or something really cool is happening.

The scale last night said 202.2. Up 3 lbs. And then I weighed myself this morning, 195.8. Really? 6+ lbs overnight? Whatever. I hate the scale.

But that’s not the cool part. No, the cool part came last week when I had another epiphany. (Or was it a continuation of the same epiphany?)

As fair warning, I will advise that you brace yourselves, this story might seem weird.

I was sitting at my kitchen table last week, early in the morning. The house was quiet. The street was quiet. The sun was starting to rise. I had just finished reading in 2 Corinthians (chapter 12) about Paul’s thorn in the flesh. The thing in his life (no one knows for sure what it was) that held him back. The thing that bothered him, frustrated him, pained him and forced him to depend on God’s strength, rather than his own. No matter how hard he tried, Paul just couldn’t shake his thorn.

I read the passage and felt the frustration welling up inside of me. I have always seen my issues with food as my thorn. I started journaling, raging at the unfairness of God. I don’t want this to be my thorn. Why would you give me this thorn and then give me such a strong desire to overcome it? God, I believe that you want me to take good care of the body you have given me, yet this thorn is keeping me from taking good care of myself. I don’t understand! I went on in this manner for some time. I was so frustrated with my failure, so frustrated with what seemed to be a hopeless situation. Nothing ever changes, God. Why would you give me the desire for change and then not give me the ability to change? Paul, PAUL, never overcame his thorn. How can you expect me to overcome mine?

And then (and this is where it gets weird), I heard a clear and distinct voice in my head. This isn’t your thorn, Jenny. Food isn’t your thorn. You have made it in to your thorn. You have chosen to live like it is your thorn. But food isn’t your thorn.

I felt like somebody dropped a ton of bricks on my head. My issues with food are sin. God does not make me sin. When I sin it is my choice. I am not the victim, I am the perpetrator. If my struggle with food is life-long, it is because of the choices that I make. Food is not my thorn.

We can go round and round picking about the theology of this whole experience, or debating if I should call the men in white coats, or suggesting that - since I am hearing voices - maybe I should get some more sleep, and all of those options seem safer to me than clinging to the promise that I heard and acting accordingly.

Change is scary. Letting go usually means that you will fall. Our tendency, as humans, is to cling - white knuckled - to the norm. But the norm is not working for me, so I’m going to cling to that voice in my head that tells me things can change.

So we went to the beach last weekend. Yes, I have adorable pictures of my child, and I’ll post them later, after I vent.

We went to the beach last weekend, and Andrew decided he was afraid of the water.

Not just afraid like he didn’t want to go in it. Afraid like he didn’t want to hear it. Or see it. Or be in it’s general vicinity in any way.

I don’t get it. Over Memorial Day Weekend, he and I played tag with the waves and now he has to be coaxed in to driving his trucks in the dunes?

Needless to say, this put a damper on our time at the beach.

On Saturday we managed to drag him kicking and screaming gently persuade him to come down and play in a stream where Grandpa helped him build a dam and, shocker!, he had a great time. But for the rest of the weekend we scrambled to find other things to do besides play at the beach.

The pinnacle came on Monday after my parents went home. The three of us were walking back to the car from one city park with the intention of driving to another city park. Andrew announced that he had to go to the bathroom, so we headed to the restrooms that border the beach. He got one look at the water (more than 300 yards away) and completely melted down because - the waves! There they were! And they were making noise! And they were going to get him! And we need to find another potty! And he really needs to go potty! After about 20 minutes clinging to me and sobbing he asked if we could just go home to Andrew’s house because everything here is too close to the water and he didn’t want to be that close to the water. We said no, we were on vacation and this was Mommy and Daddy’s vacation too and, while we didn’t have to go near the water, we were going to stay and find other fun things to do.

What kind of kid doesn’t want to stay at the beach?

ARRRRGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

And I know - I KNOW - I have to pick my battles and the kid has quirks and things will probably be fine the next time we go. And I know - I KNOW (so you don’t need to tell me, mom) - that I handled it beautifully and that I am so patient with him and that, in the long run, we will work together to figure out his fears. But that does not change the fact that he frustrates the hell out of me and since I can’t say that to him, I thought I would say it here.

(deep breath)

Do you know what else I know? He is exactly like me.

I’ve had this sitting in my drafts folder for a while, publishing it while I’m running seemed right.

Race details will be up as soon as I can formulate some thoughts.

******************************************************************************************************************

Our lives are a fairy tale, written by the hand of God. - Hans Christian Anderson

Every so often I question my motivation for keeping up with this blog. I try to make sense of the changes that have occurred between when I started and where I am now. I wonder if I should delete my cringe-worthy old posts, or if I should start over somewhere else, or if I should scrap the whole idea and rest easy, knowing that there is one less thing on my to-do list.

For those of you who don’t know, I started this blog anonymously. I was just beginning to unpack some of The Crazy that I had carried for much of my life and I needed a place to sort it out. I wrote assuming no one would read. It was nothing more than a diary, written for the purpose of separating the truth from the lies with no thought to an audience.

As time passed and the therapeutic effects of truth-telling gave me confidence, I decided that I wanted to share my story. I wanted people to know me and understand me. I swung from maintaining a carefully constructed persona to the queen of over-sharing. People found this place and I had to deal with the consequences of sharing my life on the internet. The fallout taught me to think twice before hitting publish and forced me to weigh my words. As messy as some things became, I can look back and see that this story, my story, continued throughout, evolving and reflecting the changes in me. And even in the mess, there was goodness and light to be found.

