Running with Foxes and Mountains Lions

There is no shortage of nice dirt roads to run in the rural area where I live in Central PA.  But there is a particular route I enjoy the most.  It's familiar and I know what I should be able to expect from my body as I bound over the terrain.  It's a mile and a half of gentle downhill or flat running with only one mildly demanding hill followed by a mile and a half of steady uphill and two challenging hills.  (And there's no shame in walking I say to myself frequently!)  It's a good workout that I can knock out in about 35 minutes.  From this basic route there are ample possible additions to increase the run by any number of miles.  I trained for a half marathon using this basic route and its variations earlier this year.  

Many runners I know don't enjoy running over the same ground day after day, week in week out.  They complain that always running in the same place is boring.  Perhaps.  But over months of repetition it is more like being in the company of an old friend than performing a tired routine.  The most surprising thing about this road is that it is always changing - every day it looks different.  With four distinct seasons there are of course the obvious shifts - weather being the most noteable.  Though the real changes are those that are not among the obvious.  Once a year the township grates the road, oohh, aahh.  At another time, they cover it with gravel (ugh!) at which time it become an obstacle course.  In the spring the fields are worked with liquid manure (perfume, we call it out here) and later turned under.  Another run and they've been planted with either corn or hay or clover.  Week by week the crops grow.  By later summer I can't even see over the tall corn stalks that line the road.  I think of all the scary movies I've seen where people are trapped or lost in corn fields.  Then one day, the fields will have been harvested leaving only brown stalks stick up a foot in the dark, rich soil.  The fall colors across the hills are stunning.  Another palate has been painted.  In the early morning fog layers the valleys between the hills.  Everything seems so crisp and clean.  Running mid-morning in the summer requires the companionship of my best friend, DEET.  I giggle to myself when I think how it must look to see this middle aged woman zig-zagging all over the road while beating off deer flies with a baseball cap.

And then there are the other, more tame animals with whom I share the road.  The birds vary from very small to the very noisy.  The larger hawks that sit on big round hay bales and watch for scurrying mice on newly hayed fields and the huge blue heron that sits unmoving in the creek at the end of the road are particular favorites.  Ground hogs are considered a nuisance by the farmers but to me they are just fellow inhabitants of this lovely stretch of country road.  This spring as the ground began to thaw and the buds grew to bursting on the trees there appeared a litter of young red foxes. My husband and I reckoned that the nest was near a shallow gully with a stream that runs under the road.  Undisturbed they played in the lightly traveled road, always staying near to home base.  Mama fox was always well hidden though doubtlessly close by.  Any sign of another life form or engine noise would cause them to scatter into the safe cover of roadside brush.  But the days grew warmer and longer and there have been no more sightings.

This week as the leaves began to fall from the trees en masse, a most unusual sighting occurred: a small litter of mountain lion cubs.  Playfully romping together and bounding over one another, twice they were seen in the early morning hours.  While I've seen these interesting animals only by car and so far not on foot, I am keenly aware of exactly where I saw them.  Seeing them from the safety on an enclosed car is probably a good thing; I'm not sure how momma mountain lion would feel about an up close encounter with (dinner) a lone runner and her cubs.  Actually, I'm far more afraid of the animals behind the wheels of their vehicles that don't seem to notice that runner they almost hit as they zoomed by!  Nonetheless, as  I run I train my eyes round particular bends in the roads and strain to see as far ahead as I can in hopes of a National Geographic moment!  In truth, I'm happy to settle for curiously peering down the newly created wear paths marked by the broken stems and tall grasses from these young, wild residents with whom I share this road.  This ever-changing, never dull, never boring three miles of God's perfection.

Agin' and Changin'

I have developed a whole new respect for my elders - who are, by the way, also now my contemporaries. I never thought I'd be middle aged. A decade was spent living in a kind of bizarre denial: a timeless place of suspended animation. In this surreal existence I was busy raising children and figuring out my life's calling, returning to academia and starting over, again. In the last few years life has stabilized into a predictable routine of daily duties and I've had time to assess not just what I'm doing but the person behind all the doing.

