Fifty-Fifty

Last month my husband Shawn and I turned fifty. A half century lived and five short years until the AARP mails us our membership cards and we qualify for the senior dinner special at Golden Corral (not that I would ever use it). Our youngest child is rapidly approaching seventeen and I can see the light at the end of the first phase of parenting tunnel. I anticipate more travel and more time to spend on my writing.

To mark this occasion I decided to write a poem. But not only that—I wrote it in order to submit it to an online magazine—Quantum Fairy Tales—a speculative fiction ezine. They had issues a call for short form fiction and poetry and I had an idea—an image really—that I thought would work. The fact that I had submitted exactly one story before, a short Christmas story I had written for my kids about how a sheep dog leads the shepherds to the Christ child which Deseret Book politely rejected, did not deter me. And whether they accepted it or not, I am determined to push myself out of my comfort zone as a writer and take more chances.  Which is one of the things this poem is about.

And guess what? They published it!  Please click on Fifty-Fifty to read the poem. Thank you, Quantum Fairy Tales!

I am a firm believer in readers contributing to a story or poem. We each bring our own experiences into how we interpret a poem or story. I feel a creative work exists in the space between the author and the reader, who each must invest creative energy to bring it to life. That being said, I also enjoy reading what authors have to say about their creations and about the hows and whys and whats of the creative process of my favorite authors.  

In that spirit, I want to share with you what I had in mind when I wrote this poem.

As I said before, I had an idea to write a poem for Shawn and my fiftieth birthdays. I often write poems for significant events or as gifts for a friend. That is the initial impetus behind this poem—a gift for my husband, for myself.

Every year I plan a non-birthday adult costume party during the week leading up to Halloween (and our birthdays). This year the theme was superheroes. In addition, our family went to Disney World the week of Oct 16 and for the first time were going to go to the Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party. I had chosen our family costumes—The Incredibles.

 

 This movie is my husband’s favorite Pixar film because it is about a dad trying to be super—not just as a superhero but more importantly as a husband and father. I also made a thirty-eight song mix CD set to give out as party favors. (If you would like the playlist, send me an email and I will send it to you.)

 You could say I had superheroes on the brain big time.

As I mused on that theme, an image came into focus: two superheroes—a man and a woman dressed in their super costumes standing on a precipice, a unruly mob coming up behind them and a choice to make—to jump and risk a fall or to turn and face certain death. The superheroes were Shawn and I. The title of the poem refers not only our ages, but also to this choice—this chance.  

The conflict with the mob was real. Only the mob was an angry teen daughter and her crazy and abusive boyfriend. The cliff was deciding to send her away—to take a chance, leaping head first into the unknown rather than facing the certainty of disaster if we did nothing. Maybe just maybe things would work out. Maybe we could all find the help we needed.  

When we went to pick my daughter up from wilderness, we gathered in a room with the other parents and teens who had finished the program. We sat in a circle and each teen was given a wooden pendant with a wing burned into the front.

We were all meant to fly.

Life inevitably brings challenges and hard choices and no guarantees that things will work out the way we hope. Take a chance anyway. Fifty-fifty may be as good as the odds may ever get. Take the chance anyway. We may try and fall flat on our face. Take a chance anyway.

The only real failure is doing nothing; it is not entering the race, not finishing last. Taking a chance bring something more precious than victory; it brings experience, compassion, understanding, resolve, patience, ingenuity, persistence. It is valuable beyond measure. It is the making of all great men and women.

This poem is about taking those chances. To striving. To making that leap into the unknown.

Join me. We will fly. Even if it is only on the way to the ground.

My Grandma Esther

My Grandma Esther

A couple of weeks ago, my daughter Arianna was cleaning my parents’ family room and she found this photo:

My first thought was, ‘When did my Grandma meet Weird Al Yankovic? My second thought was, “Holy cow, what was I wearing? That is the most awful sweater, and the pants are not much better.

After I recovered from the shock of seeing my awkward teenaged self—and congratulated myself on being one of the rare people who look better at 49 than they did at 16—I looked at the photo again. This time I saw someone much more important than ugly sweaters and hair styles.

I saw my Grandma Esther. 

Oct 11th is my Grandma Esther’s birthday. She died Oct 21, 2002, having lived for 100 year and nine days. Growing up in Provo, Utah and with Grandma Esther only lived forty minutes away in Salt Lake City, I got to know her fairly well. She was an amazing woman, someone I have learned a lot from during my life.

Scrabble Champion

From my earliest memories of Grandma Esther, she was always reading and studying. Before marriage she had been a kindergarten teacher. Back in those days, once you got married you were forced to retire. She left teaching to raise her family. By the time her youngest (my mother) left for college, she decided she wanted to go back to teaching, only she was not qualified any more. She would need a bachelor’s degree.

No problem.

My grandma went to the University of Utah at the same time as my mother and graduated with straight A’s. She taught elementary school until she retired at age 65. This story, of my Grandma Esther going back to college and getting her English degree was told time and again. It sunk in deep to my being. It became one of the foundational expectations I had for myself—that I would go to college and graduate with a degree. I even got my degree in English. 