I continue to swing between extremes. At each, I try to make sense of this place, try to categorize it. At each extreme I cringe at the thought of letting this place be what it is, a story in process, unapologetically me.

(And, yes, I can see that even this post is an apology of sorts, or at the least an unnecessary explanation. I’m not that blind.)

I still fight the temptation to clean this site up, to delete the old posts and re-hide parts of my life. I was about to do it a while back when I got a comment on a post I had written in December 2006. I went back to read the post and I realized that, as much as I want to delete the past and put it behind me, I need those stories to remind me where I have been.

I try see the archives as monuments, rock cairns built along the road. I read those stories and I say, yes, I remember that. That was me.

But, as I read them I also say, that was me. I am not the same person I was. I don’t have to be that person anymore. I don’t have to think her thoughts or act her ways. I can choose to be bound by her or I can choose to let her go. From the beginning I have talked about freedom, freedom from the lies I constructed, freedom from the habits that enslaved me, freedom from the regrets of my past. As I grow in my understanding of freedom as a choice, I believe that it is always offered, but too often we choose not to accept it. We choose slavery to the things we hate because, although hated, they are understood. Although hated, they contain elements of comfort and control, and we are content to hide behind the facade of peace.

Although we hate it, we continue in slavery because we believe we do not deserve anything better.

My heart aches when I read some of my old posts. It aches at the clumsy ways I tried to care for myself and at the half-hearted attempts I made at freedom. I look at the girl whose life is reflected there and I ache for her, trying to shine in the middle of the dark world she created.

I am not so naive to think that I have arrived - I still have to meet my own eyes in the mirror. But I feel like it is time to build another cairn, to raise a stone and say, “Look. Look what God has done here. Remember this place. Remember where you have come from. Remember where you are going. Remember that this is just another part of the story.”

I hope I look back on this essay in a couple of years and count it among the cringe-worthy posts of old. I hope that my life has changed so much that I ache for the girl I am now, the girl still clumsily caring for herself along the road to freedom, the girl who is still learning to shine.

There’s a danger in locker rooms, and it’s not just athlete’s foot.

A falsely intimate community is created by sweating next to a person for 45 minutes every morning and then changing next to that same person. Guards are let down. Trust is given too freely. Things that should stay hidden are revealed.

Last week my locker room buddy (I truthfully don’t know her name) dropped a bomb in the midst of our morning small talk, “This is the first time I’ve been a member of a gym in years. I forgot how obsessive I can get. I don’t think my family is very happy with me, but I can’t stop.”

“Yeah,” I laughed, “you should try distance running.”

And, standing there in the locker room, I told her everything - how tired I was, how much I miss my friends, how I felt trapped by my goals and intentions. I told her that I was counting the days to the marathon, not out of excitement but because then I could stop without feeling like a failure. I told her about how my knee hurts and how scared I am of being injured because, as much as I hate it sometimes, I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t run. I told her how I feel like running is just another addiction and how I tired I am of being addicted to things.

I told her things that I hadn’t told Justin, things that I hadn’t told my best friend, things that I hadn’t really told myself.

It scared the crap out of me.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I haven’t made any decisions yet. Finishing what I start is something vitally important to me, and I’m not sure that I am mentally strong enough to deal with failing to meet my goals. Sometimes feats of physical strength are easier than feats of mental strength.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I love to run. I love who I am as a runner. I don’t want to reinvent myself again. I’m hoping that this is just the pendulum swinging to the other extreme and if I can just hold on long enough it will settle in the middle and I can run, sanely.

I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I think I’ll keep my mouth shut in the locker room.

It’s too dangerous.

After handing out the lunch endorsement a few months ago, I am ready to stamp my approval on something else: Mortality.

Not so much in the sense of death (to which I remain unequivocally opposed) but in the sense of knowing yourself and your limits, understanding your humanity and walking that fine line between a breakthrough and a breakdown.*

Marathoning For Mortals by John “The Penguin” Bingham and Coach Jenny Hadfield. I’ve read it cover to cover twice now in preparation for Seattle (and in hopes of actually enjoying training for NODM - June 8 is approaching fast). Each time I come away inspired and motivated, not only to run more but to see the changes that running can bring in other parts of my life.

“You already have everything you need to be a long-distance athlete. It’s mind-set - not miles - that separates those who do from those who dream. … You see, once you decide to run or walk further than the 10k (6.2 miles), your quest centers much more on tenacity than talent.”

Running not only strengthens my body, it strengthens my mind. I used to have an unending list of things that I can not do. Many of those things seem ludicrous now, a change I attribute directly to overcoming my mental blocks about running.

“The recipe for success includes equal amounts of physical and mental strength. In every long-distance race, your body eventually gets tired and your mind must take over.
At that moment when your body begins to tire, you must make the conscious decision to think your way to the finish. Mental strength is the ability to focus on the task at hand and move your body as efficiently as possible to the final destination. Mental fitness is what will carry you past your training miles in to the physical unknown.”