Over time the rude tide of reality slowly crept up and washed away all those years of kind denial. In effect, I woke up one day and realized I was no longer young. Not old. But definitely not young. The nail in the coffin came about a year ago when a friend innocently mentioned that, of course, at my age, I would no longer be having any more children. Now let's be clear, that is a true statement. But the implication is that I have surpassed the child-bearing age-range norm. Wow, I never thought I'd be looking back on my childrearing days in the past tense. My mother recently reflected on her view from age 86. She told me she never thought she'd have a daughter who was 47.

But this tide of age-awareness has churned up more insulting plumes then BP oil in the Gulf waters. I'm aghast that my memory, once nearly photogenic, is a quite a bit less reliable these days. The simplest words elude me without warning. Hunger, thirst and lack of sleep acerbate the problem like never before. Misplacing items is a daily occurrence. The only condolence is that I am not alone. Every woman I know in my demographic is in the same boat. I've been promised that in a few years my memory will return again; I'm hardly reassured. I used to ignore the advice about picking up exercise, doing crosswords or learning a foreign language to improve memory. Those certainly are good ideas for people a lot older than me, I glibly thought. But in recent months, and not so glibly, I've picked up two of the three aforementioned items. And yes, I'm relieved to report that they do help a bit. If I'm wrong, well then I'll be the most in-shape, bilingual cotton brain you'd ever have the pleasure to know.

I'm also coming to terms with the reality that the body I once simply wanted to relieve of a few pounds, will not, ever, return to pre-pregnancy-double-c-section bikini worthiness. And yet, that's been THE GOAL all these years. Though I never realized it as much as I do now. What are women who are continually bombarded with lots of beautiful younger women in magazines and on TV expected to do now, at the age we have now so gracefully acquired? I look at pictures of myself taken 20, or even 10 years ago, and I wonder why I was so critical of myself. Heck, from this side of the time-line that looks pretty good.

The other day I opened a fortune cookie and read that I would soon "come into perfection." Given the issues of agin' and the ensuing changin' that has so rudely invaded my reality: I doubt it. But it was certainly an amusing fortune to crack open for the author of this particular blog! If there is perfection to be found, it is in those ever-so rare moments in which we find ourselves blissfully, surprisingly content to be exactly who we are in that solitary, fractional frame of time and space.

Seeing in parts

I have a very old horse that doesn't winter over well. When I asked the vet to guestimate his age, she looked in his mouth (which is the best clue) and said, "Ancient." For the last five years at the onset of warmer, spring weather, I work at putting weight back on him and easing out his winter coat to encourage the shorter summer coat to come in. This process that takes months. And just when he's in top condition winter comes. This year was worse than ever. After some blood tests and assurance that his severe thinness was a nutritional matter and not an indication of organ failure, I reviewed his diet, again, and began on yet another aggressive new track. He's coming back nicely, but he's no show horse to be sure.

Last week, while I was grooming him after a day of being turned out in the pasture, I had a little revelation. Horses, unlike dogs and cats, are large animals. When they are being groomed, the groomer can only see one area at a time. When brushing his chest area one might think him a golden retriever by the length, color and softness of the hair. His mane and tail are lovely. His legs are handsome and tone. But there are other parts that are hard to see; bald patches where the long hair has fallen out all at once and the short coat is slow in coming in. The area around his eyes is dark and mostly hairless and his temples are deeply sunken, totally bald and scaley. Yet, his feet are good, he's very sound. When his weight is good, he's a wonderful horse to ride.

I decided to stop looking at the whole of him, instead celebrating the health and wholeness of each part of him where that was real and true. It seemed unfair to discount his strides of recovery by the parts that are not fully well yet. He is, in fact, more that the sum of his parts. Each part requires consideration - further care or a simple thanksgiving. To step back and view only the whole is sometimes too much to bear. It is too overwhelming. After all, when we began the build up three months ago, the only part to celebrate was the wellness of his feet - that he was sound and able to walk. How many more parts have now joined in this celebration of rebounding life!