Grandma Esther was a continual learner. She was always reading. And she was also very competitive. Her games of choice: Scrabble and Boggle. Whenever she would come down to Provo, or we would go up to her little bungalow in Sugar House, she would break out Scrabble or Boggle. And let me tell you, there was no taking it easy on the grandkids. She beat us time and time again. I cannot remember ever beating her. Even when she was in her late eighties and early nineties. Thankfully, she was a gracious winner, never making us feel badly when she pulled out a triple word play at the end of the game and won going away. We would do better next time. I learned from her to do my best at all times, to strive for excellence.

Model T

Grandma Esther was fiercely independent. Before she married she saved up her money and bought a Model T Ford. She was one of the first people to own a Model T in Salt Lake City. She loved having a car as it gave her the freedom to travel. While her health was still good she traveled. She went to Israel and Egypt, and she returned many times to Switzerland, her parents’ birthplace.

She was very proud to be Swiss German and we heard all about her parents and their emigration to the United States. She lived at home until the day she died, accepting live-in help only for the last few years of her life. And she still read the newspaper every day. As she got older, one of the great sorrows was the loss of her driver’s license.

When I think of Grandma Esther, I think of someone who valued freedom. She was very patriotic and very active politically. Though she was of modest means, she was a lifelong Republican and was active in her party. She served as a delegate to the state convention on multiple occasions. She was not shy about sharing her political opinions, especially her scorn for politicians she felt fell short—and they were mostly Democratic politicians. Bill Clinton was high on her list. She even had Clinton toilet paper. I don't think she used it.

The Turquoise Rebellion

Grandma loved colors, especially the color turquoise. She had many turquoise rings and bracelets. I asked her once why she liked turquoise so much. She told me that there was a time in her marriage when her husband had insisted she only wear black clothes. It was a different time, and though it chaffed, she complied with his wishes. But after he died, she never wore black again.

Wearing turquoise became her way of saying that she could decide for herself what color she would wear. I cannot see the color turquoise without thinking of her and her insistence on being her own person. Sometimes as a wife and mother we can get lost in meeting everyone else’s needs. Grandma Esther reminds me that it is okay to have things that I like—just for myself. I think of her and her turquoise rebellion every time I get dressed up in my Aeryn Sun costume. 

Cinnamon Knots

Grandma Esther was not a great cook. She was not even a good cook. Okay, she was a terrible cook. And she only ever made one meal for us: chicken, rice and broccoli casserole, made from rotisserie chicken bought from the supermarket, white rice, frozen broccoli, a can of cream of mushroom soup and cheddar cheese. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas she would make a cranberry and walnut relish that involved a bit of chopping. And she would make banana cream pie, using instant banana pudding. Honestly, I do not think she knew how to make a custard from scratch.

Cooking was not her thing.

Which is great, because every holiday Grandma would go the local bakery and buy a huge bag of cinnamon knots. Think a long strip of chewy sweetbread, dipped in butter and rolled in cinnamon sugar, twisted into a knot and baked until the sugar caramelized on the outside.

There were never any left over. Because she did not like to cook, we also got to go out to eat whenever we would visit. We would alternate between visits to the Lion House Pantry restaurant or the Sugar House Chuck-A-Rama. I especially liked going to the Sugar House Chuck-A-Rama because of the enlarged photos of early LDS church leaders in their black and white prison uniforms smiling for the camera (apparently the restaurant is located at the site of the old Sugar House jail where these leaders were imprisoned for the practice of polygamy). I would stare at these people and wonder what brought them to the prison, why did they seem so unfazed by it all.

Grandma Esther was a woman of faith. Her parents had given up everything for their newfound faith and emigrated to Utah. She was a committed Christian and active in her church community and neighborhood—always giving service to others, not just members of her own church. Her best friend was a Catholic next door neighbor. For years, she drove her blue Ford sedan slowly around town delivering dinners for the Meals on Wheels program. She also working as an ordinance worker at the Salt Lake City Temple.

She did all these things—but she did not cook.

What I have learned from this is to know your own limitations, and to know what you love doing and what you really would rather not do. Grandma Esther was not a cuddly grandmother. She was not the person you would go to for a hug or a shoulder to cry on—that was not in her Swiss German constitution. But she is the person you would go to with a problem. She was the person who would help you figure it out. She was the person who would give you the confidence and space and love to figure it out for yourself.

Here is to you Grandma Esther!

Thank you for the cinnamon knots, and the Scrabble games. Thanks for teaching me by your example how it was okay for me to value education and independence as well as faith and family; that it was okay not to be the best homemaker as long as I did my best in whatever field I chose for myself. Thank you for your life of service to your family and church and community, though I do not have your stomach for politics.

Until we meet again!

Why I Read, Why I Write

 

 

 

Why I read and Why I Write

 

Reading is like breath to me. A necessity. A doorway.  I began reading early. As soon as the letters turned into words and stories I dove into books. The truth is, I read nearly everything, from the daily newspaper to the back of the cereal box if there isn’t something better to read. I read because I have a curious soul; I want to know, to learn, to understand. 

Through the written word I can enter a magical place, a place where I can almost transform myself into someone else; where I could see with new eyes and hear with new ears—almost. I know that I cannot truly see through others eyes because my own particular shades will color the view, however slightly. I read anyway.

I read to understand myself. And in that wordy mirror I am find new ways and angles to view my own experience.  Sometimes that experience is twisted like a fun house mirror. Sometimes I am surprised to find my reflection in a story seemingly far removed from my own.  Sometimes the writer shocks me with the realization that it indeed my own face staring back at me.

