard in their helmets with their bikes. They'd been at it for at least an hour, riding in the sunshine and splendor of yesterday late morning through grass and through time. I was inside finishing thoughts on a page, when Maya cried out.

It wasn't an I've-hurt-myself-and-I'm-in-pain sort of wail, nor was it the Momma-Cole-hit-me manner either. This was exasperation. It was drama seasoned with despair. My red-faced five-year old materialized in moments with fresh tears streaming and something tiny in tow.

"What's wrong, My," I asked.

"I (sniff) lost (sniff) my (sniffle) earring (sobbbbbb)."

Just a few minutes earlier, while my children delighted in our yard's simple pleasures, Maya hopped off her bike and took off her helmet. In the process, a loose strap grabbed hold of the sparkly, five-petaled daisy in her ear, pulled the post from her lobe and sent it flying... somewhere.

As I listened to my daughter despondently described the events of recent past, my mind temporarily left the room. It traveled down a short flight of stairs through our toy-strewn family room, out the sliding glass door to the patio, with its teak furnishings. There were benches, tables, chairs and stairs up to a deck, with a grill beneath its cover. There was flagstone and concrete with levels, cracks and sinews. There were pots and plants and trees and weeds, which I fully intend to get to soon. There was dirt, rock borders and grass, LOTS of grass.

As I came back to myself, to my daughter and to her desperation, our backyard seemed vast and infinite in its pockets and possibilities. In contrast to the missing, tiny stud our backyard was Eden. Looking in, one might conclude that the situation was hopeless. How could we possibly find what we were looking for? In that moment I could have given Maya a sympathetic hug and a dose of the grim reality. She would have cried for a while and eventually gone back out to play. I would then return to my pad and my unfinished thoughts, and eventually, I would have showered. We would have cut our losses and moved on. But we didn't. She didn't, and neither did I.

Instead, I reached out to the little girl clutching all that remained of something precious, and I gently held her shoulders, kneeled down and looked into her moist eyes. I paused, spoke out and said something unexpected. It changed the course of that moment forever.

"Maya, we will find it. I always find what I am looking for. Always."

I reminded her of the many things that have made their way back to her posession and to mine -- the little: a yellow barrette, a sippy cup, and a workout shirt -- the tiny: the screw that holds my sunglasses together (in shag carpet after nearly a week) -- and the big: a wallet and a dream.

"I always find what I am looking for. I always find what I am looking for," I told her and myself. "That which is rightfully mine invariably find its way back to me, and it will find its way back to you."

In that moment, I wasn't sure about the how or the where or the when. All I knew is that I knew, and all that mattered is that Maya knew it too. The revelation and reality we have each begun to see and to experience gave us contagious confidence that I can't entirely describe. The more I have noticed it, the more I have begun to believe it. The more I have believed it, the more I have begun to see it. And in that moment, as I stopped, acknowledged, and spoke it aloud, the tears stopped, our focus shifted and it was true.

In the sunshine and splendor of yesterday morning, we retraced Maya's steps and approached her bike, which rested near the fence. This, she explained, was the spot where she removed her helmet and last felt her earring. We dropped to the ground with its cracks and its sinew and began a hopeful search.

Where is it, Lord? Where is it? Show us the way. Help us to find it.

What if it fell into the rocks, the thought flashed into my mind as a worried Maya simultaneously inquired. "Momma, what if we don't find it? May I wear one of your earrings instead?"

I always find what I am looking for. I always find what I'm looking for... there is no way I will find it if it fell into these rocks, so there is no way it is in these rocks. Did it fall into the grass or the collar of her dress? Where is it? It could be anywhere. Which way?

"Maya, we are going to find it" I responded to her worry and to my doubt.

LEFT...

We walked to the left (and to the right) up and down the length of the fence several times with our noses to the ground to no avail. We each took potty breaks, retraced her steps inside to the couch, and then we headed back outside. After ten or fifteen minutes of looking, I asked again and I knew -- it was time for us to stop.

"Maya, I'm going to go take a shower, and I want you and Cole to play."

"But what if it gets dark, and we don't find it?" she pleaded.

"Maya, I promise you (oh my), we are going to find it. Remember your barrette or my itty bitty screw? Just picture your earring. Really try to see it and visualize yourself finding it. Maya, we will find it. You will find it, or else..."

In that moment, in the splendor and sunshine of a glorious morning, my gaze fell past my daughter to the flagstone patio behind her. Nearly ten feet to the left of the path we had grazed, the background faded away with my words. Time and space and sound stood still for an instant, and that was when only one thing came clearly into focus: a tiny silver post perched atop red stone.

"...or else, it will find you."

"Whether you believe you can or you believe you can't,
either way, you are right."
~Henry Ford