This seems a better way to look at a lot of things in life. Sometimes learning to see accurately is not to strain to grasp the view of the whole, but to learn to see in parts. Those of us bent on seeking perfection know that it can never be found on a grand scale. But it just might occur in the small places; where the gaze is fixed on a frame of reference so narrow that one cannot tell a horse's coat from that of a dog. But what a soft and thick and wonderful patch of hair it is - regardless of who it belongs too!

This is especially useful in relationships. I find it difficult to look at my parent's life, or health, or happiness in terms of the whole. It threatens to tear my heart from its mooring. But when I am with them I celebrate the parts of them that are content, or healthy, or patient, or secure, or proud, or grounded, or otherwise well. There are enough dark eyes and bald patches that need care and attention; and they are not the whole story, only a part. So I chose to see in parts and celebrate that which speaks in terms of the quiet joy and wonder life, even while embedded in the least desireable circumstances and silent ponderings of 'Why?' Perhaps this is what God extends to us as grace, or perhaps just mercy.

Parenting and Perfection

There are some words that should not be in the same sentence; like Parenting and Perfection. There is an art to parenting and parenting teenagers pushes all the boundaries of imagination and creativity. Every parental decision has consequences that are often immediately apparent. Every day there are new challenges, calls to make, boundaries to set, rules to enforce or rethink - each one to be tested and stretched to the breaking point.  The trap is thinking that there is some magic perfect answer; that there is one right path, one right thing to do and say in every situation and that it should come naturally.  I read some where, very recently, though my mind is a sieve these days so I have no recall of where that might have been, that decisions are easy if your ethics are clear.  So I ask myself, "Does that mean that I don't have clear ethics because I wrestle over my apparent inability to see what the "right" response to each situation is supposed to be?"  The truth is, that being 16 in 2010 is not the same as being 16 in 1978; but I have not yet received the updated parenting handbook.  

A year ago, the parish I serve updated their by laws.  They had last been updated in 1983.  All the references to "vestrymen" were changed to reflect the fact that women now serve on vestries.  And the he, who would have been the "vicar," was replaced by he/she, the "rector." This is to say that in 1978 or even in 1983... I, as a teen, was not afforded the opportunity to even serve as an acolyte much less full membership with equal opportunity in the church.  I could, however, serve on the altar guild - somebody's got to wash the linens and polish the brass! For both good and for ill, the world is not the same place. So every day, I struggle with how to be a product of my age co-existing with those born in this new world; in particular, those I am trying to prepare for life on their own.

In 1983, women, much less girls, did not call boys, and there was some civility in youthful discourse with adults.  Cursing in public was considered offensive.  One cannot claim teen sex did not happen, that would be naive, but it was not quite so obvious.  Given such a radical departure from cultural norms, and the speed at which this has occurred, is it no wonder we old guys, who just don't get it, are second guessing every line we draw in the sand.  What's worse, I no more than draw the line then the tide comes in or the wind blows and the line has to be redrawn in a different place.  

Comparing my parenting style with others is of utterly no use either.  There is no one set of definitive rules to fit every kid in every situation; beyond the obvious: "Thou shalt not drink and drive." For instance, to one parent, letting a kid sleep away a school day whose exhausted from the daily demands of existing in the world of high school, work, and sports as a daughter, student, singer, athlete, employee and girl friend, is outrageous and completely unacceptable. (I tend to react to this place first, because the 1978 handbook, on which I was raised, did not allow for such possibilities.) Other parents, the ones who got the advanced copy of the recently updated handbook, are cool with the reality that teen bodies need more sleep than the rest of us and have the unreal ability to simply chill and trust their kid.  I'm still waiting for my advanced copy to arrive (my mail, of course), and then I'll have all the answers. I'll know exactly what the right thing to do and say; when its appropriate to be enraged and when its really no big deal in the great scheme of things.