Ellie Wiesel is one such writer; the book was Night.  That book rocked me to the core. I had thought I could read about his experiences in Auschwitz without danger of seeing myself in the story. I was wrong. His writing pulled me in to the camp. It was I who lay there wishing my father would just shut up already, hating myself at the same time because my need to survive outweighed, if only for a moment, my love for my father and my humanity. Gone was the smugness and unspoken judgment of those who had perpetrated these crimes against humanity. Now I was not sure I would not have turned in my neighbor, or that I would not have been Sieg Heil-ing with the rest of the German populace. I wept.

I expect the writers I read to honor a simple contract. To be true to the story they are telling. To not rely on tricks, emotional chain pulling or a twisty ending. I expect the writer to treat the reader with respect. I do not like writers who talk down to me. I want the writer to invest the characters with a spark of life, something that makes them more than a cardboard cut-out.

There are some kinds of stories I will not read. I will not read erotica—it is boring. I once went through the supermarket and cracked open random “romance” novels and read the sex scenes; they were remarkably similar. Sex is not what interests me in romance. What interest me is everything else in the romance formula: how two different people can overcome the things that separate them and find harmony together. I will not read gratuitous violence—stories that exist only to provoke fear and dread. The real world is scary enough.

~ ~ ~

Why do I write? I have been asking this question of myself this week. Or rather, I have asked these variations: Why do I think I can write? Why do I say it I am a writer when I have not been putting in the hours of hard work to sculpt the inchoate stories that I twist and turn in my brain while I lie in bed waiting for sleep?

I went to the SCBWI Carolinas Fall Conference last weekend. My last night I sat amid a group of working writers. One of them asked me if I was not lying to myself about my intentions because my reality was that I was not putting in the time every day to write. Her words gave me pause. Why was I self-sabotaging my stated goals? Fear? Fear that I am not a skilled enough writer to accomplish my dreams? Avoidance? Laziness? I am sure there is truth in all of these reasons.

A good analogy is my garden. I have an imaginary garden—it favors the English gardens of the multitude of Merchant-Ivory and BBC productions I have watched, with flowers everywhere waiting to be cut and tastefully arranged in white ceramic vases in the sitting room. The reason why this garden remains mostly imagined? To paraphrase Lizzy Bennett it is because I have not taken the trouble to actually pull the dang weeds. It takes effort, concerted effort over time. Just like writing.   

Consider this essay my shrive, my rededication to the craft.  

Which brings me back to the question: Why do I write? I write to be heard and understood. I write to express the stories welling up inside me, words that I hope will have the power to create an empathetic response in the reader.  I write with the knowledge that the more I write the better I will hone my craft. I write not to impose my view on the reader, but to share it with the reader, leaving enough space for the reader to find an independent interpretation.  

I write to entertain, but not as an end to itself. I want there to be meat on the bones, not a club to beat readers over the head with; no preaching allowed. I want to elicit genuine emotions—no tears jerked from eyes unearned. I want my reader to leave my story feeling they have gained something from the time and energy expended reading my story. I want my stories to find as wide a readership as possible, without compromising my own voice or perspective.

This is what I expect from myself as a reader and a writer. As I continue to devour books and struggle to create my own, I will keep these words in my mind, remembering that there are no shortcuts on this path I have chosen.

 

 

 

The Wise Fool

The Wise Fool

 He, O men, is the wisest, who, like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth worth nothing.

-Plato, The Apology

          The other day, my son Alex asked me if I knew what the word sophomore meant. I knew the common definition, but I didn’t say so, restraining the urge to launch into a scene from My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding about the Greek roots of many English words—especially neologism like sophomore (I could practically hear my father break the word down in my head.)  Instead, I asked my son what it meant. “Wise Fool,” was the answer. He thought the meaning was funny, a contradiction in terms, made funnier because he was no longer a ‘wise fool,’ having just starting his junior year.

          We talked about what the Greek roots meant. Sophos meant wise; moros meant fool. Moros also happens to be the name of a minor Greek deity—the God of impending doom. Which makes sense in a weird, Henny-Penny sort of way. But back to this paradox of a word. Can a fool really be wise? Doesn’t wisdom preclude foolishness as a matter of course?

My answer – it depends.

There is a certain kind of wisdom that is foolishness.  I call it the wisdom that relies on limited knowledge to draw a far-reaching conclusion. Much like Henny-Penny, we can often mistake something as inconsequential as the falling of an acorn for disasters of Armageddon-like proportions.

There have been times in my life when I felt like the sky was falling. One particular time stands out to me. I was a sophomore in high school and I had a flare up in my rheumatoid arthritis. Both my elbows became hot and swollen, so much so that I could not touch my face. I could not brush me hair or teeth. I could barely dress myself, much less continue to play basketball on my high school team. I cried and cried—my life was over.

I was wrong. It wasn’t over; but it was going to be different. And it took some time to adjust. I had to go on a course of cortisone which had the unfortunate side effect of giving me a moon-face and making my already hairy eyebrows that much hairier. Not the look I was going for. Soon I was able to move my arms again, but my mood was still in the dumps. I remember wallowing in the hallways of school, miserable and depressed because I was focused on all the things that I lost—competitive sports, a less hairy face, any chance of getting asked out on a date. A friend noticed my despair and gave me some really helpful advice. She asked me how wallowing was helping me. And she said that although I may not be able to play volleyball and basketball anymore, I should look for things I could do with the restriction I did have.