The first time I read this book, I agreed with some of the critics. I felt like this program was lowering the bar or taking some of the mystique away from distance running. Then I realized that was my pride talking. I didn’t want to be a mortal, I wanted to be superwoman. I didn’t want to believe that anyone could run a marathon, in truth, I wanted running to be unaccessible so that I could chalk it up as something I can do that most people I know can’t. Throughout the book, they convinced me that, for mortals, the joy of competing is not beating other people but competing against yourself, your assumptions, your expectations, your best efforts. This book pushed me to be a better pusher, to encourage everyone I know to go out and do the thing you think you cannot do.

“We believe that excellence is not a relative term. What is excellent for you has nothing to do with what is excellent for someone else. There may be absolute standards of measurement to determine finishing order. In that setting, it’s true that someone crosses the finish line first and someone crosses it last. But that doesn’t mean that second place is the first loser.
You are going to discover your personal best somewhere during the training or during the race. There will come a point when you know that you are accomplishing the most that your body, your mind and your will have to offer. There will come a point when what you believe about yourself equals what is true about yourself.”

I think that some of the dissolution I was feeling before I read this book was due to losing perspective. I was disappointed because I couldn’t run as fast as person X or as long as person Y. Frustration blinded me to the reality that I am not competing against them, I am competing against myself, my demons, my hang-ups and, as long as I keep going, that is a competition I can win.

*Shamelessly copied that phrase from the book. It’s so true.

“When does a jogger become a runner? Here’s a hint: It has little to do with going faster. There is no cutoff speed per mile, no magic number of miles per week, no firm starting point at which the moniker is bestowed.

The difference between the two exists primarily as a mind-set. While some women are content with jogging as a fitness activity, others find that running gets under their skin and becomes a part of their fiber. Much like playing an instrument or keeping a journal, what you get out of running isn’t determined by how good you are at it. The joy of participation is not an exclusive commodity reserved for the elite runner any more than it is for the concert pianist.

Once a woman becomes a runner, she finds that the sport is woven into the fabric of her life. Whereas running might have been only a vehicle before - to fitness, or weight loss, for example - it now becomes the rarest of things: a means and an end. To a runner, running is still a means of strength and health, of exploration and socialization. But unlike the jogger, who might take up the sport primarily out of a sense of duty or for the extrinsic benefits, such as weight loss, the runner finds that the very act itself is enough. Running is the things she craves. Within it is a new sense of wonder at the power of movement - whether labored or light - over ground, the rise and fall of breath in her chest. When a woman knows this feeling, she knows that she cannot do without running. And thus is born a runner.” Dagny Scott Barrios Runner’s World: Complete Book of Women’s Running

I ran 10.94 miles today.

I thought I had run eleven, inaccurately picturing the map in my head as I struggled to get enough air in my lungs, but I hadn’t.

I ran 10.94 miles today. On a cold, frosty morning when it seemed that winter had missed its cue to exit stage right. On a cold, sunny morning when my shadow stretched, long and lean with ponytail flying, over the pavement, and I watched it and nurtured the growing crush I have on myself.

I ran 10.94 miles today. Because running is cheaper than Prozac. Because my training plan told me that was what I needed to do. Because I am more than a little bit obsessed. I ran.

10.94 miles.

Up and down the rolling hills of my city. Through the park. Dangerously close to my house. Away again, in to Northeast Tacoma. Different bus stops, different library, new city, same sidewalk.

The crowds were missing today. I only saw two other runners and a handful of walkers. I wondered where the regulars were, but the solitude suited me just fine.

I ran 10.94 miles today. And it was good.

As stated previously, the game is back on.

204.6

Total loss, in eleven months, 20.6 lbs.

First long-term goal, the under 200 range, in sight.

This is the week I expected to gain. The week that my ring and my pants don’t fit right. I’m giving it another couple of rounds to prove itself, but I suspect I just exposed another excuse that can be tossed out like yesterday’s coffee grounds (composted, naturally).

Shedding excuses is a lot like shedding pounds. I think I need them to protect me. I think I won’t know what to do with myself if I can’t hide behind them. I think that they are such a part of who I am that I could never let them go.

And then I do. And the world keeps on spinning. And I’m still me. And I think it will get easier. And maybe it does.

Sheesh, getting all that Crazy out really cleared the air around here. I’m back to the right perspective of appreciating progress for its own sake and cutting myself just a bit of slack.

And, this week, I’m getting inspired.

My fridge is covered with words that other people said, some inspiring, some entertaining, some downright corny. Literature, politics, song lyrics, poems, greeting cards - I love them all. The immortal timeliness of words written down is fascinating to me.

As I stand on the edge of lasting change, I am increasingly drawn to quotes that, at one point in my life, would have seemed too dangerous.

“This is what you shall do: love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem…” - Walt Whitman

Rise by Eddie Vedder - Such is the way of the world / You can never know / Just where to put all your faith / And how will it grow? / Gonna rise up / Burning black holes in dark memories / Gonna rise up / Turning mistakes in to gold / Such is the passage of time / Too fast to fold / Suddenly swallowed by signs / Lo and behold / Gonna rise up / Find my direction magnetically / Gonna rise up / Throw down my Ace in the Hole

There is danger in such thinking, I still see that. Danger that the status quo will no longer be acceptable. Danger that you might have to actually do something in order to get from where you are to where you want to be. But the danger I used to be afraid of? No, it is not there. God is either big enough to handle close examination or too small to matter. My heart is capable of big dreams, and those big dreams are not to be dismissed out of hand. I can examine my soul with the same critical thinking skills that I apply to everything else and find that there is truth hidden among The Crazy.