But for today, my kid's at home sleeping because she is so exhausted from simply being 16 with all the expectations and the internal and external struggles that come with it, she's physically ill. So I'm trying to chill about it while I write my own sub-chapters, notes to self, and addendum because by the time that new handbook gets here, it will already be out of date - and I've got about four more years before I'll be sitting here again with the next kid.

Holy Week and other contemplations of the universe

This week physicists succeeded in the high-speed collision of two atoms. It's been years in the making; it will be years before we know exactly what this means. But one goal of the experiment, which is could more aptly be described as an expedition of sorts, is to discover the "God particle." That is, the exact cause of the creation of the universe; the Genesis moment. We religious types are inclined simply to accept the statement, "God created," but others have a driving curiosity that speaks more to God's first act: There was darkness. Then there was light. The word 'create' is absent from this statement; this first act of creation. God creates much over the next few days, but the text suggests something profound and unexplainable occurred first. What was this force that was so great that it produced light out of eons of utter darkness; a light into which all else could be created and have its place in the order of earthly life?

That was one of the headlines news stories last night; here's another. A 15 yr. old girl moved to the US from Ireland sometime last summer. From the time of her arrival to her new school in Mass. she experienced continuous and unrelenting bullying from her new classmates. No amount of raising the alarm seemed to move the establishment to intervention. On January 14 of this year she came home from school and hung herself. Now we're paying attention. Does it not seem odd that the whole world is watching scientist smash together two atoms to find out how creation came to be while kids torment one another to the point that death seems a viable option? One twitter reaction to the story was to ask, "Why do we always have to blame someone, maybe she had mental issues?" I wonder, had she had a diagnosed mental condition, should her tormentors feel less guilty about their deeds? Should the school feel less responsible for not intervening? Should we all feel better, somehow, because maybe, she was just too weak, too fragile to adjust to such hostility? Dr. Phil said he supported the criminal charges against the nine students suspected of involvement. He noted that it was not his intent to ruin their lives, but there had to be some accountability. Truth be told, their lives were forever altered the moment they discovered the unimaginable consequence of their unbearable, cruel intentions. To be convicted would be a relief, I imagine.

In the midst of Holy Week; these were last nights headline stories. For Christians, this is a time set apart in which we are intended to contemplate the epitome of human cruelty and the inability or unwillingness of institutions to do justice. This dark contemplation is set amidst the triumpal stories of Lenten remembrance: stories from Genesis, Exodus, and Deuteronomy. Stories that are intended to remind us that what God creates is good, is intended for good use, and is gifted with good intentions. This week's headlines are not unrelated. They tell a parallel story that illistrates what happens when two random atoms collide: whole universes are created or destroyed in a single nanosecond.

The negotiation of will

As I continue my 1/2 marathon training I've noticed a clear distinction between two voices in my head. Sort of the angel on one shoulder and devil on the other. One is the voice of boundless possibilities. The other is the voice of restraint. Depending on the moment, however, the voice of boundless possibilities can be the voice of recklessness and temptation; the voice of cautious restraint can inhibit necessary discomfort that promotes strengthening. Increasingly, I'm finding that when I'm running, or even working myself up for a run, the battle of wills ensues. One urges me to go further, harder, faster, the other, assures me that unbridled training will result in preventable injury. Both are right, of course. It's always a matter of deciding which one is more right at any particular moment. Decisions, decisions.

These are not new voices. I sometimes wonder if they haunt perfectionists more than other people. It seems that each day, each activity, is negotiated between these two poles of completely rational thought. It's exhausting actually. No, I don't wonder if I'm schizoid. However, I do worry about those who don't argue with themselves; those who have no inner conflict about how much is too much, and what is not enough, when its time to go, time to stay, time to talk, time to be quiet, time to get up, time to go to sleep, what is helpful and what is hurtful.