I listened to what she said. It made a real impression on me. For the first time since I woke up with my elbows locked at forty-five degrees I stopped feeling like it was the end of the world. And I joined the speech and debate team. It is easy to look at my tenth grade self and see a fool. But I also see someone who was wise enough to listen, to learn to let go of things I could not control, and to learn to find happiness and gratitude for the opportunities I did have. I have needed to relearn this lesson many times in my life. I am still working on it.

Of course, Socrates would say we are all fools.

Our knowledge is always limited. That is one of the conditions of this life. I have recently started reading the complete works of Plato. I have only made my way through the Apology and the Crito. I freely admit my near complete ignorance on philosophy both ancient and modern. And the more I read, the more I am convinced of my ignorance. Each book or web article I read adds a tiny amount to my knowledge bank, but more often than not makes me acutely aware of how much I do not know. And yet, I am eager to learn.

The other day I subbed for a math class and whatever ability I had to work a quadratic equation has left my brain for good. When I got home I asked my husband for a refresher course. He acted like I was asking for directions on how to put on a pair of pants, as if this was something so basic as to not require explanation. My son commented he could work a quadratic equation in grade school.

It is a good thing I am comfortable playing the fool.

Wisdom, in my opinion, is not found in knowledge alone. It is found in the recognition that we are not the measure of all things. It is found in humility before God—the source of all good things. It is found in knowing God.

The apostle Paul puts it this way:

If any among you seemeth to be wise in this world, let him become a fool, that he may be wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written, He taketh the wise in their own craftiness. And again, the Lord knoweth the thoughts of the wise, that they are vain. (1 Corinthians 3:18)

Wisdom in this light becomes attainable because it is an act of faith and is found in submitting our will to God’s will.

Some people believe that belief in God is foolishness; that one might as well believe in a flying spaghetti monster in the sky as belief in God. Or that even if one grants it likely that there is some sort of creative force it is impossible for us to know its will and foolish to suppose it would see us as anything other than evolved bacteria.

My reply would only be that it is foolishness to think that we can prove God exists or does not exist. I would add that there are other ways to know besides the scientific method. That much of what we think we know, if we are absolutely honest with ourselves, is based on what we believe. Even mathematics is based on certain unprovable axioms that must be accepted in order for the rest of it to work. Isn’t that amazing?

It is through faith in God that I have experienced the divine in ways that are sacred to me. And in ways I realize that I cannot fully transmit to someone else. I can only say that through my faith I have found peace and happiness by following as best as I can the commandments of God—to develop charity, to forgive, to learn patience, self-control, integrity, to be generous.

It is through my faith in God that I am learning to let go of the things that do not matter. None of us gets out of this life alive, after all. When those terrible days come—and they will—I hope I can say with Job, “Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

In the meantime, I am content to be as wise of a fool as I can be.

 

Ennui

Ennui – by Sylvia Plath

Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,
designing futures where nothing will occur:
cross the gypsy’s palm and yawning she
will still predict no perils left to conquer.
Jeopardy is jejune now: naïve knight
finds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheard
of, while blasé princesses indict
tilts at terror as downright absurd.

The beast in Jamesian grove will never jump,
compelling hero’s dull career to crisis;
and when insouciant angels play God’s trump,
while bored arena crowds for once look eager,
hoping toward havoc, neither pleas nor prizes
shall coax from doom’s blank door lady or tiger.

~ ~ ~

Have you ever had one of those days when you just feel blah? You know, a certain boredom tinged with a bit of anxiety and guilty that you should be doing something other than surfing the net or playing spider solitaire—again. That you should be conquering world hunger, or at least making a menu and shopping list for the week so you don’t end up staring into the fridge at five o clock in the evening wondering what to make for dinner.

I confess to just such feelings.

In fact, I felt like that yesterday.

It’s not like I didn’t start the day off well. For three hours yesterday morning I joined over thirty parents and students from my son’s charter school in a painting work day. More than that, I helped organize it—I happen to be the PTSO president. I painted and hobnobbed with other parents, even recruited a parent to join an important committee.

You would think that after spending three hours in community building and public service I would feel better about myself. Nope. Instead, that sinking feeling that I was running in place, like I was on some giant hamster wheel accomplishing absolutely nothing hit me. Of course, the few rounds of spider solitaire that afternoon will bring that out sometimes.
I like being busy. In fact, I am happiest when I have lot of things to do.

Someone asked me once what my idea of heaven was. My answer—that it would be like going to university. Learning, working, growing. What it wouldn’t be would be boring. That is my idea of hell—nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to help, no place to grow. Endless summer vacation. In a very hot place.