I can sift the gold from the dross and trust the truth a little bit more.

“Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not through its growth but by washing away from it all that is not gold.” - Leo Tolstoy

I almost wrote this on Monday. Amid a flurry of self-doubt, self-pity and general hopelessness, I almost wrote what I was sure would be a post about how nothing I do is good enough, about how nothing ever changes and I should just give up my stupid dreams of a Jenny that is different than the one I have.

I almost wrote this last week. Amid frustration and fear, I almost wrote what I believed in the moment - that I am not strong enough, that I can’t keep trying, that I am tired and weary and overwhelmed by the sheer weight of everything.

I almost didn’t write this on Wednesday. After I lied to myself and allowed the scale to tell me that I am full of awesome and all my dreams will come true any minute.

I almost didn’t write this at all, because, as much as I let The Crazy out, it seems that there is always more and I’m fucking tired of looking at it.

I wrote this today because I know I have to get out of my own head.

I still can’t decide if freeing The Crazy is helpful or harmful. I know that seeing it written down often proves it to be utter nonsense. I know that, if I let people see what I am thinking, a dear friend will often respond with a well-timed comment or email, reminding me of the truth. I know that I can not allow myself to isolate as much as I do, that being alone provides a breeding ground for insanity. But in some ways, seeing it written down makes it more real. The tension between removing the power of the lie and giving it strength by legitimizing it with letters is too much.

The theme of this round is my proclivity to self-destruct, often as a precautionary measure, in hopes of retaining the illusion of control and warped perfection that I hold so dear. In a dark corner of my brain, there is something telling me that destruction, on my own terms, is preferable to even the potential of failure. I give a lot of lip service to the journey, but in my mind, it is still the destination that proves my value.

Yes, I am losing weight. Yes, I am different than I was one year ago, or five years ago. Yes, I have started habits that I believe will last a lifetime. Yes, all of that is certainly a precious gift that I can not take for granted. But the ugly parts of my heart are still ugly. I still don’t understand what to expect from myself. I know I talk a lot about weight loss and food plans and exercise; they are but small, manageable parts of a much bigger picture. I can set goals and attain them and that gives me the pats on the back I need to feel good about myself. But, in the middle of all that progress, I still worry that I am not making any real changes at the heart level.

The Crazy tells me that until I have finished changing my heart and clearing out all the ugliness, everything I do will be tainted by its remaining imperfection. It tells me that, to avoid the taint, I should sabotage all my efforts until I can be sure that my motives are pure and I hear the crescendo of the happily-ever-after music in the background. It tells me to willfully self-destruct rather than settle for anything less than my twisted version of Doing. It. Right.

My misguided notions of perfection and purity of heart are, to me, the single biggest boulder that block my path to change.

It’s crazy. I see that. I can’t even articulate it clearly because IT MAKES NO SENSE.

Except sometimes, in the dark and twisty corners of my mind, it does.

“The illusion which exalts us is dearer than ten thousand truths.” - Aleksandr Pushkin

In every friendship there is a point where you go from putting on a decent, moderately clean face to actually letting another person live life with you.

At dinner on Thursday night, Nick crossed that line. He emailed earlier in the day to ask what he could bring and I assured him that I had everything under control. Of course, I didn’t check the contents of our refrigerator when I made that statement and I didn’t even start getting food out until after he arrived. Only then did I realize that I was working with one chicken breast and less than half a jar of marinara sauce - thankfully I had a lot of pasta and garlic bread. Dinner was fine, if a bit carb-heavy, the boys shared the chicken and I pulled some other stuff out for myself.

Even though I’ve been friends with Nick for more than 10 years. Even though I know that he doesn’t care. Even though everyone left the table nourished and happy. Even though it was a fun night that included, but was not limited to, poop in the potty (!), good conversation, and Andrew turning Nick’s body in to a racetrack for his cars. Even with all these things, my inner Martha Stewart wanted to die.

So much of my self-worth is tied up in doing things right, having everything together and controlling even the casual circumstances so that I come out looking calm and self-assured. As a housewife, having company for dinner becomes my time to put on my best show. The battle between appearance and reality is a constant one and, as much as I want to be a person that is real, too often I focus on the appearance. It’s frustrating that I can’t just laugh about it. It’s frustrating to look back on this small, ridiculous situation and realize how much it bothers me. It’s frustrating that I even try to keep up the appearance with someone who I have known for so long and who reads this blog. Do I think that my facade is still standing?

I do. And try as I might, I can’t seem to let that go.

Last week, I set a goal to keep my food under control over the weekend. I saw, amidst a multitude of gingerbread cookies, how the weekends were thwarting my efforts. All the work I had done over the week, gone in the space of two days.

I met my goal. I can’t say for sure if my success was due to my own particular brand of awesome or if being sick and eating scrambled egg whites and toast for four meals over the weekend contributed as well. I’m not willing to let the sick take all the credit, so I’m feeling good about the results.

My weight this week was 209.5, a great testament to food control on a week that only included three days of exercise.

I’m glad about the results, and proud of myself, I really am. But that number only illustrates my frustration.

How long have I been fighting the same 4-5lbs?