On a larger scale, this bouncing back and forth, speaks to the ease of my life. I mean, I have choices. I have the luxury of deciding how far I'll run on any given day, at any given moment once on the road - after all, I'm not in Darfur running for my life. I can decide when I go to bed, how much sleep will be enough, when and what I eat. And the necessary decision is when to stop eating. The stand off is between that old tape of my mother's voice reminding me of the starving children in the world as I dutifully clean my plate, and the instructional voice of discipline which weighs more heavily on leaving a portion on the plate to keep from eating to discomfort.  By far, most of the world does not harbor such debate.  In light of this alternative reality, it seems shamefully trivial to speak of it. 

I do not know why I was born into a life marked far more by abundance then scarcity. I only know that I this is where I find myself.  The boundaries of my entire world are determined by inner conflicts of no worldly consequence.  The management of abundance is choice.  This is not to say that choice in the context of abundance is irrelevant.  Its just that, in contrast, when you live with few choices, each decision bears substantial more weight; to chose not to eat this day may be a lifesaving decision in a week's time.  To pretend to understand such choices would be a profound act of disrespect.  

So I will stick to pondering my own trivial negotiations of will; how many hours to work in a given day or week, what to cook for dinner, the daily management of those things for which I am responsible, what time to turn in at night and when to rise in the morning, and the ongoing discernment of wise acts from certain foolishness.  And I'm holding out in hope that these seemingly immaterial decisions, even in their minuteness, do, at the end of the day, contribute to a better whole. That a life truly well-lived does not, because it cannot, take abundance for granted. That choice might be a powerful and constructive presence in a world deconstructed by avarice and apathy.  That I might live faithfully under the assumption that each choice matters.   

Darning Socks

I brought socks to darn to knitting group the other day.  I've never darned socks before, why would I?  My socks are from Wal-Mart.  They generally last two years before they are holey or stretched out and are retired to the circular file.  Socks are cheap, and their repair is not on my top ten list of important things to do this week.  

But a few years ago my mother gave me a pair of wool socks she made many, many years ago. She had worn them, washed them by hand and darned them with care as the years passed.  I've now worn them for four years.  This fall when I unpacked the winter clothes from their bins I noticed that holes had developed in the toes.  What to do?  These are not the kind of socks you just throw away; they are meant to be fixed. They are meant to out-live me.  

So I took them to the group where I was sure there was enough talent and experience to pass on this nearly lost tradition.  Learning to darn was not to be a problem.  Finding the yarn to match was a different story.  These knee-high socks with a cable running up the sides are light gray. The meeting was held, on this particular week, at a yarn shop.  Light gray, fingerling weight yarn; how hard could this be? After half an hour scouring the yarn bins, it was clear that no such color was to be found, nor any other shade of gray.  I was totally deflated.  

As I prepared to put the socks away and begin an Internet search for just the right shade of gray I was lovingly reminded that I was the author of a particular blog, a blog for perfectionists in recovery.  Hint. Hint.  The irony was so absurd I burst out laughing as my face reddened.  The group reminded me that I was repairing the toes, no one would see the repair, except me.  Of course, that was the problem.  I would know.  Using any other color had not entered my mind as a possibility.  To use another color would be to alter her work, mar these hand-made artful creations.  It felt disrespectful.  But practicality won the moment.  In a second trip to the shop scanning the yarn bins with new eyes, searching for creative possibilities, I found a medium blue with gray woven in. A compromise I could live with.  The darning lesson was successful, but the result far from perfect, and I'm not referring to the contrasting blue yarn.  Still, mission accomplished.

As I worked on the socks, turning them inside and out and back again I noticed the areas darned in year's past.  The yarn was dark gray.  Funny, I never noticed that before.  Seems practicality had won out for the sock maker as well.  In a perfect world, enough yarn would have been set aside, in a place that would not be forgotten, so that each darning could incorporate the original yarn.  But these socks were not created, nor ever mended, in the perfect conditions I had imagined for them.  

What ever is, really?