Every summer since I can remember I have always looked forward to the autumn and the return of school.  Laying poolside, besides being terrible for your skin just never really appealed to me. And now, with Alex being mostly grown (that is hard to believe) and my substitute teaching job on summer hiatus, I find myself with too much time on my hands.
We have a scripture in my church that sometimes plays in my head in moments like this. It states:

Men should be anxiously engaged in a good cause, and do many things of their own free will, and bring to pass much righteousness. (D&C 58:27)

Sometimes, when I play this scripture over in my mind I often add an “always” in there; as in ‘Men should always be anxiously engaged in a good cause.’ I do not believe that is what this verse means, at all. But it sometimes creeps into my thoughts. And so, when I feel like I am spinning my wheels and not working at some ambitious goals I have set for myself, I feel this unease rise up inside. Ironically, these feelings, if I let them persist do not help me get back to what I would like to be doing.
What to do about it?

Denying these feelings would not help. A therapist once told Shawn and I when we would feel these feelings of failure rise up in us, to let ourselves feel it—give it say five minutes of complete wallowing, and then after the time was up to set those feelings aside, get up and go on with our day. I have found that to be good advice.
Another thing I did was call a close friend who I knew would give me some great advice. She did.  She reminded me of what I already knew, that although I had these feelings right now, that they would pass and to not get stuck in them. Making a connection with a person I greatly admire helped me feel like I was not so alone in my feelings.

Lastly, I got on with my day and the feeling passed. Things are looking up and Alex’s school starts in just over two weeks! And I am currently back to work on some of my projects, including this blog.

One final thought, when talking about my feelings of unease I am not talking about clinical depression. I do not suffer from depression and am certainly not making any suggestions in that regard. If any of you do have those kind of feelings, I hope you will go seek professional help.

With love, Helene

 

    

 

 

 

Run. . . And Be Weary. Run Anyway

But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

                                                                                -Isaiah 40:31

~

 

On the Fourth of July I ran in my first road race. I ran in the Freedom Run 5K, held in Provo, Utah. 

This has been the year of trying new things. I have been a physical education teacher (see previous post). In conjunction with teaching that class, Shawn and I started a five day a week aerobic workout regimen.  That was a first for both of us.  And though we decided to switch to walking after about a month and a half, it got me thinking.  If I could physically do the aerobic workouts, perhaps I could start running. Although I have rheumatoid arthritis it is under very good control right now. But because of my diagnosis I have avoided strenuous exercise.

Could I even do it? 

The only way to know was to try.  Thankfully, a few of my friends here in Chapel Hill had blazed the trail.  (Shout out to Kim Price, Chantel Nelson and Margie Hamberlin).  Margie has been running for years, but Kim and Chantel started more recently. I have watched them go from not running at all to competing in 10K’s. When I asked for advice on how to start they were more than happy to help out. Chantel Nelson pointing me to a training program called “The Couch-to-5K Running Plan. ” Now I had a training plan. Not wanting to run alone, I invited my husband to join me—he was willing, ready, but like me, not completely convinced he was able to run.

Our training program basically starts you off with baby steps. Instead of trying to run 3.1 miles the first day—and failing miserably, we started with a sixty second run, walking for ninety seconds, then repeating the same run/walk intervals for a total of twenty minutes. Over the course of eight weeks, we would gradually increase the run to walk ratio until we could run 3.1 miles straight.  That was the plan. 

Things haven't exactly worked out according to our original timetable, but we are making progress. Here are some things I have learned these past weeks.

Running is harder than I thought it would be, but hard work is its own reward.

Running is definitely harder than walking because running required leaping off the ground with each stride—becoming momentarily airborne.  Even at my snail-like pace I end each run exhausted.  On our first training day after having run a grand total of eight minutes I had sweat literally dripping off of me. And the payoff seemed far away. There has been no runner’s high—just muscle strain and feeling out of breath.  I am hoping that this mythical runners high actually materializes in the future, though I imagine I will need to get past the “I think I am going to die” feeling. 

But I have found the sweat and the heavy breathing to be worth it, as slowly I have increased the time I could run without stopping. By focusing on the value of work instead of an immediate reward, I feel like I am better able to deal with the difficulties I experience in life. I don’t feel cheated or mad if things don’t go my way right now as long as I have tried my best and worked hard. I believe that over time the benefits of this hard work will accrue naturally, regardless of any short term pain.

Comparing my running ability to others isn’t very helpful. 

We decided to start training on the Pumpkin Trail, a local off-road trail through the Carolina North forest--my reasoning being that our pathetic running ability would be hidden from the general public—plus it was much cooler being in the shade. It turns out to be a popular running trail. Most days we would be passed by other runners—packs of lean shirtless young men who seemingly ran without effort—like gazelles; or the older more seasoned couples who would lap us on occasion. In comparison, we ran with all the grace and effort of hippos on dry ground.

Fortunately, I haven’t let myself dwell on how bad we are in comparison. My job as I see it is to do my best and to keep training.  I know that eventually we will get better, be able to run farther and faster. But that will come only after a lot of work. Thinking I should be able to run like someone who has been training for years would be setting myself up for defeat. 

I think we often want to feel like we should have instant success. We see successful people all around us making very difficult things look effortless. What we don’t see is the hours and hours that person has put into becoming great at something. I can’t remember where I heard this, but it was from an author who was giving advise to new writers. He said it was important not to compare ourselves to seasoned writers who have been honing their craft for years. In addition, he said that since our appreciation for great writing exceeds our ability to produce it at first, it’s easy to get disappointed and quit because we know our work can’t compete. Instead, we need to remain patient with ourselves. With time and hard work we will get there. 