I feel like I have been teetering on the edge of something big for months. I lean over to admire the view, but I just can’t get the gumption up to actually take a step over the edge. All the usual culprits hold me back. I don’t know how things will look. I don’t know how it will end. At some level, I don’t actually believe that I can do this, or that I am worth this much effort. Those voices that hold me back are still there, but they are fading. They are being replaced with some important Truth about myself and my body. They are being replaced with the voices of people who believe in me, people who don’t see me as a lost cause. Daily, I am confronted with the consequences of my decisions to believe one of these voices over the other.

This idea of standing on the edge creates ones of my favorite visualizations. It reminds me of this picture of our friend Brandon, taken on a camping trip in 2003

Yes, the picture is about a person, but more importantly, it is about a view. A vision. Potential and possibility wrapped up in beauty and grace. That is what I want to see when I look at my future. That is what I want to see when I look at myself.

It’s scary. All that space, all that unknown. The view is terrible and wonderful.

Can you see it in your life?

I read and underlined this quote a few weeks ago, and then I looked up from my book and noticed that it was being proven in the lives of almost everyone I love.

“Being heard is so close to being loved that for the average person they are almost indistinguishable.” - David Augsburger

Maybe I should have purchased the new Waterdeep album before I finalized the song list for Wandering Away, because then I could have put THE PERFECT SONG on it.

Good, Good End
You can leave right now
You can ring a bell
You can tell ‘em you think I ain’t doin’ too well
But when I stood like you
I eventually fell
Go on and leave right now
Go on and ring your bell

I’m amazed by life
And it’s amazed by me
We’re a strange old pair - me and eternity
It don’t make good sense
It ain’t easy to see
But I’m amazed by life
And it’s amazed by me

It’s a long hard road
With a good, good end
And if I keep on walking past the crooked bend
I will meet my Maker
I will meet my Friend
Down a long hard road
With a good, good end

So you can leave right now
You can ring your bell
You can tell ‘em you think I ain’t doin’ too well
When I stood like you I eventually fell
Go and and leave right now
Go on and ring your bell

‘Cause I’m amazed by life
And it’s amazed by me
And it’s a long hard road
With a good, good end

I mentioned that 2007 was a year of amazing changes for me, I listed changes in habits and goals that have revolutionized my world, but, as amazing as those changes are, they are not the biggest changes. The biggest changes don’t happen in one year, nor do they happen because you wake up one morning and decide that things are going to be different, rather, they happen when the circumstances of life force them to happen. They happen in the midst of bitterness and resentment. They happen in tears and anger. They happen in the shining moments of joy, when you see past the shadows. They happen in failure, hurt and reconciliation. They happen in grief and loss. Always, they happen when you least expect them.

In January, 2002, I was hiding under my bed, afraid to leave the house, medicating myself with Ativan, Prozac and chocolate. I was seeing my therapist once a week, trying to figure out how to keep walking down a road filled with anxiety, depression, obsession and fear. I was unable to articulate my needs in any situation because I believed that my needs were fundamentally flawed. I believed that any need I felt was illegitimate and only there to be ignored, thus making me stronger. I had been hiding my needs for months and months, until I could hide them no longer. I contemplated getting in the car, leaving my life and starting over somewhere else. I contemplated suicide. Both of these options seemed better than the potential conflict inherent in sitting down, looking into someone’s eyes and saying, “This isn’t working for me. I need to make a change.”

Not everything has changed since 2002, I still push feelings of bitterness and anger down, I am still afraid to express my needs. I still hold things in too long, and they still explode out of me leaving a mess to be cleaned up by those who are slightly more capable of rational thought. Perfectionism would have me believe that this means I have not changed. That is a lie. Two months ago, the explosion happened again. It blindsided Justin and we are, again, in the process of cleaning up the mess. The details are not pertinent to this essay, it will suffice to say that we are making some changes. We are changing the priorities in our family, pulling back from some commitments and committing to live more of our life in the city where we live. All because I was able to articulate, albeit with much mess, that the status quo was not working for me and I needed to make a change.

As we continue the clean up, we talk honestly about how absolutely frustrated we are with each other, about how there are things we really wish we could change, about how bloody tired we are of causing and cleaning up messes. We talk about the sins that seem to beset us and wonder if God really knows what He is doing. We look back and marvel at the comparatively small mess of the last few months, wondering how big it would have been if January 2002 had never occurred. We recognize the change that happens when we aren’t looking for it and we are profoundly thankful that we believe the long, hard road has a good, good end.

In retrospect, I’m glad that I didn’t put that song on last year’s cd. It seems better suited for 2008.

I woke up Saturday morning planning to run. As I got dressed and looked out the window at the rain blowing sideways in the swirling winds, I lost some of my nerve. I’m pretty tough, usually, but I hate being wet and cold. This presents a rather insurmountable problem for running outside in the winter in Seattle.

I stared out the window, feeling my motivation slipping away and thought to myself, maybe I’ll just go to the gym. This seemed like the easy route, the cop-out, the lame list, so I decided to spice it up a bit.

“I think I’m going to try to run 10k today,” I said to Justin as I put my shoes on, “I mean, I’ve run 5.2 miles on the treadmill. I can do another one, right.”

He agreed, unconvincingly.

