I. Am. A. Runner.

I am a runner.  

There- I said it... wrote it.  

I am not an athlete, I don't do it for a living.  I am not an Olympian- I'm not even that fast.  Not really.  But I am a runner.  

I am.  

I have been thinking about this a lot lately- because running does take its toll.  It asks a lot- 

But then so do I. 

We recently returned from a trip to France during which- no surprise- I ran.  Along country roads and some dirt tracks, through fragrant fields, I ran.  And it felt good.  Which came as something of a surprise given that just days before we left on holiday, I had landed in the urgent care with a shocking inability to get oxygen into my system.  

What I am calling 'Petite' Long Covid is a bitch.  

Me: post-Covid, post-road race, pre-Petit 
Long Covid.

A chest x-ray, some poking and prodding, and a forgotten corticosteroid inhaler later, we were off, angling to the north and an idyllic retreat with dear friends.  The drive was long and lovely but roughed up my already aching back.  (Context- before moving overseas I was delivered a diagnosis of trauma-induced scoliosis.  We need not meander down that road.  Suffice to say, my back hurts.  A lot and chronically). 

Still I ran. (Still I run).

As I ran loops around our friends' property, trying to make up my mileage, I noticed my times returning to their pre-Covid numbers.  I noticed my legs screamed less for air and a break  My body drank the country air and my being flew with it. 

--

I have asked so much of this body.  So much.  Both as a runner and as a human.  I have asked it to run and keep running through flus and RSVs and pneumonia and Covid; through pulls and sprains and strains.  Through rain and wind and chill and hot hot heat.  Through it all. 

I have asked it to bear a child, then to grow the potential for more children.  Then to bear again the pain of losing them. 

I have asked it to survive when I could not sustain it.  

I have asked it to come back over and over and over- to fight for itself physically when I could not do it mentally.     

And every single time- it has shown up. 

While I may have my issues with the human race in general, I have always found the human body t be the most incredible machine.  It takes what you give and gives back so much more.  And it shows up until it can't.  It's a beautiful, incredible machine.  Even mine- broken and abused as it is- even mine is a beautiful incredible machine.  

A machine that runs.  

Twofer: The Other Mothers and Drive-by Goodbye

I've been thinking a lot, lately, about tribes.  

Well, I've been thinking a lot about a lot of things lately.  I am, we are, moving at the end of the month.  To another house, another city, another country.  A place for which I have so much hope... but also some trepidation... and certainly no tribe.  At least not yet.  

Tribes don't happen overnight.  

Nor do friends, nor families- neither the ones we make nor the ones we chose.  

Over a lifetime I have cultivated a few precious connections that mean very much to me.  People and relationships without whom or which I would have floundered, drowned in my own head.  For this Mother's Day, I thought I'd shout a few of those out.  

Without further ado:

My (Mom) Tribe- 

To the Irish mum who knew me long before either one of us were mums- I cannot wait to see you.  Thank you for the countless glasses of wine we've shared.  Thank you for the countless hours of conversation; the countless hugs, the tears, more hugs, and deep love.  Thank you for yelling at me.  Thank you for caring enough to yell at me.  I literally cannot wait to see you.  

To the mom who is always up for a run (when schedules, husbands, and sons allow it)- you are an invaluable gem.  The miles of sweating, bitching, laughing, commiserating and planning have kept me saner than you can possibly imagine.  The stolen 20 minutes here, an hour there, have indeed kept me sane. 

To the moms who have littles who I've yet to meet- I am eager and terribly excited to meet them and laugh with you and reconnect and marvel at these little kingdoms we are building.  We are actually the architects of chaos.  

To the mom two doors down- just two doors down?  If only you knew how many times you have carried me from just there... or from across the ocean.  You have been the hand at my back, my prop, my sounding board on more occasions than I can name.  More than that, you have shared your family with mine.  You have put up with my dogs, my baking, my apparently endless chatter.  You are my hero.  

To the mom I don't really know yet but who I know I want to know so much better... if that makes any sense at all.  You are my impromptu, unexpected training buddy at a time when I didn't know I needed one but absolutely wanted one.  You are the person that my husband recently identified as "oh- she's just like you."  

To the moms from whom I've drifted- we've drifted.  And the moms I don't know as well as I should... the moms I nod or wave to; the moms who make plans that never really pan out (mostly for me, mostly because I'm a homebody, mostly because having a baby and a husband with stage four cancer during a pandemic left deeper scars than I casually reveal)... you're still on my mind.  

Happy Mother's Day to the lot of you.  And to all the other mothers out there.  The work of motherhood is tough and oftentimes feels lonely and obsolete.  You are neither alone nor obsolete.  I see you, I feel you, I hear you, I am you.  

And to my own mom- the original matriarch of the tribe- and to the grand- great grand- great great grand, etc. mothers who came before.  You are all a part of me.  You are all a part of us.  Who we, as young (or maybe not so young) mothers, are is tied to who you, as hardened vets, were.  Who I am as a person, a woman, a mother, is intrinsically tied to my mom.  Who raised her, how she was raised, how they were raised and so on and so forth.  Because that is the thing about tribes.  They go back and forth- backward in time and forward with the inevitable passing of one season to the next.    

And there you go- and there we go-

I am notoriously bad at goodbyes.  I will make jokes until the bitter end and then hide in the bathroom so I can cry quietly. Or sob without guile or care for puffy eyes, snot, or stuttered breathing.  Keep that in mind over the next few weeks.  To those with whom I am parting, my heart hurts and aches to take you with me onto more and more adventures.  To those with whom I am meeting, you bring me peace and anticipation and a sense of rightness.  

Here's to all of you, all of us, all the days behind us and all of those ahead.  

Here's to it all.  

Tchau. 

Xx. 

Blindspot.

Despite the fact that most of the people who read this blog know me, I tend to treat it as an anonymous airing of the soul.  I pretend that people who know me won't read the posts; I pretend that people who don't know me will stumble upon it and it will light their spirits to know they are a little less alone.  

I pretend that for most I am a blindspot.  

This sounding board I have created over many years and many many many trials has allowed me to vent my frustrations- my anger, my willfulness, my sadness, my disease, my perpetual longing for something just beyond my reach- in the best way I can.  

Silence.  

That is what I love most about writing, I think.  It is a silent venture- save for the scratch of pen or pencil against paper or the staccato clack-clack-clackity-clack of keys depressed one the keyboard.  I can stretch into my words, my sagas, quietly- pursed lips and squinted eyes.  I can explode, implode, scream, retch, laugh, cry, delete delete delete delete all without uttering a single word out loud.  It is... I don't know if I can explain it... 

I have had a lovely holiday season.  I have.  But for several long months I have felt like- I missing something or someone.  I am missing the sounding board.  The person or persons I would turn to vent or lash out my feelings out loud.  Out.  Loud.  It's been ages since I've talked to my husband about what I'm feeling about myself.  And while that seems... well however it seems, it frequently feels wrong to burden him with my ongoing dementedness while we navigate his ongoing waltz with cancer.  And in a way I have become so reclusive with my feelings, so guarded with my internal struggles that I have stopped relying on others to help.  

Not that I was ever particularly good at that anyway.  

What's more, the circularity of it all tends to drive me further and further from opening up.  Because I am struggling; because I haven't sought professional help even though it is the most reasonable way of moving forward; because I know myself.  I know myself.  

I have sat with myself for so long, so long, distant and reflective and always always at odds.  I have shared the burden to a degree but kept a great deal of it to myself like some sort of metaphysical or psychic hoarder.  I ache to tell but I yearn to hold fast.  To stay the course. 

To survive.  

But survival is a lonely thing.