Ignoring problems doesn’t make them go away.

Our training went fairly well for the first five weeks. But then we interrupted it with a week at WDW for a family vacation. That was expected. What I didn’t anticipate was injuring my left heel—on my very first twenty minute training run.  It hurt so bad I had difficulty walking on it.  Because if hurt so much, I couldn’t run. For a week.

I didn't know how I had injured my foot. One moment I was running fine, the next, my heel felt like I had a deep bruise on it.  I thought about simply resting my foot and resume running after it felt better and hope it wouldn't happen again. But I figured, without knowing the cause, the chances of it reoccurring were fairly high. So, I began looking for answers.

I asked my running friends if they had had similar issues.  Chantel Nelson asked to look at my shoes. She correctly pointed out that they were worn out and that they could be responsible for my injury.  I did an online search for heel pain and self-diagnosed my injury (pulled Achilles tendon) and started doing more stretches, iced my foot and began taking Aleve.  I went to a running store to have my gait evaluated to rule out heel striking as a cause (A heel strike is when you run and land heel first). I bought new shoes and inserts for better arch support. My foot feels better, thankfully. If it hadn’t felt better after another week I was going to make an appointment with a podiatrist.

Ignoring problems do not make them go away.  We need to understand what is causing a problem before we can hope to find a solution. Sometimes the causes of our problems are complicated. Sometimes they are remarkably simple.  But refusing to look at the root causes will not change anything. If I had not begun an investigation into how I hurt my foot, even if I rested my foot until it no longer hurt, the moment I started running again in my old shoes I would have reinjured my foot.  Most of the problems we face in life cannot be solved as easily as buying a new pair of shoes. But they cannot be solved at all if we do not have the courage to look.

One last thought on this subject—it is not helpful to blame ourselves once we have found the cause.  I wasted no time berating myself for not checking my shoes or tracking their mileage like more experienced runners do. I didn’t know I needed to do that.  Now I do.  Beating myself up wouldn’t help my foot get better any faster. And only by changing my shoes will I prevent future injuries. Change don't blame. 

The Freedom Run.

Despite not finishing the training program because of my foot injury I decided to enter the Freedom Run anyway. My goal was to run the first twenty-five minutes without stopping (the time I was at in my training program) and to finish under forty-five minutes.  I estimated my pace to be at around thirteen minutes per mile and added in five minutes of walking time. That was my goal.

Somewhat surprisingly, I spent the night before the race filled with nervous energy.  Part of my nervousness was excitement. I was really going to run in a race.  I was in my home town. It would be Independence Day. My daughter would be there cheering me on--that meant a lot to me and I wanted to do well. Part of my nervousness came from doubt and fear.  I worried whether I could even finish the race. My right hamstring was tight and I had never run 3.1 miles before and had only run 25 minutes once. 

The nervousness did not leave me in the morning. I almost couldn’t eat, it was that bad.  I managed to choke down a couple of small energy bars and drink some water.  I got changed into my running clothes, woke up my daughter and we headed to BYU campus by 6:15 am.  We parked at the law school parking lot, about halfway between the 5K starting line and the finish line at Kiwanis Park.  It was fun to be back on campus and near the law school—my former stomping grounds. I was still nervous.

Thankfully, it was a beautiful morning. There was a slight breeze. The sky a perfect shade a blue and the mountains still shaded us from the direct heat of the sun. Hot air balloons floated across the sky overhead.  Perfect running weather.

As we headed for the start line, we were joined by all sorts of people. There were whole families, senior citizens, moms with strollers, dads with kids. There was every body type imaginable—tall and thin, short and stout, pudgy and trim—over three thousand people in total. Some wore costumes—I saw tutus and superheroes.  Some people had tattoos and body piercings.  There was even one adorable elderly couple running together. As we gathered at the starting line the collective energy was incredible.  

(Some of my fellow runners)

And despite our differences we all had one thing in common—we were all running the same race.

I can now say that it is definitely easier to run with a huge group of people then by yourself.  Also, it helps to have the people on the sidelines shouting encouragement. I even high-fived a bystander who held out her hand to the runners.  Also, it helps to have mile markers and a running watch—I could check how well I was doing.  The first mile marker seemed the farthest one, the third one the shortest.  I don’t know why that is. 

Even though I started towards the back of the pack, almost three minutes behind the professional runners who lined up at the starting line, I was passed by a lot of runners. Like our first days running on the pumpkin trail, some of my fellow runners appeared to run with ease. I ran the best I could, passing a few people who were going even slower than myself.

My first goal was to run without stopping for the first twenty-five minutes.  I accomplished this goal, running to the second water station which was at the second mile marker.  I grabbed a cup of water from a volunteer and walked along the race course while I sipped the water.  A minute later I began running again.  The final stretch of the course went up a long hill. I made it six blocks before needing to take a walking break.  One block later I reached the turn towards the park and ran for home.  

There was a huge crowd gathered at the finish line. People were shouting out to us to keep going. I searched the crowd for my daughter and found her. She took this picture. 

 

(Approaching the Finish Line) 

I crossed the line at 40:44.7, nearly five minutes better than my goal. (You can see my complete results below).  I was exhausted, sweaty, out of breath and happy.

Very happy.