I coordinated my contingency plans in the car - I won’t do it if the gym is too crowded. I won’t do it if my knees hurt. I can stop at 5k if I need to. I can stop at an hour if I need to.

I walked up the stairs and saw that there was one other person working out - a cheerful, elderly gentleman with a fantastic handlebar mustache. I realized that there would not be much competition for the treadmills.

I started running and felt good - really, really good. Sing along with my ipod under my breath good. Tap my pace up to an 11-minute mile good. I realized that my knees were going to be fine.

I slowed down after two miles but still had a lot of gas in the tank. The treadmill tried to stop automatically after an hour, but I calmly pushed the necessary buttons and started it up again without losing more than a few seconds. And I finished it.

I ran 10k. I ran 6.2 miles in 74.07, just barely faster than a 12-minute mile pace.

The last mile was a beast. My legs were tired and I had to concentrate to not bump in to the sidebars of the treadmill, I was breathing hard and my towel couldn’t keep up with the sweat that was dripping down. The music gods smiled on me and I heard Eminem (Lose Yourself), Jay-Z/Linkin Park (Numb/Encore), Modest Mouse (Float On) and Justin Timberlake (SexyBack) in a row - all songs that have been my running friends for a long time.

Throughout the day on Saturday, I tried to write about the experience. Even now, I can’t fully express how much it means to me that I can run. I remember being one of the last people to cross the finish line while running the mile in junior high P.E. I remember getting lapped by my friends. I remember the teacher urging everyone who was finished to cheer us slow kids on when really all I wanted was to disappear. I remember hearing it - from myself and others - ‘You’re too heavy to run.’ ‘You’re strong, but you sure aren’t fast.’ ‘It’s okay. Not everyone can be a runner.’ ‘Just walk if you need to. I know you aren’t a good runner.’

I heard all those comments and, in my mind, they got twisted in to judgments about me and my worth. They became excuses to not try. They became weights (and weight) that I carried for years, holding me back from something that I always wanted to do.

I may never be the one to break the tape at the end of a race. I may never be that girl who glides along, mile after mile, without breaking a sweat. I may never the fastest or the best. But, dammit, I will be a runner.

I am a runner.

I re-read last year’s resolution post as I tried to make sense of 2007. Instead of feeling discouraged, as I usually do when I think about the resolutions of the past, I was incredibly encouraged. I have made some amazing changes, and I think the most encouraging part was that they did not seem so amazing at the time. (That means that even the smallest habit can turn in to an amazing change.) Last year I was flirting with the idea of getting up at 6:00 AM to have some time to myself and work out. I tried it and found that six was not nearly early enough - Andrew almost always woke up within 15-20 minutes of my getting up and my morning time was shot - so I pushed the time back, to 5:30, but then the weather got nice and I needed time to run before Justin went to work, so it became 5:00, and then I wanted to go to the gym, so it became 4:30. And now I wake up a few minutes before my alarm goes off, groggy, but ready to go. I am dreading the week that Justin will be out of town and I will not be able to get up and go to the gym everyday.

Getting up early has become a habit, so it is no longer a big deal. As I was in the process of planning to get up early, I dreaded the change. I knew that I would never be able to do it. I knew that I would be tired all day and that the changes in schedule that must be made to accommodate the earlier rise would be too hard. I had written it off before I even started.

How many things do I write off as failures before I even start them?

I may have mentioned - a few hundred times - that I struggle to set attainable goals. I view success in terms of attained perfection, and when I fail to attain perfection I say “Fuck It!” and stop trying all together. Any perceived outcome that was less than perfection gave me the perfect excuse to not even try. It seems ridiculous - it is ridiculous - but it is such a habit that I had to have someone else point it out to me before I even realized I was doing it.

I talked last year about aims, general directions that I wanted my life to head. I still love that terminology, as it allows for bends in the road and successes that are a far cry from perfection. My aim last year was to do things that make me happy - not in a hedonistic way, or a gold star on the chart way, but in a meet my own eyes in the mirror every morning way. I can say, without reservation, that I meet my own eyes in the mirror everyday with a lot more confidence than I did last year, so I am going to count that as a success and continue the practice. I want to add to it though, I want to remember what I am proud of myself for. To accomplish this, I am dusting off my inner-nerd and creating some ridiculous excel sheets to track my progress in areas that I strive to improve. This includes food and exercise, of course, which are easy to track and quantify (and which you will probably hear more than you want to know about), as well as some more nebulous goals - like interrupting the endless flow of novels to read something in the non-fiction genre, or keeping my practice of quiet time, study and prayer going on the weekends. The trick here is in the perception, I am only two days in and my food column has marks in it showing that I went over my goal. My aim for this year is to see those marks in the context of the bigger picture. I need the data. The data is just a tool. It is neither judge nor jury. Without accurate data, I cannot get a clear picture of what I need to do or where I am succeeding.

As far as specific goals go, I am not going to list them all right now. Too often have I listed the top 50 things I want to change and then, failing to change all of them, counted myself as an unmitigated disaster. This year I am downsizing. I will mention a goal here and there throughout the year and then work on it until it becomes a habit. Since habits take almost a month to form, I will move slowly from one to another, trusting that even the smallest habits can lead to an amazing change.

My first two goals are fairly straightforward - Staying within my food limits for at least 4 days each week (and not going crazy the other days) and entering the data on my record sheet every day so that I will be able to accurately gauge my progress.

For more New Year’s inspiration, check out a few of the recent posts at The Everyday Athlete (this one and this other one rocked my world).

Andrew painted with brushes for the first time last week! Prior to this he kept away from the art room, telling me that he was afraid of the paints. He is such a brave boy, in his own little way.

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“Train up a child in the way he should go, even when he is old he will not depart from it.” Proverbs 22:6.

I’ve heard this verse a thousand times. I still twitch a little bit, thinking of the hanging up the cardboard trains bearing this inscription, trying to sell overpriced Jesus-junk in the children’s section of Family Christian Store. It had become one of those guilty, horrible, voices in my head. He is different from the other kids. He doesn’t do things the right way. You should make him do the things that other kids do. It’s because of you. Because you aren’t training him right.

Then I read the comments at the bottom of the page in my Bible.

Train. May include the idea of dedicate as well as educate. in the way he should go. Lit., according to his way; i.e., the child’s habits and interests. The instruction must take into account his individuality and inclinations and be in keeping with his degree of physical and mental development.

I have been so frustrated with Andrew lately, frustrated with the very Andrew-ness of his being. When I started writing this post, at the beginning of the week, I wrote a list of things that annoyed me about him. And while the writing of that list may have been therapeutic, the preserving of it was not. Because by nature or by nurture, he is what he is and I can choose to fight that, try to change him and, if I work hard enough at it, kill his spirit completely, or I can accept who he is and work to enjoy life at his pace.

I know there are families that have a much harder time than I do. I know there are kids that are much more trying, much more sensitive, much more than Andrew ever will be. I don’t want to exaggerate my experience or diminish theirs, but I need to acknowledge that there are times that my experience is difficult. I need to acknowledge that, at times, I am limited by what my child can or can not handle. I need to not resent him when those limits keep us from doing something fun.

Some of the best advice I never took is that I need to parent the child that I have, not the one I wish I had.

I must figure out how to remember that.

Friday night is our date night. Usually we give in to our laziness and sit on the couch watching shows we have recorded over the week, sometimes we get crazy and do some housework or go shopping at Costco.

And people wonder why we go through some rough spots in our relationship.

Yesterday, the fates conspired against me. I wrote a post about enjoying the good things in life and then life went and threw me a curveball. In the grand scheme of things, it will be okay, but it was still a curveball. I needed to think.

After we dropped Andrew off with my parents and finished our Costco shopping, we were at a loss with what to for the rest of the evening. Then I realized that the gym is open until 9:30pm. We went to work out together and, after a really good 5k on the treadmill, I wasn’t any closer to a real answer. But I felt better anyways.

So I’ll agree with Justin, best date ever is an overstatement, but, for yesterday, it sure helped.

Last week I wrote about living in the land of Not Fine. While I am not ready to send out change of address cards just yet, some things have happened to lighten the load a bit.

I talked to some of the key players in the Big Issues game. We had friends over for dinner last Friday night and I brought The Crazy out in to the light. We talked about bitterness, resentment, fear and anger. We talked about growth and change, pushing through and moving on. We talked about patterns and habits, community and isolation. We talked about sin and grace and the finished work of Christ. We talked about how easy it is to talk about these things and how hard it is to live with them. We avoided writing down a 5-step plan to The Happy Place. We acknowledged that we may never have answers for all these questions.

Honestly confessing your thoughts and feelings to another person takes so much of the power away from those thoughts. I know this. I have felt the release before. Yet I am continually tucking my less than ideal thoughts back in my head, putting them away and hoping that they will somehow work themselves out before anyone finds out they exist. It never works. Sitting back there all alone, these thoughts gain power until they are controlling my whole mind. Their power multiplies and I am forced deeper in to isolation and despair. The power these thoughts possess is the power of a secret, the idea that there is something so bad in my head that I need to keep it hidden to be worthy of love, respect or friendship. By acknowledging the reality of these thoughts, I take their power away. I am able to look at them, shrug my shoulders and say, “Yep. There you are. So what?” I know this. I know this. I know this. It just takes me a long time to work up the courage to act on my knowledge.

I heard a quote the other day that went something like this, “Life wouldn’t be so hard if we didn’t expect it to be so easy.” Simple, right? It sounds like something you would see on a bumper sticker. But it is true. It is capital T True. Our expectations lie at the heart of many, if not most, of our problems - or at least at most of mine.

I have been listening to The Heart of Life by John Mayer a lot lately. It is not an amazing song, but something about the simple chorus, I know the heart of life is good has resonated with me. Yes, there are struggles. Yes, there is pain, fear, anger and hurt. Yes, circumstances are difficult and life is cruelly unfair sometimes. But there are good moments too. There is sweetness and love. There is beauty and peace. There is grace, forgiveness and hope.

I expect things to always be good, and am blindsided when my expectations are not met. I repeat this pattern again and again, and spend most of my time in a haze of disappointment and resentment. But, when I pull my head up out of the depression and look around, I realize that today, life is filled with good moments, and I will be thankful for that small gift.

I’m fine. It’s been my answer for everything lately. Sometimes, if I’m feeling verbose, I will throw in a few modifiers (see: I’ll be fine. Things will be okay. This is just a rough spot.) or, when I’m really crazy, I’ll shake it up a bit (Oh, umm, yeah. Well, things are not so great right now. I’m just working through some stuff. No. It’s nothing you can help with. No, really, I shouldn’t have even said anything.), but I always come back to Fine.