And while those runners who actually won the race deserve all the prize money and the accolades for their accomplishments (The first place runner came in at just over sixteen minutes. That is incredible!) I felt like I had won as well. And so did everyone who entered and ran or walked or ran/walked all the way to the end.

My husband and I will continue to train, to push ourselves past our current limits in endurance until we can run a 5K without stopping.  Who knows what our goal will be after that. Maybe a 10K? Maybe a half marathon?  I cannot imagine being able to run a full marathon just yet. I do know that however long my body will cooperate with me, I will continue to run. 

That is what life is, after all—one lifelong, day after day, endurance race.

And we are all in it together.  

(Here are my official results)
 

 

 

The Accidental Physical Education Teacher

 

The Accidental Physical Education Teacher

 As I wrote about in my last blog post, I took on the permanent substitute job for all the P.E./Heath classes at my son’s charter school.  I found the term “permanent substitute” confusing.   The kids did too. Nearly every class asked a version of this question, after the principal introduced: How can you be permanent and temporary at the same time?

Welcome to paradox, class.

I had the authority of a teacher, including making lesson plans, handing out assignments, grading papers and planning physical education units. I had the transience of a substitute, knowing that it wasn’t really my class and that any day the principal could tell me that he’d found a new teacher. 

And I had additional issues—I was taking over mid-year and didn’t have the advantage of advanced planning or even proper educational training. I, with the direction of the principal was making some curriculum changes that were not uniformly popular—like yoga on Wednesdays and T25 on Fridays. I got student’s names wrong for weeks. And there were a few students who challenged me by acting out in class, or by simply talking to each other and refusing to do any work. No amount of demerits seemed to have any impact on behavior either.

To tell you the truth, I felt overwhelmed and more than once began drafting my resignation email to the principal.  But I didn’t because as much as some days I felt completely over my head, I knew having some sort of stability was better for these students. Also, I needed a challenge in my life. This was a challenge. Was I really going to quit after a week or two?

And I realized that I needed to change my focus from all the reasons why I was not qualified to be a P.E. teacher to what skills and experience I did have that I could draw upon (Thank you Cub Scout Summer Day Camp). At the same time, by changing my attitude I could focus on what I could learn from this experience.  That made all the difference. The 6:00 am dread went away. 

I took this new found focus and applied it to the very first assignment/project I wrote.  It was a nutrition and fitness project. Each student was to fill out a spreadsheet I made and labeled the 'Raptor Tracker.' In it they were to record everything they ate and all their exercise activities for a week.

This assignment was met with predicted groans. They had done a similar assignment with the previous teacher—but only recorded one day and not in much detail. My assignment required recording calories, grams protein, grams carbs, and grams fat. The idea was to learn what you eat. It is impossible to change your habits if you don’t know what those habits are or have enough data to figure out if you have bad eating or exercise habits that you want to change.

Bonus for me: I got to do it too. I learned a lot about my own eating habits and where I needed to make some changes.

I got to do yoga and cardio workouts. I got to study about how illicit drugs and alcohol abuse effects brain chemistry and can lead to addiction. And I got to teach basketball on our parking lot court—ending the basketball unit with an inter-class tournament I dubbed, ‘Raptor Madness.’ You can watch the game between period five and the teachers if you follow the link that follows: 

Raptor Madness 

But the best part—as I came to know these students I learned to love them. 

On my last day, after I passed out some candy and before giving them free time outside, I made my farewell speech. Here’s what I said, in a nutshell:

Change is hard, even in the best of times. You’ve had to go thru two teacher changes in the course of this year and had to make adjustments to each new teacher.  That can be frustrating, but that it can also be a learning experience.

Learning is their job. No one can make them learn. But more importantly, no one can stop them from learning. If they hate the new teacher, or if they didn’t like my teaching style, they could still learn. They were their own best teacher. If they embraced this principle they would become life-long learners.

Lastly, I had learned a great deal from being their permanent sub and was grateful for the opportunity to be there with them.  

Looking back, I am grateful I accepted this job—as tough as it was at times. And though I joke that I would never do it again, I probably would.

.

 

Not What I Planned

I taught yoga to a bunch of ninth and tenth grade high school students this morning. In case you are wondering, I have not suddenly become a yoga instructor. Nope. I am a substitute teacher at my son’s school.  And I have been asked to be the permanent sub for the P.E. class. 

As much fun as I had today, this is not what I imagined I would be doing twenty-two years ago.  

You see, I had big plans.

As I neared graduation from law school, I had already lined up a clerkship with Utah Fourth District Judge Lynn Davis. I chose to apply to District Court because I wanted to be at the trial court level.  After eighteen months of law clerking, I moved on to the Salt Lake Public Defender’s Office.

My plan was to work my way up to the felony division, have a couple of kids along the way, then in five to ten years move to the other side of the aisle. Federal or state level—it didn’t matter that much to me. My ultimate goal was to sit on the bench.  Judge Helene. I imagined myself draped in black robes, dispensing justice with a large helping of mercy gained in my years working as a public defender.

That was the plan.

Allow me to indulge myself here a bit, but I believe that I had the ability and drive to achieve these goals.  And my plan was working. In 1994, I was about to move up to felonies. I had the best trial record in the misdemeanor division.  I loved being in court and especially being in front of a jury. I loved the law and I loved criminal justice. I loved the social work aspects of being a criminal defense attorney. I loved everything but the extreme caseload we carried and the stink of the Salt Lake County jail.