What is it about Fine that makes it such an acceptable answer? Is it just what we, as questioners, want to hear? In my world, Fine is code for, “Thanks for asking, but we both know you don’t want to get in to my head so I’ll spare us the embarrassment by bringing this conversation to a quick end.” I feast on Fine.

But, like most people, I’m not.

When you are in the middle of Not Fine, it is hard to sort out the whys and wherefores. Everything gets muddled together and you can no longer see the individual characteristics or circumstances that led you to this place. Maybe that is why we say we are Fine - we know that any other answer would bring forth such a confusing and convoluted string of nonsense that, not only would the listener run the risk of a head explosion, but there is no way you could get it back in to your own head with any sort of hope of resuming daily functionality. Maybe we are so afraid of what we might find when we explore Not Fine that we become content to keep it tucked away in our own brain, stewing and boiling, while we clench our fingers to their precarious hold of Fine.

Or maybe that’s just how it feels for me.

But, as I’m attempting to pick up the pieces from another instance of Not Fine finding its way out, I know that I need to at least try and sort it out.

Here are some of my attempts:

I am confronted at every turn with my proclivity to do the wrong thing. My struggles with food continue (I don’t even try to figure out a different way to word that anymore). I am grumpy and shy. I want to have a clear understanding of what areas of my life are my responsibility to change and what things are simply part of being human, so that I can long for change but understand that it may never come. I am dealing with it all by reading a lot of books, not talking to people and sleeping way more than I should. I think this is what some refer to as angst, or maybe an existential crisis. I’m calling it Not Fine.

The scant 9 hours of dreary daylight and constant 50 degree and rainy forecast is forcing me under my full-spectrum light in hopes of regaining sanity. This is my first winter in years without anti-depressants. I am fighting to stay off them (those side effects were killing me) but its hard to resist the guaranteed fix. I am dealing with it all by reading a lot of books, not talking to people and sleeping way more than I should. I think this is what some refer to as depression, or maybe Being A Seattle-ite. I’m calling it Not Fine.

The holidays are coming and I can already feel the pressure. People are rude and pushy, traffic is bad, stores are crowded. I want to hibernate and not come out until it is time to prune my roses. I am dealing with it all by reading a lot of books, not talking to people and sleeping way more than I should. I think this is what some refer to as stress, or maybe the downside of commercialized America. I’m calling it Not Fine.

Justin is working a lot. His company is booming and his department is busier than ever. He is assigned to two full-time projects. He may be traveling around Christmas time and he may have to skip his planned vacation. I am proud of him and thankful for this job security, but I am dreading the days that will go by without him seeing Andrew (the worst part is knowing how much he dreads it too). I am dealing with it all by reading a lot of books, not talking to people and sleeping way more than I should. I think this is what some refer to as pseudo-single-parenting, or maybe loneliness. I’m calling it Not Fine.

All of these things, and more, place me in Not Fine. But they don’t begin to touch the big issues. The big issues - bitterness, stubbornness, an unforgiving heart, criticism, neediness, anger, fear and anxiety - those are the ones that keep me from writing and using this place as an outlet for my thoughts, those are the ones that isolate me from my friends and my community, those are the ones that, if left unchecked, seem like they could keep me in Not Fine indefinitely.

But what do you do with those big issues? What do you do when those big issues weave their way through your heart and your mind and ingratiate themselves in every little issue you face? What do you do when those big issues make you blind to the truth about your circumstances and your life?

What do you do when you can see those big issues but you can’t see past them?

So, since you asked, I’m not fine. And, for those of you problem solvers out there, I have no idea what I am going to do about it, although writing this may have helped.

I guess I’ll go read my book.

I have had a rough couple of weeks. I got my hands on some candy and found that my willpower was not as strong as I hoped it would be. I tried to cut some corners and found that I do not exist outside the laws of cause and effect. I am confronted, in many different situations, with my unwillingness to trust those who have my best interests at heart, my deep seeded rebellion and an almost unreasonable desire to do things my own way.

I despise authority, whether it be a piece of paper that tells me what to eat or a decision that is made for the greater good.

These are unfortunate realizations, but, although I wish things were different, it is good to have an accurate picture of where I stand.

I so want to sit down and write about a success in the food department. But I am not there yet. I have had more successful days than not, but I have yet to have a week where I meet my nutritional goals every day.

I want to write about overcoming the blues and kicking some Seattle-cold-wet-rainy-depression-inducing ass. But I am not doing that. Lately I feel like my grip on clear, balanced thinking is tenuous at best.

I want to write about how much I love going to the gym. But I am tired. And 4:30 is just plain early. And I’m not about to give up, but it is white-knuckled determination that keeps me going, not endorphin-fueled excitement.

There are so many things that I wish I could write about, but I can’t. So I am doing what all creative people do when they have a block, I am engaging in trivial tasks to keep one side of my brain operating while the other side sorts through the muddle and tries to make sense of it all. I am scouring cookbooks, creating my Shelfari page, making new playlists on itunes, reading, decorating and cleaning.

For those of you who worry when I am not writing much - don’t. It’s okay. I am okay. I just need to pull back and find that elusive reset button.