According to plan, Shawn and I began our family.  I would work thru the pregnancy, take my six month paid leave, add six more months’ unpaid leave, and then I would return to work, job sharing with another new mom. I even had my day care arranged. 

But plans change.

Right after I found out I was pregnant, Microsoft recruited my husband. They flew us both up to Redmond. Put us up in a fancy hotel. Wined and dined us and laid out the sparkling golden handcuffs known as stock options. It was the chance of a lifetime.

I wanted to throw up.

I will never forget the moment, right after they made us the offer.  We were in our swanky hotel room and I was sitting on the edge of the bed. Shawn asked my opinion. He wanted to take the offer, but it wasn’t his decision alone. I had to agree. Did I want him to take this job?  I didn’t feel pressure from him. I knew if I said no that he would be okay with it. It wasn’t as if we were hurting financially. He had a good job—just not as great a job as this one.

I didn’t want to pray about it. I already knew the answer. I felt the whisperings and stirrings the whole time I was in Redmond—‘this is where you need to be.’  Fat tears spilled out of my eyes and down my cheeks. They were not happy tears. They were tears for a dream destroyed. I felt akin to Abraham on Mount Moriah, raising the knife, preparing to strike down my plan with my own hand. Only no angel came; no substitute ram found caught in the bramble.

My mind went back to the first week of law school. Some of the men in my class felt that women did not belong there. They felt that we were taking the place of ‘breadwinners’—i.e. men. They voiced this opinion openly—placed copies of President Benson’s talk, “To the Mothers in Zion” talk in all our law school mailboxes. They challenged our qualifications, saying we had only been admitted due to affirmative action on the part of the law school.

Now, here I was, ready to prove them all correct.

And yet, I knew it was the right thing to do. At least it was for me, at that time, in that place.

So, I made my decision. Shawn and I were separated for a time. He had to start immediately on the Windows 95 team. I had to stay behind to sell our home and work. During the seventh month of my pregnancy our house finally sold and I moved to Redmond.

It rained every day. Worse still, the O.J. Simpson trial was going on. I spent seemingly endless days in the grey and cold Seattle spring, watching one of the most awfully run criminal trials I had ever seen.  I knew almost no one. None of the women in my new ward threw me a baby shower. Shawn was working twelve hour days or more. I was lonely and pregnant and miserable and bored. I so wanted to go back to my old job, to anything really.

On top of that, I had this growing fear that I was going to absolutely suck at being a mother.  I was sure of it, since I had no good model for mothering in my own family. I felt no warm fuzzy feelings towards the baby growing inside me, other than annoyance at the constant need to eat and pee.

Then Arianna was born.

It was like a light switched on inside of me. I knew the moment the doctor placed Arianna in my arms that I had a greater purpose to my life than achieving legal prominence. I found something that could satisfy my need to do something with my life, even if it wasn’t my original dream.

I am not saying that I would not have had this same epiphany if I had stayed in Utah and followed my original plan. In fact, I am sure I would have. I am not criticizing in any way women with young children who work outside of the home. What I am saying is that in this moment, I changed the way I measured what I felt success would look like.

After Arianna was born, I took and passed the Washington State bar and practiced (sort of) part time working for a small personal injury attorney. I hated it but it kept me working. Then Alex was born and my hands were full. I wasn't making enough money to justify full time day care and I didn't like the work enough to do it for free. So, I took a break, fully intending to return to work and wheedle my way into the King County prosecutor's office one way or another once Alex reached kindergarten.

In the meantime, I enjoyed being a mom of preschool children. Really. I loved every bit of it.

I have since joined the ranks of retired attorneys. We are legion. Had I had the opportunity to return to the law ten years ago, I would probably have tried to revive my plan. But it was not to be.  North Carolina beckoned.  I don’t regret it.

I wrote a poem about my feelings toward the law and my choice to leave my career behind. I wrote this in 2001. It is called ‘A Mother’s Reply.’

A Mother’s Reply

 Twelve years ago I crossed a bridge, there called

To study law, my talent to exchange

Despite my fear that no man would marry a woman

Trained to argue.  I felt the infidel, challenged

By those who, zealous for the Kingdom, questioned

My place in the class: some breadwinner denied

Who would have used the talents gained in service

To family, bar, and church, not burying them

Beneath endless mounds of laundry. I

Demurred then, being single. Now I answer. 

My obligation is the same as yours. 

My time and talents equally dedicated

Not buried but lovingly planted and tended, dormant

For a season to spring forth a hundred fold.

 I see the fruit of those years at law school and criminal defense practice every day.  I have used these hard-earned talents in church and community service, not to mention at home.

And I use it as I stand in front of my P.E. classes, confident, feeling that familiar rush of being in front of a jury again—only this time the jury is teenaged and pimple-faced. I see the impact I can have, even if it is only fleeting.  It is strange, but I feel like there is something similar to teaching and public defending. Maybe it is in the way so many of these kids feel lost to me. And beside, what teenager doesn’t need someone who will stand up for them? Even if it is encourage them to try yoga. Or believe that they can find success too.  

And you know what? I have new plans--new dreams for how I will fill the years ahead. They do not involve teaching P.E.